"Трумэн Капоте. The grass harp (Луговая арфа, англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

returned steering Dolly by the elbow.
The shadows of the hall, the tapestried furniture failed to absorb her;
without raising her eyes she lifted her hand, and Dr. Ritz gripped it so
ruggedly, pumped it so hard she went nearly off balance. "Gee, Miss Talbo;
am I honored to meet you!" he said, and cranked his bow tie.
We sat down to dinner, and Catherine came around with the chicken. She
served Verena, then Dolly, and when the doctor's turn came he said, 'Tell
you the truth, the only piece of chicken I care about is the brain: don't
suppose you'd have that back in the kitchen, mammy?"
Catherine looked so far down her nose she got almost cross" eyed; and
with her tongue all mixed up in the cotton wadding she told him that,
"Dolly's took those brains on her plate."
"These southern accents, Jesus," he said, genuinely dismayed.
"She says I have the brains on my plate," said Dolly, her cheeks red as
Catherine's rouge. "But please let me pass them to you."
"If you're sure you don't mind..."
"She doesn't mind a bit," said Verena. "She only eats sweet things
anyway. Here, Dolly: have some banana pudding."
Presently Dr. Ritz commenced a fit of sneezing. "The flowers, those
roses, old allergy..."
"Oh dear," said Dolly who, seeing an opportunity to escape into the
kitchen, seized the bowl of roses: it slipped, crystal crashed, roses landed
in gravy and gravy landed on us all. "You see," she said, speaking to
herself and with tears teetering in her eyes, "you see, it's hopeless."
"Nothing is hopeless. Dolly; sit down and finish your pudding," Verena
advised in a substantial, chin-up voice. "Besides, we have a nice little
surprise for you. Morris, show Dolly those lovely labels."
Murmuring "No harm done," Dr. Ritz stopped rubbing gravy splotches off
his sleeve, and went into the hall, returning with his brief case. His
fingers buzzed through a sheaf of papers, then lighted on a large envelope
which he passed down to Dolly.
There were gum-stickers in the envelope, triangular labels with orange
lettering: Gipsy Queen Dropsy Cure: and a fuzzy picture of a woman wearing a
bandana and gold earloops. "First class, huh?" said Dr. Ritz. "Made in
Chicago. A friend of mine drew the picture: real artist, that guy," Dolly
shuffled the labels with a puzzled, apprehensive expression until Verena
asked: "Aren't you pleased?"
The labels twitched in Dolly's hands. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Of course you do," said Verena, smiling thinly. "It's obvious enough.
I told Morris that old story of yours and he thought of this wonderful
name."
"Gipsy Queen Dropsy Cure: very catchy, that," said the doctor. "Look
great in ads."
"My medicine?" said Dolly, her eyes still lowered. "But I don't need
any labels, Verena. I write my own."
Dr. Ritz snapped his fingers. "Say, that's good! We can have labels
printed like her own handwriting: personal, see?"
"We've spent enough money already," Verena told him briskly; and,
turning to Dolly, said: "Morris and I are going up to Washington this week
to get a copyright on these labels and register a patent for the