"Эрик Сигл. История любви (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Эрик Сигл.

История любви (engl)



Chapter 1


What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach.
And the Beatles. And me. Once, when she specifically Jumped me with those
musical types, I asked her what the order was, and she replied, smiling,
"Alphabetical." At the time I smiled too. But now I sit and wonder whether
she was listing me by my first name-in which case I would trail Mozart-or by
my last name, in which case I would edge n there between Bach and the
Beatles. Either way I don't come first, which for some stupid reason bothers
hell out of me, having grown up with the notion that I always had to be
number one. Family heritage, don't you know?

In the fall of my senior year, I got into the habit of studying at the
Radcliffe library. Not just to eye the cheese, although I admit that I liked
to look. The place was quiet, nobody knew me, and the reserve books were
less in demand. The day before one of my history hour exams, I still hadn't
gotten around to reading the first book on the list, an endemic Harvard
disease. I ambled over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes that
would bail me out on the morrow. There were two girls working there. One a
tall tennis-anyone type, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I opted for
Minnie Four-Eyes.
"Do you have The Waning of the Middle Ages?"
She shot a glance up at me.
"Do you have your own library?" she asked.
"Listen, Harvard is allowed to use the Radcliffe library."
"I'm not talking legality, Preppie, I'm talking ethics. You guys have
five million books. We have a few lousy thousand."
Christ, a superior-being type! The kind who think since the ratio of
Radcliffe to Harvard is five to one, the girls must be five times as smart.
I normally cut these types to ribbons, but just then I badly needed that
goddamn book.
"Listen, I need that goddamn book."
"Wouldja please watch your profanity, Preppie?"
"What makes you so sure I went to prep school?"
"You look stupid and rich," she said, removing her glasses.
"You're wrong," I protested. "I'm actually smart and poor.
"Oh, no, Preppie. i'm smart and poor."
She was staring straight at me. Her eyes were brown. Okay, maybe I look
rich, but I wouldn't let some 'Cliffie-even one with pretty eyes-call me
dumb.
"What the hell makes you so smart?" I asked.
"I wouldn't go for coffee with you," she answered. "Listen-I wouldn't