Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
EsmeandIshookhands;herhand,asI’dsuspected,wasanervoushand,dampatthepalm.Itoldher,inEnglish,howverymuchI’denjoyedhercompany.
Shenodded."Ithoughtyoumight,"shesaid."I’mquitecommunicativeformyage."Shegaveherhairanotherexperimentaltouch."I’mdreadfullysorryaboutmyhair,"shesaid."I’veprobablybeenhideoustolookat."
"Notatall!Asamatteroffact,Ithinkalotofthewaveiscomingbackalready."
Shequicklytouchedherhairagain."Doyouthinkyou’llbecominghereagainintheimmediatefuture?"sheasked."WecomehereeverySaturday,afterchoirpractice."
IansweredthatI’dlikenothingbetterbutthat,unfortunately,IwasprettysureIwouldn’tbeabletomakeitagain.
"Inotherwords,youcan’tdiscusstroopmovements,"saidEsme.Shemadenomovetoleavethevicinityofthetable.Infact,shecrossedonefootovertheotherand,lookingdown,alignedthetoesofhershoes.Itwasaprettylittleexecution,forshewaswearingwhitesocksandheranklesandfeetwerelovely.Shelookedupatmeabruptly."Wouldyoulikemetowritetoyou?"sheasked,withacertainamountofcolorinherface."Iwriteextremelyarticulatelettersforapersonmy—"
"I’dloveit."Itookoutpencilandpaperandwrotedownmyname,rank,serialnumber,andA.P.O.number.
"Ishallwritetoyoufirst,"shesaid,acceptingit,"sothatyoudon’tfeelcompromisedinanyway."Sheputtheaddressintoapocketofherdress."Goodbye,"shesaid,andwalkedbacktohertable.
