Очень понравилось почему-то
Читаю сейчас книжку, когда прочитаю, напишу про нее. Но вот один кусок очень понравился. Интересно, что какие-то книжки я совсем не могу читать, а другие, как это, тоже совсем не веселые, очень поднимают мне настроение.
Barbara Patterson, in the kitchen of her house, Jackson Street, San Diego, California, October 1982. Our life was miserable but when Rafael heard that Ulises Lima hadn't come back from a trip to Nicaragua it became twice as miserable.
One day I said things can't go on like this. Rafael wasn't doing anything. He didn't work, he didn't write, he didn't help me clean the house, he didn't do the shopping, all he did was take showers (because if nothing else, Rafael is clean, like practically all fucking Mexicans) and watch TV until dawn or go out for beers or play soccer with the fucking Chicanos in the neighborhood. When I came home, there he'd be at the door, sitting on the steps or on the ground, in an Américas T-shirt that stank of sweat, drinking his Tecate and shooting the shit with his friends, this little group of brain-dead teenagers who called him Poet Man (which he didn't seem to mind) and who he'd be with until I'd made our fucking dinner. Then Rafael would say goodbye to them, and they would say sure thing, Poet Man, see you later, Poet Man, we'll catch you tomorrow, Poet Man, and only then would he come into the house.
I was seething with rage, I really was, absolute fury, and I would happily have poisoned his goddamn scrambled eggs, but I restrained myself. I counted to ten. I told myself he was going through a bad patch. The problem was, I knew the bad patch had already been going on too long, four years, to be precise, and although there were plenty of good moments, there were more bad ones and my patience was almost at its limit. But I kept trying, and I would ask how was your day (stupid question) and he would say (what could he say?) fine, okay, so-so. And I would ask: what do you talk about with those kids? And he would say: I tell them stories, I teach them life lessons. Then we would be quiet with the TV on, each of us absorbed in our own scrambled eggs, our pieces of lettuce, our tomato slices, and I would think what life lessons are you talking about, you poor bastard, you poor jerk, what lessons did you ever learn, you pathetic leech, you pathetic loser, you fucking asshole, if it weren't for me you'd be sleeping under a bridge. But I didn't say anything, I just looked at him, and that was all. Although even my glances seemed to bother him. He would say: what are you looking at, white girl, what are you scheming? And then I would force a dumb smile, not answering, and start to clear the plates.
Barbara Patterson, in the kitchen of her house, Jackson Street, San Diego, California, October 1982. Our life was miserable but when Rafael heard that Ulises Lima hadn't come back from a trip to Nicaragua it became twice as miserable.
One day I said things can't go on like this. Rafael wasn't doing anything. He didn't work, he didn't write, he didn't help me clean the house, he didn't do the shopping, all he did was take showers (because if nothing else, Rafael is clean, like practically all fucking Mexicans) and watch TV until dawn or go out for beers or play soccer with the fucking Chicanos in the neighborhood. When I came home, there he'd be at the door, sitting on the steps or on the ground, in an Américas T-shirt that stank of sweat, drinking his Tecate and shooting the shit with his friends, this little group of brain-dead teenagers who called him Poet Man (which he didn't seem to mind) and who he'd be with until I'd made our fucking dinner. Then Rafael would say goodbye to them, and they would say sure thing, Poet Man, see you later, Poet Man, we'll catch you tomorrow, Poet Man, and only then would he come into the house.
I was seething with rage, I really was, absolute fury, and I would happily have poisoned his goddamn scrambled eggs, but I restrained myself. I counted to ten. I told myself he was going through a bad patch. The problem was, I knew the bad patch had already been going on too long, four years, to be precise, and although there were plenty of good moments, there were more bad ones and my patience was almost at its limit. But I kept trying, and I would ask how was your day (stupid question) and he would say (what could he say?) fine, okay, so-so. And I would ask: what do you talk about with those kids? And he would say: I tell them stories, I teach them life lessons. Then we would be quiet with the TV on, each of us absorbed in our own scrambled eggs, our pieces of lettuce, our tomato slices, and I would think what life lessons are you talking about, you poor bastard, you poor jerk, what lessons did you ever learn, you pathetic leech, you pathetic loser, you fucking asshole, if it weren't for me you'd be sleeping under a bridge. But I didn't say anything, I just looked at him, and that was all. Although even my glances seemed to bother him. He would say: what are you looking at, white girl, what are you scheming? And then I would force a dumb smile, not answering, and start to clear the plates.