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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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- Стр. 124/159
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At
length
,
while
we
were
having
coffee
,
I
tersely
outlined
my
new
plans
for
the
summer
.
When
I
’
d
finished
,
Bobby
put
a
couple
of
quite
intelligent
questions
to
me
.
I
answered
them
coolly
,
overly
briefly
,
the
unimpeachable
crown
prince
of
the
situation
.
"
Oh
,
it
sounds
very
exciting
!
"
said
Bobby
’
s
guest
,
and
waited
,
wantonly
,
for
me
to
slip
her
my
Montreal
address
under
the
table
.
"
I
thought
you
were
going
to
Rhode
Island
with
me
,
"
Bobby
said
.
"
Oh
,
darling
,
don
’
t
be
a
horrible
wet
blanket
,
"
Mrs
.
X
said
to
him
.
"
I
’
m
not
,
but
I
wouldn
’
t
mind
knowing
a
little
more
about
it
,
"
Bobby
said
.
But
I
thought
I
could
tell
from
his
manner
that
he
was
already
mentally
exchanging
his
train
reservations
for
Rhode
Island
from
a
compartment
to
a
lower
berth
.
"
I
think
it
’
s
the
sweetest
,
most
complimentary
thing
I
ever
heard
in
my
life
,
"
Mrs
.
X
said
warmly
to
me
.
Her
eyes
sparkled
with
depravity
.
The
Sunday
that
I
stepped
on
to
the
platform
at
Windsor
Station
in
Montreal
,
I
was
wearing
a
doublebreasted
,
beige
gabardine
suit
(
that
I
had
a
damned
high
opinion
of
)
,
a
navy
-
blue
flannel
shirt
,
a
solid
yellow
,
cotton
tie
,
brown
-
and
-
white
shoes
,
a
Panama
hat
(
that
belonged
to
Bobby
and
was
rather
too
small
for
me
)
,
and
a
reddish
-
brown
moustache
,
aged
three
weeks
.
M
.
Yoshoto
was
there
to
meet
me
.
He
was
a
tiny
man
,
not
more
than
five
feet
tall
,
wearing
a
rather
soiled
linen
suit
,
black
shoes
,
and
a
black
felt
hat
with
the
brim
turned
up
all
around
.
He
neither
smiled
,
nor
,
as
I
remember
,
said
anything
to
me
as
we
shook
hands
.
His
expression
—
and
my
word
for
it
came
straight
out
of
a
French
edition
of
Sax
Rohmer
’
s
Fu
Manchu
books
—
was
inscrutable
.
For
some
reason
,
I
was
smiling
from
ear
to
ear
.
I
couldn
’
t
even
turn
it
down
,
let
alone
off
.
It
was
a
bus
ride
of
several
miles
from
Windsor
Station
to
the
school
.
I
doubt
if
M
.
Yoshoto
said
five
words
the
whole
way
.
Either
in
spite
,
or
because
,
of
his
silence
,
I
talked
incessantly
,
with
my
legs
crossed
,
ankle
on
knee
,
and
constantly
using
my
sock
as
an
absorber
for
the
perspiration
on
my
palm
.
It
seemed
urgent
to
me
not
only
to
reiterate
my
earlier
lies
—
about
my
kinship
with
Daumier
,
about
my
deceased
wife
,
about
my
small
estate
in
the
South
of
France
—
but
to
elaborate
on
them
.
At
length
,
in
effect
to
spare
myself
from
dwelling
on
these
painful
reminiscences
(
and
they
were
beginning
to
feel
a
little
painful
)
,
I
swung
over
to
the
subject
of
my
parents
’
oldest
and
dearest
friend
:
Pablo
Picasso
.
Le
pauvre
Picasso
,
as
I
referred
to
him
.
(
I
picked
Picasso
,
I
might
mention
,
because
he
seemed
to
me
the
French
painter
who
was
best
-
known
in
America
.
I
roundly
considered
Canada
part
of
America
.
)
For
M
.
Yoshoto
’
s
benefit
,
I
recalled
,
with
a
showy
amount
of
natural
compassion
for
a
fallen
giant
,
how
many
times
I
had
said
to
him
,
"
M
.
Picasso
,
ofi
allez
vous
?
"
and
how
,
in
response
to
this
all
-
penetrating
question
,
the
master
had
never
failed
to
walk
slowly
,
leadenly
,
across
his
studio
to
look
at
a
small
reproduction
of
his
"
Les
Saltimbanques
"
and
the
glory
,
long
forfeited
,
that
had
been
his
.
The
trouble
with
Picasso
,
I
explained
to
M
.
Yoshoto
as
we
got
out
of
the
bus
,
was
that
he
never
listened
to
anybody
—
even
his
closest
friends
.
