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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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In
1939
,
Les
Amis
Des
Vieux
Maitres
occupied
the
second
floor
of
a
small
,
highly
unendowed
-
looking
,
three
-
story
building
—
a
tenement
building
,
really
—
in
the
Verdun
,
or
least
attractive
,
section
of
Montreal
.
The
school
was
directly
over
an
orthopedic
appliances
shop
.
One
large
room
and
a
tiny
,
boltless
latrine
were
all
there
was
to
Les
Amis
Des
Vieux
Maitres
itself
.
Nonetheless
,
the
moment
I
was
inside
,
the
place
seemed
wondrously
presentable
to
me
.
There
was
a
very
good
reason
.
The
walls
of
the
"
instructors
’
room
"
were
hung
with
many
framed
pictures
—
all
water
colors
—
done
by
M
.
Yoshoto
.
Occasionally
,
I
still
dream
of
a
certain
white
goose
flying
through
an
extremely
pale
-
blue
sky
,
with
—
and
it
was
one
of
the
most
daring
and
accomplished
feats
of
craftsmanship
I
’
ve
ever
seen
—
the
blueness
of
the
sky
,
or
an
ethos
of
the
blueness
of
the
sky
,
reflected
in
the
bird
’
s
feathers
.
The
picture
was
hung
just
behind
Mme
.
Yoshoto
’
s
desk
.
It
made
the
room
—
it
and
one
or
two
other
pictures
close
to
it
in
quality
.
Mme
.
Yoshoto
,
in
a
beautiful
,
black
and
cerise
silk
kimono
,
was
sweeping
the
floor
with
a
short
-
handled
broom
when
M
.
Yoshoto
and
I
entered
the
instructors
’
room
.
She
was
a
gray
-
haired
woman
,
surely
a
head
taller
than
her
husband
,
with
features
that
looked
rather
more
Malayan
than
Japanese
.
She
left
off
sweeping
and
came
forward
,
and
M
.
Yoshoto
briefly
introduced
us
.
She
seemed
to
me
every
bit
as
inscrutable
as
M
.
Yoshoto
,
if
not
more
so
.
M
.
Yoshoto
then
offered
to
show
me
to
my
room
,
which
,
he
explained
(
in
French
)
had
recently
been
vacated
by
his
son
,
who
had
gone
to
British
Columbia
to
work
on
a
farm
.
(
After
his
long
silence
in
the
bus
,
I
was
grateful
to
hear
him
speak
with
any
continuity
,
and
I
listened
rather
vivaciously
.
)
He
started
to
apologize
for
the
fact
that
there
were
no
chairs
in
his
son
’
s
room
—
only
floor
cushions
—
but
I
quickly
gave
him
to
believe
that
for
me
this
was
little
short
of
a
godsend
.
(
In
fact
,
I
think
I
said
I
hated
chairs
.
I
was
so
nervous
that
if
he
had
informed
me
that
his
son
’
s
room
was
flooded
,
night
and
day
,
with
a
foot
of
water
,
I
probably
would
have
let
out
a
little
cry
of
pleasure
.
I
probably
would
have
said
I
had
a
rare
foot
disease
,
one
that
required
my
keeping
my
feet
wet
eight
hours
daily
.
)
Then
he
led
me
up
a
creaky
wooden
staircase
to
my
room
.
I
told
him
on
the
way
,
pointedly
enough
,
that
I
was
a
student
of
Buddhism
.
I
later
found
out
that
both
he
and
Mme
.
Yoshoto
were
Presbyterians
.
Late
that
night
,
as
I
lay
awake
in
bed
,
with
Mme
.
Yoshoto
’
s
Japanese
-
Malayan
dinner
still
en
masse
and
riding
my
sternum
like
an
elevator
,
one
or
the
other
of
the
Yoshotos
began
to
moan
in
his
or
her
sleep
,
just
the
other
side
of
my
wall
.
It
was
a
high
,
thin
,
broken
moan
,
and
it
seemed
to
come
less
from
an
adult
than
from
either
a
tragic
,
subnormal
infant
or
a
small
malformed
animal
.
(
It
became
a
regular
nightly
performance
.
I
never
did
find
out
which
of
the
Yoshotos
it
came
from
,
let
alone
why
.
)
When
it
became
quite
unendurable
to
listen
to
from
a
supine
position
,
I
got
out
of
bed
,
put
on
my
slippers
,
and
went
over
in
the
dark
and
sat
down
on
one
of
the
floor
cushions
.
I
sat
crosslegged
for
a
couple
of
hours
and
smoked
cigarettes
,
squashing
them
out
on
the
instep
of
my
slipper
and
putting
the
stubs
in
the
breast
pocket
of
my
pyjamas
.
(
The
Yoshotos
didn
’
t
smoke
,
and
there
were
no
ashtrays
anywhere
on
the
premises
.
