第41章
《THE CATCHER IN THE RYE(麦田里的守望者英文版)》章节:第41章,宠文网网友提供全文无弹窗免费在线阅读。!
I said.
"Yes--who is this?" she said. She was quite a little phony. I'd already told her
father who it was.
"Holden Caulfield. How are ya?"
"Holden! I'm fine! How are you?"
"Swell. Listen. How are ya, anyway? I mean how's school?"
"Fine," she said. "I mean--you know."
"Swell. Well, listen. I was wondering if you were busy today. It's Sunday, but
there's always one or two matinees going on Sunday. Benefits and that stuff. Would you
care to go?"
"I'd love to. Grand."
Grand. If there's one word I hate, it's grand. It's so phony. For a second, I was
tempted to tell her to forget about the matinee. But we chewed the fat for a while. That is,
she chewed it. You couldn't get a word in edgewise. First she told me about some
Harvard guy-- it probably was a freshman, but she didn't say, naturally--that was rushing
hell out of her. Calling her up night and day. Night and day--that killed me. Then she told
me about some other guy, some West Point cadet, that was cutting his throat over her too.
Big deal. I told her to meet me under the clock at the Biltmore at two o'clock, and not to
be late, because the show probably started at two-thirty. She was always late. Then I hung
up. She gave me a pain in the ass, but she was very good-looking.
After I made the date with old Sally, I got out of bed and got dressed and packed
my bag. I took a look out the window before I left the room, though, to see how all the
perverts were doing, but they all had their shades down. They were the heighth of
modesty in the morning. Then I went down in the elevator and checked out. I didn't see
old Maurice around anywhere. I didn't break my neck looking for him, naturally, the
bastard.
I got a cab outside the hotel, but I didn't have the faintest damn idea where I was
going. I had no place to go. It was only Sunday, and I couldn't go home till Wednesday--
or Tuesday the soonest. And I certainly didn't feel like going to another hotel and getting
my brains beat out. So what I did, I told the driver to take me to Grand Central Station. It
was right near the Biltmore, where I was meeting Sally later, and I figured what I'd do, I'd
check my bags in one of those strong boxes that they give you a key to, then get some
breakfast. I was sort of hungry. While I was in the cab, I took out my wallet and sort of
counted my money. I don't remember exactly what I had left, but it was no fortune or
anything. I'd spent a king's ransom in about two lousy weeks. I really had. I'm a goddam
spendthrift at heart. What I don't spend, I lose. Half the time I sort of even forget to pick
up my change, at restaurants and night clubs and all. It drives my parents crazy. You can't
blame them. My father's quite wealthy, though. I don't know how much he makes--he's
never discussed that stuff with me--but I imagine quite a lot. He's a corporation lawyer.
Those boys really haul it in. Another reason I know he's quite well off, he's always
investing money in shows on Broadway. They always flop, though, and it drives my
mother crazy when he does it. She hasn't felt too healthy since my brother Allie died.
She's very nervous. That's another reason why I hated like hell for her to know I got the
ax again.
After I put my bags in one of those strong boxes at the station, I went into this
little sandwich bar and bad breakfast. I had quite a large breakfast, for me--orange juice,
bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. Usually I just drink some orange juice. I'm a very light
eater. I really am. That's why I'm so damn skinny. I was supposed to be on this diet where
you eat a lot of starches and crap, to gain weight and all, but I didn't ever do it. When I'm
out somewhere, I generally just eat a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted milk. It isn't
much, but you get quite a lot of vitamins in the malted milk. H. V. Caulfield. Holden
Vitamin Caulfield.
While I was eating my eggs, these two nuns with suitcases and all--I guessed they
were moving to another convent or something and were waiting for a train--came in and
sat down next to me at the counter. They didn't seem to know what the hell to do with
their suitcases, so I gave them a hand. They were these very inexpensive-looking
suitcases--the ones that aren't genuine leather or anything. It isn't important, I know, but I
hate it when somebody has cheap suitcases. It sounds terrible to say it, but I can even get
to hate somebody, just looking at them, if they have cheap suitcases with them.
