第43章
《THE CATCHER IN THE RYE(麦田里的守望者英文版)》章节:第43章,宠文网网友提供全文无弹窗免费在线阅读。!
The thing was, you could tell by the way he
asked me that he was trying to find out if I was a Catholic. He really was. Not that he was
prejudiced or anything, but he just wanted to know. He was enjoying the conversation
about tennis and all, but you could tell he would've enjoyed it more if I was a Catholic
and all. That kind of stuff drives me crazy. I'm not saying it ruined our conversation or
anything--it didn't--but it sure as hell didn't do it any good. That's why I was glad those
two nuns didn't ask me if I was a Catholic. It wouldn't have spoiled the conversation if
they had, but it would've been different, probably. I'm not saying I blame Catholics. I
don't. I'd be the same way, probably, if I was a Catholic. It's just like those suitcases I was
telling you about, in a way. All I'm saying is that it's no good for a nice conversation.
That's all I'm saying.
When they got up to go, the two nuns, I did something very stupid and
embarrassing. I was smoking a cigarette, and when I stood up to say good-by to them, by
mistake I blew some smoke in their face. I didn't mean to, but I did it. I apologized like a
madman, and they were very polite and nice about it, but it was very embarrassing
anyway.
After they left, I started getting sorry that I'd only given them ten bucks for their
collection. But the thing was, I'd made that date to go to a matinee with old Sally Hayes,
and I needed to keep some dough for the tickets and stuff. I was sorry anyway, though.
Goddam money. It always ends up making you blue as hell.
16
After I had my breakfast, it was only around noon, and I wasn't meeting old Sally
till two o'clock, so I started taking this long walk. I couldn't stop thinking about those two
nuns. I kept thinking about that beatup old straw basket they went around collecting
money with when they weren't teaching school. I kept trying to picture my mother or
somebody, or my aunt, or Sally Hayes's crazy mother, standing outside some department
store and collecting dough for poor people in a beat-up old straw basket. It was hard to
picture. Not so much my mother, but those other two. My aunt's pretty charitable--she
does a lot of Red Cross work and all--but she's very well-dressed and all, and when she
does anything charitable she's always very well-dressed and has lipstick on and all that
crap. I couldn't picture her doing anything for charity if she had to wear black clothes and
no lipstick while she was doing it. And old Sally Hayes's mother. Jesus Christ. The only
way she could go around with a basket collecting dough would be if everybody kissed
her ass for her when they made a contribution. If they just dropped their dough in her
basket, then walked away without saying anything to her, ignoring her and all, she'd quit
in about an hour. She'd get bored. She'd hand in her basket and then go someplace
swanky for lunch. That's what I liked about those nuns. You could tell, for one thing, that
they never went anywhere swanky for lunch. It made me so damn sad when I thought
about it, their never going anywhere swanky for lunch or anything. I knew it wasn't too
important, but it made me sad anyway.
I started walking over toward Broadway, just for the hell of it, because I hadn't
been over there in years. Besides, I wanted to find a record store that was open on
Sunday. There was this record I wanted to get for Phoebe, called "Little Shirley Beans."
It was a very hard record to get. It was about a little kid that wouldn't go out of the house
because two of her front teeth were out and she was ashamed to. I heard it at Pencey. A
boy that lived on the next floor had it, and I tried to buy it off him because I knew it
would knock old Phoebe out, but he wouldn't sell it. It was a very old, terrific record that
this colored girl singer, Estelle Fletcher, made about twenty years ago. She sings it very
Dixieland and whorehouse, and it doesn't sound at all mushy. If a white girl was singing
it, she'd make it sound cute as hell, but old Estelle Fletcher knew what the hell she was
doing, and it was one of the best records I ever heard. I figured I'd buy it in some store
that was open on Sunday and then I'd take it up to the park with me. It was Sunday and
Phoebe goes rollerskating in the park on Sundays quite frequently. I knew where she
hung out mostly.
It wasn't as cold as it was the day before, but the sun still wasn't out, and it wasn't
too nice for walking. But there was one nice thing. This family that you could tell just
came out of some church were walking right in front of me--a father, a mother, and a
little kid about six years old. They looked sort of poor. The father had on one of those
pearl-gray hats that poor guys wear a lot when they want to look sharp. He and his wife
were just walking along, talking, not paying any attention to their kid. The kid was swell.
He was walking in the street, instead of on the sidewalk, but right next to the curb. He
was making out like he was walking a very straight line, the way kids do, and the whole
time he kept singing and humming. I got up closer so I could hear what he was singing.
He was singing that song, "If a body catch a body coming through the rye." He had a
pretty little voice, too. He was just singing for the hell of it, you could tell. The cars
zoomed by, brakes screeched all over the place, his parents paid no attention to him, and
he kept on walking next to the curb and singing "If a body catch a body coming through
the rye." It made me feel better. It made me feel not so depressed any more.
