Love Story / История любви. Эрик Сигал

hung up.

      I wasn’t unhappy. Or surprised.

      3

      I got hurt in the Cornell game.

      It was my own fault, really. At a dramatic moment, I made the unfortunate error of calling their center a “fucking Canuck[26].” I forgot that four members of their team were Canadians – all, it turned out, extremely patriotic, well-built and within earshot[27]. To make matters worse, the penalty was called on me: five minutes for fighting. I could see our coach tearing his hair out as I climbed into the box.

      Jackie Felt, our coach, came over. It was only then I realized that the whole right side of my face was a bloody mess. “Jesus Christ,” he kept repeating as he worked me over with a styptic pencil[28].

      “Jesus, Ollie.”

      I sat quietly, staring blankly ahead. I was ashamed to look onto the ice, where my worst fears were quickly realized: Cornell scored. The Red fans screamed. Cornell could very possibly win the game – and with it, the Ivy title. Shit – and I had barely gone through half my penalty.

      By now the fans for both sides had forgotten me. Only one spectator still had his eyes on the penalty box. Yes, he was there.

      Sitting among the Harvard rooters was Oliver Barrett III.

      Across the gulf of ice, Old Stonyface observed in expressionless silence as the last bit of blood on the face of his only son was stopped. What was he thinking, do you think? “Tch tch tch[29]” or something like that?

      But of course, who could tell what he was thinking? Oliver Barrett III was a walking, sometimes talking Mount Rushmore[30]. Stonyface.

      The crowd roared again, but really wild this time. Another Cornell goal. They were ahead. And I had two minutes of penalty to go! Davey Johnston skated past me, angry. And did I notice tears in his eyes? I mean, okay, the title was at stake, but Jesus – tears! However Davey, our captain, had this incredible luck: seven years and he’d never played on a losing side, whether in high school or in college. It was like a legend. And he was a senior. And this was our last serious game.

      Which we lost, 6–3.

* * *

      After the game, an X-ray determined that no bones were broken, and then twelve stitches were sewn into my cheek by Richard Selzer, M.D.[31]

      There was nobody in the locker room. I thought they had been at the motel already. I supposed no one wanted to see me or speak to me. With this terrible bitter taste in my mouth – I felt so bad I could taste it – I packed my gear and walked outside. There were not many Harvard fans out there.

      “You’ll probably want a steak,” said a familiar voice. It was Oliver Barrett III. How typical of him to suggest the old-fashioned cure for a black eye[32].

      “Thank you, Father,” I said. “The doctor took care of it.” I indicated the gauze pad covering Selzer’s twelve stitches.

      “I mean for your stomach, son.”

      At dinner, we had yet another in our continuing series of nonconversations, all of which start with “How’ve you been?” and conclude with “Anything I can do?”

      “How’ve you been, son?”

      “Fine, sir.”

      “Does your face hurt?”

      “No, sir.”

      It was beginning to hurt like hell.

      “I’d like Jack Wells to look at it on Monday.”

      “Not necessary, Father.”

      “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

26

(амер. сл. пренебр.) канадец

27

в пределах слышимости

28

кровоостанавливающий карандаш

29

Ай-ай-ай!

30

Гора Рашмор в горном массиве Блэк-Хилс в Южной Дакоте, США. На этой горе высечен барельеф с портретами четырёх президентов США – Джорджа Вашингтона, Томаса Джефферсона, Теодора Рузвельта и Авраама Линкольна

31

(лат.) Medicinae Doctor – врач

32

фингал

33

псевдоострота

34

имеет обыкновение

35

умалял свои достоинства

36

Корпус мира: агентство, созданное в 1961 г. по инициативе президента Дж. Ф. Кеннеди и с одобрения Конгресса США в рамках государственного департамента с целью формирования положительного имиджа США в развивающихся странах. В задачи агентства входило оказание помощи населению развивающихся стран в получении элементарных технических знаний и трудовых навыков

37

(идиом.) зд. ни с того, ни с сего

38

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