Something happened once. For a while when I was at Elkton Hills, I roomed with this
boy, Dick Slagle, that had these very inexpensive suitcases. He used to keep them under
the bed, instead of on the rack, so that nobody'd see them standing next to mine. It
depressed holy hell out of me, and I kept wanting to throw mine out or something, or
en8848
even trade with him. Mine came from Mark Cross, and they were genuine cowhide and
all that crap, and I guess they cost quite a pretty penny. But it was a funny thing. Here's
what happened. What I did, I finally put my suitcases under my bed, instead of on the
rack, so that old Slagle wouldn't get a goddam inferiority complex about it. But here's
what he did. The day after I put mine under my bed, he took them out and put them back
on the rack. The reason he did it, it took me a while to find out, was because he wanted
people to think my bags were his. He really did. He was a very funny guy, that way. He
was always saying snotty things about them, my suitcases, for instance. He kept saying
they were too new and bourgeois. That was his favorite goddam word. He read it
somewhere or heard it somewhere. Everything I had was bourgeois as hell. Even my
fountain pen was bourgeois. He borrowed it off me all the time, but it was bourgeois
anyway. We only roomed together about two months. Then we both asked to be moved.
And the funny thing was, I sort of missed him after we moved, because he had a helluva
good sense of humor and we had a lot of fun sometimes. I wouldn't be surprised if he
missed me, too. At first he only used to be kidding when he called my stuff bourgeois,
and I didn't give a damn--it was sort of funny, in fact. Then, after a while, you could tell
he wasn't kidding any more. The thing is, it's really hard to be roommates with people if
your suitcases are much better than theirs--if yours are really good ones and theirs aren't.
You think if they're intelligent and all, the other person, and have a good sense of humor,
that they don't give a damn whose suitcases are better, but they do. They really do. It's
one of the reasons why I roomed with a stupid bastard like Stradlater. At least his
suitcases were as good as mine.
Anyway, these two nuns were sitting next to me, and we sort of struck up a
conversation. The one right next to me had one of those straw baskets that you see nuns
and Salvation Army babes collecting dough with around Christmas time. You see them
standing on corners, especially on Fifth Avenue, in front of the big department stores and
all. Anyway, the one next to me dropped hers on the floor and I reached down and picked
it up for her. I asked her if she was out collecting money for charity and all. She said no.
She said she couldn't get it in her suitcase when she was packing it and she was just
carrying it. She had a pretty nice smile when she looked at you. She had a big nose, and
she had on those glasses with sort of iron rims that aren't too attractive, but she had a
helluva kind face. "I thought if you were taking up a collection," I told her, "I could make
a small contribution. You could keep the money for when you do take up a collection."
"Oh, how very kind of you," she said, and the other one, her friend, looked over at
me. The other one was reading a little black book while she drank her coffee. It looked
like a Bible, but it was too skinny. It was a Bible-type book, though. All the two of them
were eating for breakfast was toast and coffee. That depressed me. I hate it if I'm eating
bacon and eggs or something and somebody else is only eating toast and coffee.
They let me give them ten bucks as a contribution. They kept asking me if I was
sure I could afford it and all. I told them I had quite a bit of money with me, but they
didn't seem to believe me. They took it, though, finally. The both of them kept thanking
me so much it was embarrassing. I swung the conversation around to general topics and
asked them where they were going. They said they were schoolteachers and that they'd
just come from Chicago and that they were going to start teaching at some convent on
168th Street or 186th Street or one of those streets way the hell uptown. The one next to
me, with the iron glasses, said she taught English and her friend taught history and
American government. Then I started wondering like a bastard what the one sitting next
to me, that taught English, thought about, being a nun and all, when she read certain
books for English. Books not necessarily with a lot of sexy stuff in them, but books with
lovers and all in them. Take old Eustacia Vye, in The Return of the Native by Thomas
Hardy. She wasn't too sexy or anything, but even so you can't help wondering what a nun
maybe thinks about when she reads about old Eustacia. I didn't say anything, though,
naturally. All I said was English was my best subject.