Эрик Сигал – Love Story / История любви (страница 4)
“He’s a specialist—”
“The Cornell doctor wasn’t exactly a veterinarian,” I said, hoping to reduce my father’s usual snobbish enthusiasm for specialists, experts, and all other “top people.”
“Too bad,” remarked Oliver Barrett III, and first I thought he tried to joke, “you did get a beastly cut.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. (Was I supposed to chuckle?)
And then I wondered if my father’s quasi-witticism[33] had not been some sort of reproach for my actions on the ice.
“Or were you implying that I behaved like an animal this evening?”
His expression suggested some pleasure at the fact that I had asked him. But he simply replied, “It was you who mentioned veterinarians.” At this point, I decided to study the menu.
As the main course was served, Old Stony launched into another of his sermons concerning victories and defeats. He noted that we had lost the title (very sharp of you, Father), but after all, in sport what really counts is not the winning but the playing. I gave him his quota of “Yes sir’s” and shut up.
We ran the usual conversation, which centers around Old Stony’s favorite nontopic, my plans.
“Tell me, Oliver, have you heard from the Law School?”
“Actually, Father, I haven’t definitely decided on law school.”
“I was merely asking if law school had definitely decided on you.”
Was this another witticism? Was I supposed to smile?
“No, sir. I haven’t heard.”
“I could give Price Zimmermann a ring—”
“No!” I interrupted, “Please don’t, sir.”
“Not to influence,” O.B. III said very uprightly, “just to inquire.”
“Father, I want to get the letter with everyone else. Please.”
“Yes. Of course. Fine.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Besides there really isn’t much doubt about your getting in,” he added.
I don’t know why, but O.B. III has a way of[34] disparaging me even while saying laudatory phrases.
“It’s not so easy,” I replied. “They don’t have a hockey team, after all.”
I have no idea why I was putting myself down[35]. Maybe it was because he was taking the opposite view.
“You have other qualities,” said Oliver Barrett III, but didn’t go into details. (I doubt if it was possible for him to do.)
I can never predict what subject my father will set before me next.
“And there’s always the Peace Corps[36],” he remarked, completely out of the blue[37].
“Sir?” I asked, not quite sure whether he was making a statement or asking a question.
“I think the Peace Corps is a fine thing, don’t you?” he said.
“Well,” I replied, “it’s certainly better than the War Corps.”
We were even.[38] I didn’t know what he meant and he didn’t know what I meant. Was that enough for the topic? Would we now discuss other current affairs or government programs? No. I had momentarily forgotten that our quintessential theme is always my plans.
“I would certainly have no objection to your joining the Peace Corps, Oliver.”
“It’s mutual, sir,” I replied. I’m sure Old Stony never listens to me anyway, so I’m not surprised that he didn’t react to my quiet little sarcasm.
“But among your classmates,” he continued, “what is the attitude there?”
“Sir?”
“Do they feel the Peace Corps is important to their lives?”
I guess my father needs to hear the phrase as much as a fish needs water: “Yes, sir.”
At about eleven-thirty, I walked him to his car.
“Anything I can do, son?”
“No, sir. Good night, sir.”
And he drove off.
Yes, there are planes between Boston and Ithaca, New York, but Oliver Barrett III chose to drive.
Not that those many hours at the wheel could be taken as some kind of parental gesture. My father simply likes to drive. Fast. I have no doubt that Oliver Barrett III was going to break his speed record, set the year previous after we had beaten Cornell and taken the title.
I went back to the motel to phone Jenny.
It was the only good part of the evening. I told her all about the fight and I could tell she enjoyed it. Not many of her wonky musician friends either threw or received punches.
“Did you at least total the guy that hit you?” she asked.
“Yeah. Totally. I creamed him.”
“I regret I didn’t see it. Maybe you’ll beat up somebody in the Yale game, huh?”
“Yeah.”
I smiled. How she loved the simple things in life.
4
“Jenny’s on the downstairs phone.”
This information was announced to me by the girl on bells[39], although I had not identified myself or my purpose in coming to Jenny’s dorm that Monday evening. I quickly concluded that this was good for me. Obviously the “Clifeif ” who greeted me read
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”
“Too bad about Cornell. The Crime[40] says four guys attacked you.”
“Yeah. And I got the penalty. Five minutes.”
“Yeah.”
The difference between a friend and a fan is that with the latter you quickly run out of conversation.
“Jenny off the phone yet?”
She checked her switchboard, replied, “No.”
Who was Jenny talking to? Some musical wonk? It was not unknown to me that Martin Davidson, conductor of the Bach Society orchestra, considered himself to have a franchise on Jenny’s attention[41]. Not body; I don’t think the guy could wave more than his baton. Anyway, I would put a stop to this usurpation of my time.
“Where’s the phone booth?”
“Around the corner.”
I walked into the lounge area. From afar[42] I could see Jenny on the phone. She had left the booth door open. I walked slowly, casually, hoping she would catch sight of me – my bandages, my injuries – and she would slam down the receiver and rush to my arms. As I approached, I could hear fragments of conversation.
“Yeah. Of course! Absolutely. Oh, me too, Phil. I love you too, Phil.”