Broadway was mobbed and messy. It was Sunday, and only about twelve o'clock,
but it was mobbed anyway. Everybody was on their way to the movies--the Paramount or
the Astor or the Strand or the Capitol or one of those crazy places. Everybody was all
dressed up, because it was Sunday, and that made it worse. But the worst part was that
you could tell they all wanted to go to the movies. I couldn't stand looking at them. I can
understand somebody going to the movies because there's nothing else to do, but when
somebody really wants to go, and even walks fast so as to get there quicker, then it
depresses hell out of me. Especially if I see millions of people standing in one of those
long, terrible lines, all the way down the block, waiting with this terrific patience for seats
and all. Boy, I couldn't get off that goddam Broadway fast enough. I was lucky. The first
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record store I went into had a copy of "Little Shirley Beans." They charged me five bucks
for it, because it was so hard to get, but I didn't care. Boy, it made me so happy all of a
sudden. I could hardly wait to get to the park to see if old Phoebe was around so that I
could give it to her.
When I came out of the record store, I passed this drugstore, and I went in. I
figured maybe I'd give old Jane a buzz and see if she was home for vacation yet. So I
went in a phone booth and called her up. The only trouble was, her mother answered the
phone, so I had to hang up. I didn't feel like getting involved in a long conversation and
all with her. I'm not crazy about talking to girls' mothers on the phone anyway. I
should've at least asked her if Jane was home yet, though. It wouldn't have killed me. But
I didn't feel like it. You really have to be in the mood for that stuff.
I still had to get those damn theater tickets, so I bought a paper and looked up to
see what shows were playing. On account of it was Sunday, there were only about three
shows playing. So what I did was, I went over and bought two orchestra seats for I Know
My Love. It was a benefit performance or something. I didn't much want to see it, but I
knew old Sally, the queen of the phonies, would start drooling all over the place when I
told her I had tickets for that, because the Lunts were in it and all. She liked shows that
are supposed to be very sophisticated and dry and all, with the Lunts and all. I don't. I
don't like any shows very much, if you want to know the truth. They're not as bad as
movies, but they're certainly nothing to rave about. In the first place, I hate actors. They
never act like people. They just think they do. Some of the good ones do, in a very slight
way, but not in a way that's fun to watch. And if any actor's really good, you can always
tell he knows he's good, and that spoils it. You take Sir Laurence Olivier, for example. I
saw him in Hamlet. D.B. took Phoebe and I to see it last year. He treated us to lunch first,
and then he took us. He'd already seen it, and the way he talked about it at lunch, I was
anxious as hell to see it, too. But I didn't enjoy it much. I just don't see what's so
marvelous about Sir Laurence Olivier, that's all. He has a terrific voice, and he's a helluva
handsome guy, and he's very nice to watch when he's walking or dueling or something,
but he wasn't at all the way D.B. said Hamlet was. He was too much like a goddam
general, instead of a sad, screwed-up type guy. The best part in the whole picture was
when old Ophelia's brother--the one that gets in the duel with Hamlet at the very end--
was going away and his father was giving him a lot of advice. While the father kept
giving him a lot of advice, old Ophelia was sort of horsing around with her brother,
taking his dagger out of the holster, and teasing him and all while he was trying to look
interested in the bull his father was shooting. That was nice. I got a big bang out of that.
But you don't see that kind of stuff much. The only thing old Phoebe liked was when
Hamlet patted this dog on the head. She thought that was funny and nice, and it was.
What I'll have to do is, I'll have to read that play. The trouble with me is, I always have to
read that stuff by myself. If an actor acts it out, I hardly listen. I keep worrying about
whether he's going to do something phony every minute.
After I got the tickets to the Lunts' show, I took a cab up to the park. I should've
taken a subway or something, because I was getting slightly low on dough, but I wanted
to get off that damn Broadway as fast as I could.
It was lousy in the park. It wasn't too cold, but the sun still wasn't out, and there
didn't look like there was anything in the park except dog crap and globs of spit and cigar
butts from old men, and the benches all looked like they'd be wet if you sat down on
them. It made you depressed, and every once in a while, for no reason, you got goose
flesh while you walked. It didn't seem at all like Christmas was coming soon. It didn't
seem like anything was coming. But I kept walking over to the Mall anyway, because
that's where Phoebe usually goes when she's in the park. She likes to skate near the
bandstand. It's funny. That's the same place I used to like to skate when I was a kid.
When I got there, though, I didn't see her around anywhere. There were a few kids
around, skating and all, and two boys were playing Flys Up with a soft ball, but no
Phoebe. I saw one kid about her age, though, sitting on a bench all by herself, tightening
her skate. I thought maybe she might know Phoebe and could tell me where she was or
something, so I went over and sat down next to her and asked her, "Do you know Phoebe
Ca