"Джон Чивер. The swimmer (Пловец, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"What's the matter?" ;
"If you've come here for money," she said, "I won't give you another cent."
"You could give me a drink."
"I could but I won't. I'm not alone."
"Well, I'm on my way."
He dove in and swam the pool, but when he tried to haul himself up onto the
curb he found that the strength in his arms and his shoulders had gone, and
he paddled to the ladder and climbed out. Looking over his shoulder he saw,
in the lighted bathhouse, a young man. Going out onto the dark lawn he
smelled chrysanthemums or marigolds-some stubborn autumnal fragrance- on the
night air, strong as gas. Looking overhead he saw that the stars had come
out, but why should he seem to see Andromeda, Cepheus, and Cassiopeia?* What
had become of the constella- tions of midsummer?* He began to cry.
It was probably the first time in his adult life that he had ever cried,
certainly the first time in his life that he had ever felt so miserable,
cold, tired, and bewildered. He could not understand the rudeness of the
caterer's barkeep or the rude- ness of a mistress who had come to him on her
knees and showered his trousers with tears. He had swum too long, he had
been immersed too long, and his nose and his throat were sore from the
water. What he needed then was a drink, some company, and some clean dry
clothes, and while he could have cut directly across the road to his home he
went on to the Gilmartins' pool. Here, for the first time in his life, he
did not dive but went down the steps into the icy water and swam a hobbled
side stroke* that he might have learned as a youth. He staggered with
fatigue on his way to the Clydes' and paddled the length of their pool,
stopping again and again with his hand on the curb to rest. He climbed up
the ladder and wondered if he had the strength to get home. He had done what
he wanted, he had swum the county, but he was so stupefied with exhaustion
that his triumph seemed vague. Stooped, holding onto the gateposts for
support, he turned up the driveway of his own house.
The place was dark. Was it so late that they had all gone to bed? Had
Lucinda stayed at the Westerhazys' for supper? Had the girls joined her
there or gone someplace else? Hadn't they agreed, as they usually did on
Sunday, to regret all their invitations and stay at home? He tried the
garage doors to see what cars were in but the doors were locked and rust
came off the handles onto his hands. Going toward the house, he saw that the
force of the thunderstorm had knocked one of the rain gutters loose. It hung
down over the front door like an umbrella rib, but it could be fixed in the
morning. The house was locked, and he thought that the stupid cook or the
stupid maid must have locked the place up until he remembered that it had
been some time since they had employed a maid or a cook. He shouted, pounded
on the door, tried to force it with his shoulder, and then, looking in at
the windows, saw that the place was empty.