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

ask you."
"That," she replied, "is what makes you stupid."

Let me explain why I took her for coffee. By shrewdly capitulating at
the crucial moment-i.e., by pretending that I suddenly wanted to-I got my
book. And since she couldn't leave until the library closed, I had plenty of
time to absorb some pithy phrases about the shift of royal dependence from
cleric to lawyer in the late eleventh century. I got an A minus on the exam,
coincidentally the same grade I assigned to Jenny's legs when she first
walked from behind that desk. I can't say I gave her costume an honor grade,
however; it was a bit too Boho for my taste. I especially ~gthed that Indian
thing she carried for a handbag. Fortunately I didn't mention this, as I
later discovered it was of her own design.
We went to the Midget Restaurant, a nearby sandwich joint which,
despite its name, is not restricted to people of small stature. I ordered
two coffees and a brownie with ice cream (for her).
"I'm Jennifer Cavilleri," she said, "an American of Italian descent."
As if I wouldn't have known. "And a music major," she added.
"My name is Oliver," I said.
"First or last?" she asked.
"First," I answered, and then confessed that my entire name was Oliver
Barrett. (I mean, that's most of

"Oh," she said. "Barrett, like the poet?"
"Yes," I said. "No relation."
In the pause that ensued, I gave thanks that she hadn't come up with
the usual distressing question:
"Barrett, like the hall?" For it is my special albatross to be related
to the guy that built Barrett Hall, the largest and ugliest structure in
Harvard Yard, a colossal monument to my family's money, vanity and flagrant
Harvardism.
After that, she was pretty quiet. Could we have run out of conversation
so quickly? Had I turned her off by not being related to the poet? What? She
simply sat there, semi-smiling at me. For something to do, I checked out her
notebooks. Her handwriting was curious-small sharp little letters with no
capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?). And she was taking
some pretty snowy courses: Comp. Lit. 105, Music 150, Music
201- "Music 201? Isn't that a graduate course?"
She nodded yes, and was not very good at masking her pride.
"Renaissance polyphony."
"What's polyphony?"
"Nothing sexual, Preppie."
Why was I putting up with this? Doesn't she read the Crimson? Doesn't
she know who I am?
"Hey, don't you know who I am?"
"Yeah," she answered with kind of disdain. "You're the guy that owns
Barrett Hall."
She didn't know who I was.
"I don't own Barrett Hall," I quibbled. "My great- grandfather happened
to give it to Harvard."