Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories
- Автор: Хантер Эван
- Год: 1963
- Язык: английский
- Год: Simon and Schuster
- Жанр: Современная русская и зарубежная проза
Электронная книга - «Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories». Краткое содержание книги:
“No.”
“It seems that way,” he said. “I’m always afraid I’ll make a fool of myself on the dance floor.”
“It’s really very simple.”
“Just a matter of getting the rhythm, I suppose,” He said. “Still, with all those experts on the floor...” He shook his head ruefully, embarrassedly.
She knew what was coming next. She could have said the words even before they left his mouth. For a moment she wished desperately that she were wrong, wished that he would not say what she was sure he would say. For a moment she wished that once — just once — a man would look at her and honestly believe she had beautiful hair, or a fine brow, or pretty eyes. Once, just once, and her heart would open like a flower and the warmth would pour from her, the warmth that was stored, ready to burst. Just once, just once...
And then he said, “Maybe you could give me private lessons.”
She did not answer.
“It’s a little stuffy in here anyway, isn’t it?” he asked.
“A... a little,” she said.
“The air conditioner in my room works fine,” he said. He smiled pleasantly.
“I... I don’t know,” she answered.
“We could order some drinks up there,” he said. “I’d be honored. A pretty girl like you teaching me how to dance. I’d be honored.”
“Please,” she said.
“Seriously. We could dance a little...”
“Please...”
“... and drink a little...”
“Please, please...”
“You know, have a little fun,” he concluded.
She looked at his face soberly. The lie was in his eyes and on his mouth. Blankly she said, “I’m not pretty.”
“Sure you are,” he answered. “You’re one of the prettiest girls in the hotel.”
She nodded briefly. Her eyes dropped to the bar. She could see his left hand and the narrow band of white flesh on his third finger, where a ring had belatedly been removed after the skin had tanned.
“You’re married?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She nodded silently.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” She rose. “Good night,” she said. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Hey, what about the private lessons?”
She did not answer. Her eyes were misting as she walked away from the bar.
She checked out that night.
There did not seem to be any sense in staying. There did not seem to be any sense in anything. She wore a white linen suit, and she stood in the hotel corridor with the bellhop, impatiently waiting for the elevator, anxious to get away.
The elevator door slid open. She entered the car, and the bellhop followed with her four valises. A man was standing in one corner of the elevator. He looked at her when she entered. The car dropped leisurely toward the lobby. The man seemed rather nervous, a man of about thirty-five, with solemn brown eyes. He seemed as if he wanted to speak to her, but instead he swallowed repeatedly until the elevator had almost reached the lobby floor.
And then, at last, he very quietly said, “You have pretty eyes. The—” He glanced self-consciously at the bellhop and the elevator operator. “—the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
She turned to him, naked hatred gleaming on her face. Sharply she whispered, “Stop it! Damn you, damn you, stop it!”
The elevator door slid open.
“Lobby,” the operator said.
She stepped out of the car. The man looked at the operator in embarrassment. He waited for the bellhop to leave the car, and then he stepped into the lobby. He watched while she settled her bill. He watched while the bellhop carried her bags out and hailed a cab. He watched as the cab pulled away from the hotel, the girl sitting alone on the back seat. The bellhop returned to the lobby, pocketing a dollar bill.
“Touchy broad, huh?” he said to the man.
The man did not answer for a long while. He kept staring through the wide plate-glass doors at the empty street outside where the girl in the cab had been.
Then he said, “She had pretty eyes. She had very pretty eyes.”
He bought a newspaper at the cigar stand in the arcade and sat in the lobby, reading, until midnight.
Alone in his silent room, he went to bed.
Million Dollar Maybe
John was showing me the illustrations for the June issue when the buzzer on my desk sounded.
“This fellow is terrific,” he said. “I mean it, Bert, we’re lucky we got him at all — and especially at the price we’re paying.”
“I still think it’s too high,” I said. I reached over and snapped down the toggle. “Yes?”
“Mr. Merrian?”
“Yes?”
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, sir.”
“Who?” I asked.
“A Mr. Donald, sir.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Donald.”
“I don’t know any Mr. Donald.” I turned to John. “You know any Mr. Donald?” He shook his head, and I turned my face back to the speaker. “Ask him what it’s in reference to, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
With my forefinger I tapped the illustration John was holding. “We start paying these people fancy prices, and we’ll put ourselves out of business.”
“Fancy?” John protested. “This is half what he gets from the better magazines. The only reason he did it for us is because I knew him in college.”
“You can’t trust artists,” I told him. “Next thing you know, he’ll be spreading the good news around. We’ll have a steady stream of characters with portfolios under their arms. And you know how often we can afford five hundred.”
“All right, so this is an exception.”
“Damn right it is. You got the good drawing you were crying for, but I expect it to last you for the next five years.”
“Mr. Merrian?” a female voice interrupted.
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Mr. Donald said he would like his million dollars.”
“Hello?” I said.
“Yes, sir?”
“What did you just say?”
“I said Mr. Donald would like his million dollars.”
“You see, John?” I said. “It’s started already. I told you you can’t trust artists. Well, I’ll put a stop to this foolishness right away.” I turned back to the intercom. “Send Mr. Donald in. And tell him to leave his portfolio outside.”
“He has no portfolio, sir.”
“Send him in anyway.” I snapped off the toggle angrily and glared at John. John shrugged, moving his shoulders in a gesture that said, “I’m only the art director here.”
I leaned back in my chair and waited for the door to open. When it did, a tall, thin man stepped into the room, blinking his eyes against the sunlight that streamed through the blinds. He shielded his eyes with one hand and took three cautious steps toward the desk.
“Mr. Donald?” I asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said hesitantly.
“How do you do, sir? I’m Bert Merrian, publisher of Prince, and this is John Hastings, my art director. Have a seat, won’t you, sir?”
“Well, thank you. That’s awfully nice of you... considering.”
I watched him cross the room and settle himself in the chair beside my desk. He had black shaggy eyebrows that all but covered pale, almost violet, eyes. He kept his brows pulled low, so that his eyes showed only occasionally, like dim bulbs behind a darkroom curtain. His nose was thin, slicing down the center of his angular face like a machete slash. His lips were pressed firmly together. He looked like a man with unpleasant business on his mind. He certainly did not look like an artist.
“Well,” I said cheerily, “what can we do for you, Mr. Donald?” I was beginning to enjoy this. I felt a little like an executioner putting his basket under the blade of the guillotine.