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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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- Стр. 66/159
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"
He
’
s
shaving
.
He
told
me
to
tell
you
to
wait
for
him
.
He
’
ll
be
right
out
.
"
"
Shaving
.
Good
heavens
.
"
The
young
man
looked
at
his
wristwatch
.
He
then
sat
down
in
a
red
damask
chair
,
crossed
his
legs
,
and
put
his
hands
to
his
face
.
As
if
he
were
generally
weary
,
or
had
just
undergone
some
form
of
eyestrain
,
he
rubbed
his
closed
eyes
with
the
tips
of
his
extended
fingers
.
"
This
has
been
the
most
horrible
morning
of
my
entire
life
,
"
he
said
,
removing
his
hands
from
his
face
.
He
spoke
exclusively
from
the
larynx
,
as
if
he
were
altogether
too
tired
to
put
any
diaphragm
breath
into
his
words
.
"
What
happened
?
"
Ginnie
asked
,
looking
at
him
.
"
Oh
.
.
.
.
It
’
s
too
long
a
story
.
I
never
bore
people
I
haven
’
t
known
for
at
least
a
thousand
years
.
"
He
stared
vaguely
,
discontentedly
,
in
the
direction
of
the
windows
.
"
But
I
shall
never
again
consider
myself
even
the
remotest
judge
of
human
nature
.
You
may
quote
me
wildly
on
that
.
"
"
What
happened
?
"
Ginnie
repeated
.
"
Oh
,
God
.
This
person
who
’
s
been
sharing
my
apartment
for
months
and
months
and
months
—
I
don
’
t
even
want
to
talk
about
him
.
.
.
.
This
writer
,
"
he
added
with
satisfaction
,
probably
remembering
a
favorite
anathema
from
a
Hemingway
novel
.
"
What
’
d
he
do
?
"
"
Frankly
,
I
’
d
just
as
soon
not
go
into
details
,
"
said
the
young
man
.
He
took
a
cigarette
from
his
own
pack
,
ignoring
a
transparent
humidor
on
the
table
,
and
lit
it
with
his
own
lighter
.
His
hands
were
large
.
They
looked
neither
strong
nor
competent
nor
sensitive
.
Yet
he
used
them
as
if
they
had
some
not
easily
controllable
aesthetic
drive
of
their
own
.
"
I
’
ve
made
up
my
mind
that
I
’
m
not
even
going
to
think
about
it
.
But
I
’
m
just
so
furious
,
"
he
said
.
"
I
mean
here
’
s
this
awful
little
person
from
Altoona
,
Pennsylvania
—
or
one
of
those
places
.
Apparently
starving
to
death
.
I
’
m
kind
and
decent
enough
—
I
’
m
the
original
Good
Samaritan
—
to
take
him
into
my
apartment
,
this
absolutely
microscopic
little
apartment
that
I
can
hardly
move
around
in
myself
.
I
introduce
him
to
all
my
friends
.
Let
him
clutter
up
the
whole
apartment
with
his
horrible
manuscript
papers
,
and
cigarette
butts
,
and
radishes
,
and
whatnot
.
Introduce
him
to
every
theatrical
producer
in
New
York
.
Haul
his
filthy
shirts
back
and
forth
from
the
laundry
.
And
on
top
of
it
all
—
"
The
young
man
broke
off
.
"
And
the
result
of
all
my
kindness
and
decency
,
"
he
went
on
,
"
is
that
he
walks
out
of
the
house
at
five
or
six
in
the
morning
—
without
so
much
as
leaving
a
note
behind
—
taking
with
him
anything
and
everything
he
can
lay
his
filthy
,
dirty
hands
on
.
"
He
paused
to
drag
on
his
cigarette
,
and
exhaled
the
smoke
in
a
thin
,
sibilant
stream
from
his
mouth
.
"
I
don
’
t
want
to
talk
about
it
.
I
really
don
’
t
.
"
He
looked
over
at
Ginnie
.
"
I
love
your
coat
,
"
he
said
,
already
out
of
his
chair
.
He
crossed
over
and
took
the
lapel
of
Ginnie
’
s
polo
coat
between
his
fingers
.
"
It
’
s
lovely
.
It
’
s
the
first
really
good
camel
’
s
hair
I
’
ve
seen
since
the
war
.
May
I
ask
where
you
got
it
?
"