)
I
got
to
sleep
around
five
in
the
morning
.
At
six
-
thirty
,
M
.
Yoshoto
knocked
on
my
door
and
advised
me
that
breakfast
would
be
served
at
six
-
forty
-
five
.
He
asked
me
,
through
the
door
,
if
I
’
d
slept
well
,
and
I
answered
,
"
Oui
!
"
I
then
dressed
—
putting
on
my
blue
suit
,
which
I
thought
appropriate
for
an
instructor
on
the
opening
day
of
school
,
and
a
red
Sulka
tie
my
mother
had
given
me
—
and
,
without
washing
,
hurried
down
the
hall
to
the
Yoshotos
’
kitchen
.
Mme
.
Yoshoto
was
at
the
stove
,
preparing
a
fish
breakfast
.
M
.
Yoshoto
,
in
his
B
.
V
.
D
.
’
s
and
trousers
,
was
seated
at
the
kitchen
table
,
reading
a
Japanese
newspaper
.
He
nodded
to
me
,
non
-
committally
.
Neither
of
them
had
ever
looked
more
inscrutable
.
Presently
,
some
sort
of
fish
was
served
to
me
on
a
plate
with
a
small
but
noticeable
trace
of
coagulated
catsup
along
the
border
.
Mme
.
Yoshoto
asked
me
,
in
English
—
and
her
accent
was
unexpectedly
charming
—
if
I
would
prefer
an
egg
,
but
I
said
,
"
Non
,
non
,
madame
—
merci
!
"
I
said
I
never
ate
eggs
.
M
.
Yoshoto
leaned
his
newspaper
against
my
water
glass
,
and
the
three
of
us
ate
in
silence
;
that
is
,
they
ate
and
I
systematically
swallowed
in
silence
.
After
breakfast
,
without
having
to
leave
the
kitchen
,
M
.
Yoshoto
put
on
a
collarless
shirt
and
Mme
.
Yoshoto
took
off
her
apron
,
and
the
three
of
us
filed
rather
awkwardly
downstairs
to
the
instructors
’
room
.
There
,
in
an
untidy
pile
on
M
.
Yoshoto
’
s
broad
desk
,
lay
some
dozen
or
more
unopened
,
enormous
,
bulging
,
Manilla
envelopes
.
To
me
,
they
had
an
almost
freshly
brushed
-
and
-
combed
look
,
like
new
pupils
.
M
.
Yoshoto
assigned
me
to
my
desk
,
which
was
on
the
far
,
isolated
side
of
the
room
,
and
asked
me
to
be
seated
.
Then
,
with
Mme
.
Yoshoto
at
his
side
,
he
broke
open
a
few
of
the
envelopes
.
He
and
Mme
.
Yoshoto
seemed
to
examine
the
assorted
contents
with
some
sort
of
method
,
consulting
each
other
,
now
and
then
,
in
Japanese
,
while
I
sat
across
the
room
,
in
my
blue
suit
and
Sulka
tie
,
trying
to
look
simultaneously
alert
and
patient
and
,
somehow
,
indispensable
to
the
organization
.
I
took
out
a
handful
of
soft
-
lead
drawing
pencils
,
from
my
inside
jacket
pocket
,
that
I
’
d
brought
from
New
York
with
me
,
and
laid
them
out
,
as
noiselessly
as
possible
,
on
the
surface
of
my
desk
.
Once
,
M
.
Yoshoto
glanced
over
at
me
for
some
reason
,
and
I
flashed
him
an
excessively
winning
smile
.
Then
,
suddenly
,
without
a
word
or
a
look
in
my
direction
,
the
two
of
them
sat
down
at
their
respective
desks
and
went
to
work
.
It
was
about
seven
-
thirty
.
Around
nine
,
M
.
Yoshoto
took
off
his
glasses
,
got
up
and
padded
over
to
my
desk
with
a
sheaf
of
papers
in
his
hand
.
I
’
d
spent
an
hour
and
a
half
doing
absolutely
nothing
but
trying
to
keep
my
stomach
from
growling
audibly
.
I
quickly
stood
up
as
he
came
into
my
vicinity
,
stooping
a
trifle
in
order
not
to
look
disrespectfully
tall
.
He
handed
me
the
sheaf
of
papers
he
’
d
brought
over
and
asked
me
if
I
would
kindly
translate
his
written
corrections
from
French
into
English
.
I
said
,
"
Oui
,
monsieur
!
"
He
bowed
slightly
,
and
padded
back
to
his
own
desk
.
I
pushed
my
handful
of
soft
-
lead
drawing
pencils
to
one
side
of
my
desk
,
took
out
my
fountain
pen
,
and
fell
—
very
nearly
heartbroken
—
to
work
.
