Над пропастью во ржи/The Catcher in the Rye (Джером Дэвид Сэлинджер). Страница 67 из 155

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I

could

n't

even

stick

around

to

hear

old

Ernie

play

something

halfway

decent

.

But

I

certainly

was

n't

going

to

sit

down

at

a

table

with

old

Lillian

Simmons

and

that

Navy

guy

and

be

bored

to

death

.

So

I

left

.

It

made

me

mad

,

though

,

when

I

was

getting

my

coat

.

People

are

always

ruining

things

for

you

.

I

walked

all

the

way

back

to

the

hotel

.

Forty-one

gorgeous

blocks

.

I

did

n't

do

it

because

I

felt

like

walking

or

anything

.

It

was

more

because

I

did

n't

feel

like

getting

in

and

out

of

another

taxicab

.

Sometimes

you

get

tired

of

riding

in

taxicabs

the

same

way

you

get

tired

riding

in

elevators

.

All

of

a

sudden

,

you

have

to

walk

,

no

matter

how

far

or

how

high

up

.

When

I

was

a

kid

,

I

used

to

walk

all

the

way

up

to

our

apartment

very

frequently

.

Twelve

stories

.

You

would

n't

even

have

known

it

had

snowed

at

all

.

There

was

hardly

any

snow

on

the

sidewalks

.

But

it

was

freezing

cold

,

and

I

took

my

red

hunting

hat

out

of

my

pocket

and

put

it

on

--

I

did

n't

give

a

damn

how

I

looked

.

I

even

put

the

earlaps

down

.

I

wished

I

knew

who

'd

swiped

my

gloves

at

Pencey

,

because

my

hands

were

freezing

.

Not

that

I

'd

have

done

much

about

it

even

if

I

had

known

.

I

'm

one

of

these

very

yellow

guys

.

I

try

not

to

show

it

,

but

I

am

.

For

instance

,

if

I

'd

found

out

at

Pencey

who

'd

stolen

my

gloves

,

I

probably

would

've

gone

down

to

the

crook

's

room

and

said

,

"

Okay

.

How

'

bout

handing

over

those

gloves

?

"

Then

the

crook

that

had

stolen

them

probably

would

've

said

,

his

voice

very

innocent

and

all

,

"

What

gloves

?

"

Then

what

I

probably

would

've

done

,

I

'd

have

gone

in

his

closet

and

found

the

gloves

somewhere

.

Hidden

in

his

goddam

galoshes

or

something

,

for

instance

.

I

'd

have

taken

them

out

and

showed

them

to

the

guy

and

said

,

"

I

suppose

these

are

your

goddam

gloves

?

"

Then

the

crook

probably

would

've

given

me

this

very

phony

,

innocent

look

,

and

said

,

"

I

never

saw

those

gloves

before

in

my

life

.

If

they

're

yours

,

take

'

em

.

I

do

n't

want

the

goddam

things

.

"

Then

I

probably

would

've

just

stood

there

for

about

five

minutes

.

I

'd

have

the

damn

gloves

right

in

my

hand

and

all

,

but

I

'd

feel

I

ought

to

sock

the

guy

in

the

jaw

or

something

--

break

his

goddam

jaw

.

Only

,

I

would

n't

have

the

guts

to

do

it

.

I

'd

just

stand

there

,

trying

to

look

tough

.

Отключить рекламу

What

I

might

do

,

I

might

say

something

very

cutting

and

snotty

,

to

rile

him

up

--

instead

of

socking

him

in

the

jaw

.

Anyway

if

I

did

say

something

very

cutting

and

snotty

,

he

'd

probably

get

up

and

come

over

to

me

and

say

,

"

Listen

,

Caulfield

.

Are

you

calling

me

a

crook

?

"

Then

,

instead

of

saying

,

"

You

're

goddam

right

I

am

,

you

dirty

crooked

bastard

!

"

all

I

probably

would

've

said

would

be

,

"

All

I

know

is

my

goddam

gloves

were

in

your

goddam

galoshes

.

"

Right

away

then

,

the

guy

would

know

for

sure

that

I

was

n't

going

to

take

a

sock

at

him

,

and

he

probably

would

've

said

,

"

Listen

.

Let

's

get

this

straight

.

Are

you

calling

me

a

thief

?

"

Then

I

probably

would

've

said

,

"

Nobody

's

calling

anybody

a

thief

.

