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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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- Стр. 122/159
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I
remember
a
significant
incident
that
occurred
just
a
day
or
two
after
Bobby
and
I
arrived
in
New
York
.
I
was
standing
up
in
a
very
crowded
Lexington
Avenue
bus
,
holding
on
to
the
enamel
pole
near
the
driver
’
s
seat
,
buttocks
to
buttocks
with
the
chap
behind
me
.
For
a
number
of
blocks
the
driver
had
repeatedly
given
those
of
us
bunched
up
near
the
front
door
a
curt
order
to
"
step
to
the
rear
of
the
vehicle
.
"
Some
of
us
had
tried
to
oblige
him
.
Some
of
us
hadn
’
t
.
At
length
,
with
a
red
light
in
his
favor
,
the
harassed
man
swung
around
in
his
seat
and
looked
up
at
me
,
just
behind
him
.
At
nineteen
,
I
was
a
hatless
type
,
with
a
flat
,
black
,
not
particularly
clean
,
Continental
-
type
pompadour
over
a
badly
broken
-
out
inch
of
forehead
.
He
addressed
me
in
a
lowered
,
an
almost
prudent
tone
of
voice
.
"
All
right
,
buddy
,
"
he
said
,
"
let
’
s
move
that
ass
.
"
It
was
the
"
buddy
,
"
I
think
,
that
did
it
.
Without
even
bothering
to
bend
over
a
little
—
that
is
,
to
keep
the
conversation
at
least
as
private
,
as
de
bon
gout
,
as
he
’
d
kept
it
—
I
informed
him
,
in
French
,
that
he
was
a
rude
,
stupid
,
overbearing
imbecile
,
and
that
he
’
d
never
know
how
much
I
detested
him
.
Then
,
rather
elated
,
I
stepped
to
the
rear
of
the
vehicle
.
Things
got
much
worse
.
One
afternoon
,
a
week
or
so
later
,
as
I
was
coming
out
of
the
Ritz
Hotel
,
where
Bobby
and
I
were
indefinitely
stopping
,
it
seemed
to
me
that
all
the
seats
from
all
the
buses
in
New
York
had
been
unscrewed
and
taken
out
and
set
up
in
the
street
,
where
a
monstrous
game
of
Musical
Chairs
was
in
full
swing
.
I
think
I
might
have
been
willing
to
join
the
game
if
I
had
been
granted
a
special
dispensation
from
the
Church
of
Manhattan
guaranteeing
that
all
the
other
players
would
remain
respectfully
standing
till
I
was
seated
.
When
it
became
clear
that
nothing
of
the
kind
was
forthcoming
,
I
took
more
direct
action
.
I
prayed
for
the
city
to
be
cleared
of
people
,
for
the
gift
of
being
alone
—
a
-
l
-
o
-
n
-
e
:
which
is
the
one
New
York
prayer
that
rarely
gets
lost
or
delayed
in
channels
,
and
in
no
time
at
all
everything
I
touched
turned
to
solid
loneliness
.
Mornings
and
early
afternoons
,
I
attended
—
bodily
—
an
art
school
on
Forty
-
eighth
and
Lexington
Avenue
,
which
I
loathed
.
(
The
week
before
Bobby
and
I
had
left
Paris
,
I
had
won
three
first
-
prize
awards
at
the
National
Junior
Exhibition
,
held
at
the
Freiburg
Galleries
.
Throughout
the
voyage
to
America
,
I
used
our
stateroom
mirror
to
note
my
uncanny
physical
resemblance
to
El
Greco
.
)
Three
late
afternoons
a
week
I
spent
in
a
dentist
’
s
chair
,
where
,
within
a
period
of
a
few
months
,
I
had
eight
teeth
extracted
,
three
of
them
front
ones
.
The
other
two
afternoons
I
usually
spent
wandering
through
art
galleries
,
mostly
on
Fifty
-
seventh
Street
,
where
I
did
all
but
hiss
at
the
American
entries
.
Evenings
,
I
generally
read
.
I
bought
a
complete
set
of
the
Harvard
Classics
—
chiefly
because
Bobby
said
we
didn
’
t
have
room
for
them
in
our
suite
—
and
rather
perversely
read
all
fifty
volumes
.
Nights
,
I
almost
invariably
set
up
my
easel
between
the
twin
beds
in
the
room
I
shared
with
Bobby
,
and
painted
.
In
one
month
alone
,
according
to
my
diary
for
1939
,
I
completed
eighteen
oil
paintings
.
Noteworthily
enough
,
seventeen
of
them
were
self
-
portraits
.
Sometimes
,
however
,
possibly
when
my
Muse
was
being
capricious
,
I
set
aside
my
paints
and
drew
cartoons
.
