Love, Dad
- Автор: Хантер Эван
- Год: 1981
- Язык: английский
- Год: Crown
- ISBN: 978-0-517-54411-2
- Жанр: Роман, новелла
Электронная книга - «Love, Dad». Краткое содержание книги:
The sand was still wet from the earlier downpour. Behind him, coming from the Lanes’ rented house on the dunes, Jamie could hear the muted sound of someone playing a guitar and someone else singing along. He had requisitioned a half-empty bottle of Scotch from the kitchen counter, and a plastic cup from one of the cabinets, and had wandered down the rickety steps leading to the beach, eager for a breath of fresh air and a respite from the noise. He had left his shoes at the foot of the steps, and rolled his trousers midway to his shins. The sand was cool underfoot. The water gently nudged the shore.
He saw, at first, only the gold of her top and the blond of her hair catching whatever faint light filtered to the beach from the house above. She was sitting alone on a black raincoat spread on the sand, smoking, looking out over the water. She seemed engrossed in thought; he almost turned to walk up the beach in the opposite direction — but she had already seen him. He hesitated, and then went to where she was sitting.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” she answered, and sucked on the cigarette. He realized all at once that it was marijuana.
“Think it’s going to clear up?” he asked.
“Who cares?” she said, and shrugged.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked, and extended the plastic cup.
She shook her head. “Would you like a toke?” she asked, and extended the joint.
“I don’t smoke,” he said, and sat on the raincoat beside her. “Okay to sit?” he asked belatedly.
She nodded, inhaled on the joint again, extended it to him again, and said, “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Generation gap,” she said, and shrugged again.
“Tell me all about the generation gap,” he said, and smiled. “I have a seventeen-year-old daughter.”
“Seventeen isn’t twenty-five, my generation isn’t your daughter’s. Anyway, it really doesn’t matter, does it?”
“I don’t think my daughter smokes pot, either,” he said. “Doesn’t she? Well, well.”
“You think she does.”
“I don’t know what she does.”
“But you suspect she does.”
“Well, really, who gives a shit?”
They fell silent. He sipped at his Scotch. She dropped the stub of the joint, and then brushed sand over it with her hand. He had the feeling he should leave. He was intruding on her privacy; she obviously wanted to be alone with her thoughts.
“Are you an actress?” he asked.
“An actress? No. What makes you think that?”
“You were talking about being in Rome for Cleopatra...”
“Oh, that. I was there with my father, he was trying to get a job scoring the film. He’s a musician.” She paused. “So am I.”
“Oh? What do you play?”
“The flute.”
“The flute,” he said, nodding.
“I’m a flutician, as my teacher would put it.” She paused. “Julie Baker.”
“Am I supposed to know her?”
“Him. And yes. Well, I mean, most people who know music know who Julius Baker is.”
“Who is he?”
“I gather you don’t know music.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just say he’s a very good flutist.”
“Do you play professionally?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Where?”
“I’m with the New York City Opera Orchestra. We start rehearsing next week for the new season.”
“I never thought of music as being seasonal.”
“Well, of course it is. Come on, you know that. Don’t you ever... I mean, haven’t you ever been to the Philharmonic? Or a ballet? I mean... well, of course it’s seasonal. All of it’s seasonal. Well, wait, I take that back. I guess if you’re in the pit at Fiddler, that isn’t seasonal. But most orchestras, sure, they’re seasonal.”
“And the season starts next week.”
“Rehearsals for the season, yes.”
“When does it end?”
“Sometime in November.”
“Then what?”
“I go to Los Angeles for four weeks.”
“With the orchestra?”
“Yes. Well, the whole company actually.” She paused. “So,” she said, “Now you know where I am every minute of the day and night.”
“Forgive me,” he said, “but...”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“I’ve forgotten your name.”
“You’re joking,” she said. “It’s Joanna.”
“Your last name, I mean.”
“Berkowitz.”
“Right. Berkowitz. Right.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of this?”
“Well... all right. I really shouldn’t, though, I’ve really had enough tonight.” She shook her head, and then suddenly laughed. “Last season, one of the fiddlers in the first section got drunk before a performance... we were doing Traviata... not drunk, actually, but a bit high. And he began singing from the pit, I mean actually singing out loud along with the coloratura. Do you know the ‘fors’è lui’ aria in the first...?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Well, that one. Singing right along with it.” She laughed again, and again shook her head. “But I will have a sip, thank you.”
He poured Scotch into the plastic cup and handed it to her.
“That’s yours, isn’t it?” she said.
“I’ll drink from the bottle.”
“Cheers,” she said.
“Cheers.”
“I can use this, actually. Rough night tonight.”
“How so?”
“Endings. I find endings difficult, don’t you?”
“Beginnings, too,” he said, and smiled.
“How about middles?” she asked, and returned the smile. She sipped again at the Scotch, dug into her handbag for a package of cigarettes, shook one free, and then offered the package to him. “This isn’t grass,” she said, “you’re absolutely safe.” He took one of the cigarettes, and struck a match for both of them. She blew out a stream of smoke, and said, “Harrison’s married, you see.”
“Harrison. The man you came with.”
“He’s a poet, he teaches a workshop out in Indiana. He wants to divorce his wife and marry me, take me to Indiana with him. There are two children involved, both of them older than I am. Daughters. There must be something about me, all these men working out their oedipal...”
“All these men?”
“Well... Harrison primarily. But I’ve known other men besides Harrison. I mean... well... I guess you realize that. I was on my own in Rome when I was just eighteen, I guess I had to have known at least a few men.”
“Yes,” he said.
“So,” she said and shrugged.
“All of them married?”
“You make it sound like an army. There were only three. Two of them were married.”
“With daughters?”
“One of them had a daughter, yes,” she said, and drained the cup.
“More?” he asked, and extended the bottle.
“I really shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m really beginning to feel it. The booze, the dope... fuck it, let me have some.” She held out the cup, and he poured for her. “I told him no. Harrison. I told him I didn’t want to go to Indiana. Half an hour ago. Just before I came down here. Told him no.” She shook her head. “I guess I did the right thing, who the fuck knows? Fuck it,” she said, and drank. “My shrink said it was what I should do. He said...”
“You’re in analysis, huh?”