Love Story / История любви. Эрик Сигал

told her how I hated the fact that I was programmed for the Barrett Tradition. And I had to deliver x amount of achievement every single term.

      “Oh yeah,” said Jenny with broad sarcasm, “I notice how you hate getting A’s, being All-Ivy—”

      “What I hate is that he expects no less!” Just saying what I had always felt (but never before spoken) made me feel uncomfortable as hell, but now I had to make Jenny understand it all. “And he’s so incredibly unemotional, when I do come through. I mean he just takes me absolutely for granted[48].”

      “But he’s a busy man. Doesn’t he run lots of banks and things?”

      “Jesus, Jenny, whose side are you on?”

      “Is this a war?” she asked.

      “Most definitely,” I replied.

      “That’s ridiculous, Oliver.”

      She seemed genuinely unconvinced. And there I got my first suspicion of a cultural gap between us.

      I mean, three and a half years of Harvard-Radcliffe had pretty much made us into the self-assured intellectuals, but when it came to accepting the fact that my father was made of stone, she stuck to some atavistic Italian-Mediterranean notion of papa-loves-bambinos, and there was no arguing otherwise.

      I told her about that ridiculous nonconversation after the Cornell game. This definitely made an impression on her. But the goddamn wrong one.

      “He went all the way up to Ithaca to watch a lousy hockey game?”

      I tried to explain that my father was all form and no content. She was still obsessed with the fact that he had traveled so far for such a (relatively) trivial sports event.

      “Look, Jenny, can we just forget it?”

      “Thank God you’re hung up about[49] your father,” she replied. “That means you’re not perfect.”

      “Oh – you mean you are?”

      “Hell no, Preppie. If I was, would I be going out with you?”

      Back to business as usual.

      5

      I would like to say a word about our physical relationship.

      For a strangely long while there wasn’t any. I mean, there wasn’t anything more significant than those kisses already mentioned (all of which I still remember in greatest detail). This was not typical of me, because I was rather impulsive, impatient and quick to action.

      But I just didn’t know what to do.

      Don’t misunderstand or take that too literally. I knew all the moves. I just couldn’t cope with my own feelings about making them. Jenny was so smart that I was afraid she might laugh at what I had traditionally considered the romantic style of Oliver Barrett IV. I was afraid she would reject me, yes. I was also afraid she would accept me for the wrong reasons. What I am trying to say is that I felt different about Jennifer, and didn’t know what to say. I just knew I had these feelings. For her. For all of her.

* * *

      “You’re going to flunk out, Oliver.”

      We were sitting in my room on a Sunday afternoon, reading.

      “Oliver, you’re going to flunk out if you just sit there watching me study.”

      “I’m not watching you study. I’m studying.”

      “Bullshit. You’re looking at my legs.”

      “Only once in a while[50]. Every chapter.”

      “That book has extremely short chapters.”

      “Listen, you’re not that great-looking!”

      “I know. But what can I do if you think so?”

      I threw down my book and crossed the room to where she was sitting.

      “Jenny, for Christ’s sake, how can I read John Stuart Mill when every single second I’m dying to make love to you?”

      She frowned.

      “Oh, Oliver, would you please?”

      I was squatting by her chair. She looked back into her book.

      “Jenny—”

      She closed her book softly, put it down, then placed her hands on the sides of my neck.

      “Oliver – would you please.”

      It all happened at once. Everything.

* * *

      Our first physical encounter was the polar opposite of our first verbal one. It was all so unhurried, so soft, so gentle. I had never realized that this was the real Jenny – the soft one, whose touch was so light and so loving. And yet what truly shocked me was my own response. I was gentle, I was tender. Was this the real Oliver Barrett IV?

      I had never seen Jenny with her sweater opened an extra button. I was somewhat surprised to find that she wore a tiny golden cross. On one of those chains that never unlock. I mean, when we made love, she still wore the cross. In a resting moment of that lovely afternoon, when everything and nothing is relevant, I touched the little cross and inquired what her priest might say about our behavior.

      She answered that she had no priest.

      “Aren’t you a good Catholic girl?” I asked.

      “Well, I’m a girl,” she said. “And I’m good.”

      She looked at me for confirmation and I smiled. She smiled back.

      “So that’s two out of three.”

      I then asked her why she was wearing the cross. She explained that it had been her mother’s; she wore it for sentimental reasons, not religious. The conversation returned to ourselves.

      “Hey, Oliver, did I tell you that I love you?” she said.

      “No, Jen.”

      “Why didn’t you ask me?”

      “I was afraid to, frankly.”

      “Ask me now.”

      “Do you love me, Jenny?”

      She looked at me and answered:

      “What do you think?”

      “Yeah. I guess. Maybe.”

      I kissed her neck.

      “Oliver?”

      “Yes?”

      “I don’t just love you…”

      Oh, Christ, what was this?

      “I love you very much, Oliver.”

      6

      I love Ray Stratton.

      He may not be a genius or a great football player, but he was always a good roommate and loyal friend. And how that poor bastard suffered through most of our senior year. Where did he go to study when he saw the tie placed on the doorknob of our room (the traditional signal for “action within”)? Where did he sleep on those Saturday nights when Jenny and I decided to disobey parietal rules and stay together? Ray had to ask for places to sleep in – neighbors’ couches, etc., assuming they were vacant. Well, at least it was after the football season. And I was ready to do the same thing for him.

      But what was Ray’s reward? Before I met Jenny, I had shared with him all the details of my amorous triumphs. Now I never even admitted that Jenny and I were lovers. I just indicated when we needed the room. Stratton could draw what conclusion he wished.

      “I mean, Christ, Barrett, are you making it or not?” he asked.

      “Raymond, as a friend I’m asking you not to ask.”

      “But Christ, Barrett, afternoons, Friday nights, Saturday nights. Christ, you must be making it.”

      “Then

48

как само собой разумеется

49

(идиом.) зациклен

50

изредка