One
of
them
I
still
have
.
It
shows
a
cavernous
view
of
the
mouth
of
a
man
being
attended
by
his
dentist
.
The
man
’
s
tongue
is
a
simple
,
U
.
S
.
Treasury
hundred
dollar
bill
,
and
the
dentist
is
saying
,
sadly
,
in
French
,
"
I
think
we
can
save
the
molar
,
but
I
’
m
afraid
that
tongue
will
have
to
come
out
.
"
It
was
an
enormous
favorite
of
mine
.
As
roommates
,
Bobby
and
I
were
neither
more
nor
less
compatible
than
would
be
,
say
,
an
exceptionally
live
-
and
-
let
-
live
Harvard
senior
,
and
an
exceptionally
unpleasant
Cambridge
newsboy
.
And
when
,
as
the
weeks
went
by
,
we
gradually
discovered
that
we
were
both
in
love
with
the
same
deceased
woman
,
it
was
no
help
at
all
.
In
fact
,
a
ghastly
little
after
-
you
-
Alphonse
relationship
grew
out
of
the
discovery
.
We
began
to
exchange
vivacious
smiles
when
we
bumped
into
each
other
on
the
threshold
of
the
bathroom
.
One
week
in
May
of
1939
,
about
ten
months
after
Bobby
and
I
checked
into
the
Ritz
,
I
saw
in
a
Quebec
newspaper
(
one
of
sixteen
French
-
language
newspapers
and
periodicals
I
had
blown
myself
a
subscription
to
)
a
quarter
-
column
advertisement
that
had
been
placed
by
the
direction
of
a
Montreal
correspondence
art
school
.
It
advised
all
qualified
instructors
—
it
as
much
as
said
,
in
fact
,
that
it
couldn
’
t
advise
them
fortenwnt
enough
—
to
apply
immediately
for
employment
at
the
newest
,
most
progressive
,
correspondence
art
school
in
Canada
.
Candidate
instructors
,
it
stipulated
,
were
to
have
a
fluent
knowledge
of
both
the
French
and
English
languages
,
and
only
those
of
temperate
habits
and
unquestionable
character
need
apply
.
The
summer
session
at
Les
Amis
Des
Vieux
Maitres
was
officially
to
open
on
10
June
.
Samples
of
work
,
it
said
,
should
represent
both
the
academic
and
commercial
fields
of
art
,
and
were
to
be
submitted
to
Monsieur
I
.
Yoshoto
,
directeur
,
formerly
of
the
Imperial
Academy
of
Fine
Arts
,
Tokyo
.
Instantly
,
feeling
almost
insupportably
qualified
,
I
got
out
Bobby
’
s
Hermes
-
Baby
typewriter
from
under
his
bed
and
wrote
,
in
French
,
a
long
,
intemperate
letter
to
M
.
Yoshoto
—
cutting
all
my
morning
classes
at
the
art
school
on
Lexington
Avenue
to
do
it
.
My
opening
paragraph
ran
some
three
pages
,
and
very
nearly
smoked
.
I
said
I
was
twenty
-
nine
and
a
great
-
nephew
of
Honore
Daumier
.
I
said
I
had
just
left
my
small
estate
in
the
South
of
France
,
following
the
death
of
my
wife
,
to
come
to
America
to
stay
—
temporarily
,
I
made
it
clear
—
with
an
invalid
relative
.
I
had
been
painting
,
I
said
,
since
early
childhood
,
but
that
,
following
the
advice
of
Pablo
Picasso
,
who
was
one
of
the
oldest
and
dearest
friends
of
my
parents
,
I
had
never
exhibited
.
However
,
a
number
of
my
oil
paintings
and
water
colors
were
now
hanging
in
some
of
the
finest
,
and
by
no
means
nouveau
riche
,
homes
in
Paris
,
where
they
had
gagne
considerable
attention
from
some
of
the
most
formidable
critics
of
our
day
.
Following
,
I
said
,
my
wife
’
s
untimely
and
tragic
death
,
of
an
ulceration
cancgreuse
,
I
had
earnestly
thought
I
would
never
again
set
brush
to
canvas
.
But
recent
financial
losses
had
led
me
to
alter
my
earnest
resolution
.
I
said
I
would
be
most
honored
to
submit
samples
of
my
work
to
Les
Amis
Des
Vieux
Maitres
,
just
as
soon
as
they
were
sent
to
me
by
my
agent
in
Paris
,
to
whom
I
would
write
,
of
course
,
tres
presse
.
I
remained
,
most
respectfully
,
Jean
de
Daumier
-
Smith
.
