Tales of the Jazz Age. Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд

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СКАЧАТЬ This toast of a town was to become the private property of an individual in white trousers—and all because white trousers’ father had made a better razor than his neighbor. As they descended the stairs Jim found the idea inexplicably depressing. For the first time in his life he felt a vague and romantic yearning. A picture of her began to form in his imagination—Nancy walking boylike and debonnaire along the street, taking an orange as tithe from a worshipful fruit-dealer, charging a dope on a mythical account, at Soda Sam’s, assembling a convoy of beaux and then driving off in triumphal state for an afternoon of splashing and singing.

      The Jelly-bean walked out on the porch to a deserted corner, dark between the moon on the lawn and the single lighted door of the ballroom. There he found a chair and, lighting a cigarette, drifted into the thoughtless reverie that was his usual mood. Yet now it was a reverie made sensuous by the night and by the hot smell of damp powder puffs, tucked in the fronts of low dresses and distilling a thousand rich scents, to float out through the open door. The music itself, blurred by a loud trombone, became hot and shadowy, a languorous overtone to the scraping of many shoes and slippers.

      Suddenly the square of yellow light that fell through the door was obscured by a dark figure. A girl had come out of the dressing-room and was standing on the porch not more than ten feet away. Jim heard a low-breathed “doggone” and then she turned and saw him. It was Nancy Lamar.

      Jim rose to his feet.

      “Howdy?”

      “Hello—” she paused, hesitated and then approached. “Oh, it’s—Jim Powell.”

      He bowed slightly, tried to think of a casual remark.

      “Do you suppose,” she began quickly, “I mean—do you know anything about gum?”

      “What?”

      “I’ve got gum on my shoe. Some utter ass left his or her gum on the floor and of course I stepped in it.”

      Jim blushed, inappropriately.

      “Do you know how to get it off?” she demanded petulantly. “I’ve tried a knife. I’ve tried every damn thing in the dressing-room. I’ve tried soap and water—and even perfume and I’ve ruined my powder-puff trying to make it stick to that.”

      Jim considered the question in some agitation.

      “Why—I think maybe gasolene—”

      The words had scarcely left his lips when she grasped his hand and pulled him at a run off the low veranda, over a flower bed and at a gallop toward a group of cars parked in the moonlight by the first hole of the golf course.

      “Turn on the gasolene,” she commanded breathlessly.

      “What?”

      “For the gum of course. I’ve got to get it off. I can’t dance with gum on.”

      Obediently Jim turned to the cars and began inspecting them with a view to obtaining the desired solvent. Had she demanded a cylinder he would have done his best to wrench one out.

      “Here,” he said after a moment’s search. “’Here’s one that’s easy. Got a handkerchief?”

      “It’s up-stairs wet. I used it for the soap and water.”

      Jim laboriously explored his pockets.

      “Don’t believe I got one either.”

      “Doggone it! Well, we can turn it on and let it run on the ground.”

      He turned the spout; a dripping began.

      “More!”

      He turned it on fuller. The dripping became a flow and formed an oily pool that glistened brightly, reflecting a dozen tremulous moons on its quivering bosom.

      “Ah,” she sighed contentedly, “let it all out. The only thing to do is to wade in it.”

      In desperation he turned on the tap full and the pool suddenly widened sending tiny rivers and trickles in all directions.

      “That’s fine. That’s something like.”

      Raising her skirts she stepped gracefully in.

      “I know this’ll take it off,” she murmured.

      Jim smiled.

      “There’s lots more cars.”

      She stepped daintily out of the gasolene and began scraping her slippers, side and bottom, on the running-board of the automobile. The jelly-bean contained himself no longer. He bent double with explosive laughter and after a second she joined in.

      “You’re here with Clark Darrow, aren’t you?” she asked as they walked back toward the veranda.

      “Yes.”

      “You know where he is now?”

      “Out dancin’, I reckin.”

      “The deuce. He promised me a highball.”

      “Well,” said Jim, “I guess that’ll be all right. I got his bottle right here in my pocket.”

      She smiled at him radiantly.

      “I guess maybe you’ll need ginger ale though,” he added.

      “Not me. Just the bottle.”

      “Sure enough?”

      She laughed scornfully.

      “Try me. I can drink anything any man can. Let’s sit down.”

      She perched herself on the side of a table and he dropped into one of the wicker chairs beside her. Taking out the cork she held the flask to her lips and took a long drink. He watched her fascinated.

      “Like it?”

      She shook her head breathlessly.

      “No, but I like the way it makes me feel. I think most people are that way.”

      Jim agreed.

      “My daddy liked it too well. It got him.”

      “American men,” said Nancy gravely, “don’t know how to drink.”

      “What?” Jim was startled.

      “In fact,” she went on carelessly, “they don’t know how to do anything very well. The one thing I regret in my life is that I wasn’t born in England.”

      “In England?”

      “Yes. It’s the one regret of my life that I wasn’t.”

      “Do you like it over there?”

      “Yes. Immensely. I’ve never been there in person, but I’ve met a lot of Englishmen who were over here in the army, Oxford and Cambridge men—you know, that’s like СКАЧАТЬ