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- Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер
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- Девять рассказов
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- Стр. 89/159
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All
the
same
,
though
,
wherever
I
happen
to
be
I
don
’
t
think
I
’
m
the
type
that
doesn
’
t
even
lift
a
finger
to
prevent
a
wedding
from
flatting
.
Accordingly
,
I
’
ve
gone
ahead
and
jotted
down
a
few
revealing
notes
on
the
bride
as
I
knew
her
almost
six
years
ago
.
If
my
notes
should
cause
the
groom
,
whom
I
haven
’
t
met
,
an
uneasy
moment
or
two
,
so
much
the
better
.
Nobody
’
s
aiming
to
please
,
here
.
More
,
really
,
to
edify
,
to
instruct
.
In
April
of
1944
,
I
was
among
some
sixty
American
enlisted
men
who
took
a
rather
specialized
pre
-
Invasion
training
course
,
directed
by
British
Intelligence
,
in
Devon
,
England
.
And
as
I
look
back
,
it
seems
to
me
that
we
were
fairly
unique
,
the
sixty
of
us
,
in
that
there
wasn
’
t
one
good
mixer
in
the
bunch
.
We
were
all
essentially
letter
-
writing
types
,
and
when
we
spoke
to
each
other
out
of
the
line
of
duty
,
it
was
usually
to
ask
somebody
if
he
had
any
ink
he
wasn
’
t
using
.
When
we
weren
’
t
writing
letters
or
attending
classes
,
each
of
us
went
pretty
much
his
own
way
.
Mine
usually
led
me
,
on
clear
days
,
in
scenic
circles
around
the
countryside
.
Rainy
days
,
I
generally
sat
in
a
dry
place
and
read
a
book
,
often
just
an
axe
length
away
from
a
ping
-
pong
table
.
The
training
course
lasted
three
weeks
,
ending
on
a
Saturday
,
a
very
rainy
one
.
At
seven
that
last
night
,
our
whole
group
was
scheduled
to
entrain
for
London
,
where
,
as
rumor
had
it
,
we
were
to
be
assigned
to
infantry
and
airborne
divisions
mustered
for
the
D
Day
landings
.
By
three
in
the
afternoon
,
I
’
d
packed
all
my
belongings
into
my
barrack
bag
,
including
a
canvas
gas
-
mask
container
full
of
books
I
’
d
brought
over
from
the
Other
Side
.
(
The
gas
mask
itself
I
’
d
slipped
through
a
porthole
of
the
Mauretania
some
weeks
earlier
,
fully
aware
that
if
the
enemy
ever
did
use
gas
I
’
d
never
get
the
damn
thing
on
in
time
.
)
I
remember
standing
at
an
end
window
of
our
Quonset
but
for
a
very
long
time
,
looking
out
at
the
slanting
,
dreary
rain
,
my
trigger
finger
itching
imperceptibly
,
if
at
all
.
I
could
hear
behind
my
back
the
uncomradely
scratching
of
many
fountain
pens
on
many
sheets
of
V
-
mail
paper
.
Abruptly
,
with
nothing
special
in
mind
,
I
came
away
from
the
window
and
put
on
my
raincoat
,
cashmere
muffler
,
galoshes
,
woollen
gloves
,
and
overseas
cap
(
the
last
of
which
,
I
’
m
still
told
,
I
wore
at
an
angle
all
my
own
—
slightly
down
over
both
ears
)
.
Then
,
after
synchronizing
my
wristwatch
with
the
clock
in
the
latrine
,
I
walked
down
the
long
,
wet
cobblestone
hill
into
town
.
I
ignored
the
flashes
of
lightning
all
around
me
.
They
either
had
your
number
on
them
or
they
didn
’
t
.
In
the
center
of
town
,
which
was
probably
the
wettest
part
of
town
,
I
stopped
in
front
of
a
church
to
read
the
bulletin
board
,
mostly
because
the
featured
numerals
,
white
on
black
,
had
caught
my
attention
but
partly
because
,
after
three
years
in
the
Army
,
I
’
d
become
addicted
to
reading
bulletin
boards
.
At
three
-
fifteen
,
the
board
stated
,
there
would
be
children
’
s
-
choir
practice
.
I
looked
at
my
wristwatch
,
then
back
at
the
board
.
A
sheet
of
paper
was
tacked
up
,
listing
the
names
of
the
children
expected
to
attend
practice
.
I
stood
in
the
rain
and
read
all
the
names
,
then
entered
the
church
.
A
dozen
or
so
adults
were
among
the
pews
,
several
of
them
bearing
pairs
of
small
-
size
rubbers
,
soles
up
,
in
their
laps
.
I
passed
along
and
sat
down
in
the
front
row
.
On
the
rostrum
,
seated
in
three
compact
rows
of
auditorium
chairs
,
were
about
twenty
children
,
mostly
girls
,
ranging
in
age
from
about
seven
to
thirteen
.
At
the
moment
,
their
choir
coach
,
an
enormous
woman
in
tweeds
,
was
advising
them
to
open
their
mouths
wider
when
they
sang
.
Had
anyone
,
she
asked
,
ever
heard
of
a
little
dickeybird
that
dared
to
sing
his
charming
song
without
first
opening
his
little
beak
wide
,
wide
,
wide
?
Apparently
nobody
ever
had
.
She
was
given
a
steady
,
opaque
look
.
She
went
on
to
say
that
she
wanted
all
her
children
to
absorb
the
meaning
of
the
words
they
sang
,
not
just
mouth
them
,
like
silly
-
billy
parrots
.
She
then
blew
a
note
on
her
pitch
-
pipe
,
and
the
children
,
like
so
many
underage
weightlifters
,
raised
their
hymnbooks
.
They
sang
without
instrumental
accompaniment
—
or
,
more
accurately
in
their
case
,
without
any
interference
.
Their
voices
were
melodious
and
unsentimental
,
almost
to
the
point
where
a
somewhat
more
denominational
man
than
myself
might
,
without
straining
,
have
experienced
levitation
.
A
couple
of
the
very
youngest
children
dragged
the
tempo
a
trifle
,
but
in
a
way
that
only
the
composer
’
s
mother
could
have
found
fault
with
.
I
had
never
heard
the
hymn
,
but
I
kept
hoping
it
was
one
with
a
dozen
or
more
verses
.
Listening
,
I
scanned
all
the
children
’
s
faces
but
watched
one
in
particular
,
that
of
the
child
nearest
me
,
on
the
end
seat
in
the
first
row
.
She
was
about
thirteen
,
with
straight
ash
-
blond
hair
of
ear
-
lobe
length
,
an
exquisite
forehead
,
and
blase
eyes
that
,
I
thought
,
might
very
possibly
have
counted
the
house
.
Her
voice
was
distinctly
separate
from
the
other
children
’
s
voices
,
and
not
just
because
she
was
seated
nearest
me
.
It
had
the
best
upper
register
,
the
sweetest
-
sounding
,
the
surest
,
and
it
automatically
led
the
way
.
The
young
lady
,
however
,
seemed
slightly
bored
with
her
own
singing
ability
,
or
perhaps
just
with
the
time
and
place
;
twice
,
between
verses
,
I
saw
her
yawn
.
It
was
a
ladylike
yawn
,
a
closed
-
mouth
yawn
,
but
you
couldn
’
t
miss
it
;
her
nostril
wings
gave
her
away
.