All

I

know

is

my

gloves

were

in

your

goddam

galoshes

.

"

It

could

go

on

like

that

for

hours

.

Finally

,

though

,

I

'd

leave

his

room

without

even

taking

a

sock

at

him

.

I

'd

probably

go

down

to

the

can

and

sneak

a

cigarette

and

watch

myself

getting

tough

in

the

mirror

.

Anyway

,

that

's

what

I

thought

about

the

whole

way

back

to

the

hotel

.

It

's

no

fun

to

be

yellow

.

Maybe

I

'm

not

all

yellow

.

I

do

n't

know

.

I

think

maybe

I

'm

just

partly

yellow

and

partly

the

type

that

does

n't

give

much

of

a

damn

if

they

lose

their

gloves

.

One

of

my

troubles

is

,

I

never

care

too

much

when

I

lose

something

--

it

used

to

drive

my

mother

crazy

when

I

was

a

kid

.

Some

guys

spend

days

looking

for

something

they

lost

.

I

never

seem

to

have

anything

that

if

I

lost

it

I

'd

care

too

much

.

Maybe

that

's

why

I

'm

partly

yellow

.

It

's

no

excuse

,

though

.

It

really

is

n't

.

What

you

should

be

is

not

yellow

at

all

.

If

you

're

supposed

to

sock

somebody

in

the

jaw

,

and

you

sort

of

feel

like

doing

it

,

you

should

do

it

.

I

'm

just

no

good

at

it

,

though

.

I

'd

rather

push

a

guy

out

the

window

or

chop

his

head

off

with

an

ax

than

sock

him

in

the

jaw

.

I

hate

fist

fights

.

I

do

n't

mind

getting

hit

so

much

--

although

I

'm

not

crazy

about

it

,

naturally

--

but

what

scares

me

most

in

a

fist

fight

is

the

guy

's

face

.

I

ca

n't

stand

looking

at

the

other

guy

's

face

,

is

my

trouble

.

It

would

n't

be

so

bad

if

you

could

both

be

blindfolded

or

something

.

It

's

a

funny

kind

of

yellowness

,

when

you

come

to

think

of

it

,

but

it

's

yellowness

,

all

right

.

I

'm

not

kidding

myself

.

The

more

I

thought

about

my

gloves

and

my

yellowness

,

the

more

depressed

I

got

,

and

I

decided

,

while

I

was

walking

and

all

,

to

stop

off

and

have

a

drink

somewhere

.

I

'd

only

had

three

drinks

at

Ernie

's

,

and

I

did

n't

even

finish

the

last

one

.

One

thing

I

have

,

it

's

a

terrific

capacity

.

I

can

drink

all

night

and

not

even

show

it

,

if

I

'm

in

the

mood

.

Once

,

at

the

Whooton

School

,

this

other

boy

,

Raymond

Goldfarb

,

and

I

bought

a

pint

of

Scotch

and

drank

it

in

the

chapel

one

Saturday

night

,

where

nobody

'd

see

us

.

He

got

stinking

,

but

I

hardly

did

n't

even

show

it

.

I

just

got

very

cool

and

nonchalant

.

I

puked

before

I

went

to

bed

,

but

I

did

n't

really

have

to

--

I

forced

myself

.

Anyway

,

before

I

got

to

the

hotel

,

I

started

to

go

in

this

dumpy-looking

bar

,

but

two

guys

came

out

,

drunk

as

hell

,

and

wanted

to

know

where

the

subway

was

.

One

of

them

was

this

very

Cuban-looking

guy

,

and

he

kept

breathing

his

stinking

breath

in

my

face

while

I

gave

him

directions

.

I

ended

up

not

even

going

in

the

damn

bar

.

I

just

went

back

to

the

hotel

.

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The

whole

lobby

was

empty

.

It

smelled

like

fifty

million

dead

cigars

.

It

really

did

.

I

was

n't

sleepy

or

anything

,

but

I

was

feeling

sort

of

lousy

.

Depressed

and

all

.

I

almost

wished

I

was

dead

.

Then

,

all

of

a

sudden

,

I

got

in

this

big

mess

.

The

first

thing

when

I

got

in

the

elevator

,

the

elevator

guy

said

to

me

,

"

Innarested

in

having

a

good

time

,

fella

?

Or

is

it

too

late

for

you

?

"

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