Love Story / История любви

© Загородняя И. Б., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2019

© ООО «Издательство «Антология», 2019

1

What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?

That she was beautiful. And bright. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.

Once, when she added me to those musical types, I asked her what the order was, and she replied, smiling, “Alphabetical.” At the time I smiled too. But now I sit and wonder whether she was listing me by my first name – in which case I would follow Mozart – or by my last name, in which case I would get in there between Bach and the Beatles. Either way I don’t come first, which I hate, because I have grown up with the idea that I always had to be number one.

In the fall of my senior year[1], I often studied at the Radcliffe library[2]. The place was quiet, nobody knew me, and the reserve books were less in demand[3]. The day before my history exam, I still hadn’t read the first book on the list, a widespread Harvard disease. I walked over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes that would help me out the next day. There were two girls working there. One a tall highbrow, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I chose the latter.

“Do you have The Waning of the Middle Ages[4]?”

She looked up.

“Do you have your own library?” she asked.

“Listen, Harvard is allowed to use the Radcliffe library.”

“I’m not talking about legality, Preppie[5], I’m talking about ethics. You have five million books. We have just a few thousand.”

“Listen, I need that goddamn book.”

“Would you please watch your language, Preppie?”

“What makes you so sure I went to prep school?”

“You look stupid and rich,” she said, removing her glasses.

“You’re wrong,” I protested. “I’m actually smart and poor.”

“Oh, no, Preppie. I’m smart and poor.”

She was staring straight at me. Her eyes were brown. Okay, maybe I look rich, but I wouldn’t let some “Clifeif ”[6] – even one with pretty eyes – call me stupid.

“Why do you think you are so smart?” I asked.

“Because I wouldn’t go for coffee with you,” she answered.

“Listen – I wouldn’t ask you.”

“That is why you are stupid,” she replied.

Let me explain why I took her for coffee. By pretending that I suddenly wanted to invite her – I got my book. And since she couldn’t leave until the library closed, I had plenty of time to study. I got an A minus[7] on the exam. It was the same grade that I gave Jenny’s legs when she first walked from behind that desk.

We went to a nearby cafe. I ordered two coffees and a brownie with ice cream (for her).

“I’m Jennifer Cavilleri, an American of Italian descent,” she said. “My major is music.”

“My name is Oliver,” I said.

“First or last?” she asked.

“First,” I answered, and then confessed that my entire name was Oliver Barrett. (I mean, that’s most of it.)

“Oh,” she said. “Barrett, like the poet[8]?”

“Yes,” I said. “We are not relatives.”

In the pause that followed, I gave inward thanks that she hadn’t asked the usual distressing question: “Barrett, like the hall?” For it is my special burden to be a descendant of the guy that built Barrett Hall, the largest and ugliest structure in Harvard Yard, a colossal monument to my family’s money and vanity.

After that, she was pretty quiet. She simply sat there, semi-smiling at me. For something to do, I checked out her notebooks. She was taking some incredible courses: Comp. Lit.[9] 105, Music 201.

“Music 201? Isn’t that a graduate course?”

She nodded yes, and looked proud.

“Renaissance polyphony.”

“What’s polyphony?”

“Nothing sexual, Preppie.”

Why was I putting up with this? Doesn’t she read the Crimson[10]? Doesn’t she know who I am?

“Hey, don’t you know who I am?”

“Yeah,” she answered with kind of contempt. “You’re the guy that owns Barrett Hall.”

She didn’t know who I was.

“I don’t own Barrett Hall,” I replied. “My great-grandfather gave it to Harvard.”

“So his not-so-great grandson would get in!”

That was the limit.

“Jenny, if you’re so convinced I’m a loser, why did you make me buy you coffee?”

She looked me straight in the eye and smiled.

“I like your body,” she said.

As I walked Jenny back to her dorm, I still hoped to win a victory over this Radcliffe bitch.

“Listen, you Radcliffe bitch, Friday night is the

Dartmouth hockey game.”

“So?”

“So I’d like you to come.”

She replied with the usual Radcliffe respect for sport:

“Why should I come to a lousy hockey game?”

I answered casually:

“Because I’m playing.”

There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling.

“For which side?” she asked.

2

Oliver Barrett IV

Ipswich, Mass.

Age: 20

Major: Social Studies

Dean’s List[11]: 61, 62, 63

All-Ivy First Team[12]: 62, 63

Career Aim: Law

Senior

Phillips Exeter[13]

5 11', 185 lbs.[14]

By now Jenny had read my biography in the program. I made triple sure that Vic Claman, the manager, saw that she got one.

“Oh, Barrett, is this your first date?”

“Shut up, Vic.”

As we warmed up on the ice, I didn’t wave to her or even look her way. And yet I think she thought I was glancing at her.

By the middle of the second period, we were beating Dartmouth 0–0. That is, Davey Johnston and I were about to perforate their nets. The Green bastards sensed this, and began to play rougher.

It had always been my policy to attack anything wearing enemy colors. Somewhere beneath our skates was the puck, but for the moment we were concentrating on beating each other.

A ref blew his whistle.

“You – two minutes in the box[15]!”

I looked up. He was pointing at me. Me? What had I done to deserve a penalty?

“Come on, ref, what did I do?”

Somehow he wasn’t interested in further dialogue. So I skated toward the penalty box.

I sat, trying to catch my breath, not looking up or even out onto the ice, where Dartmouth outmanned us.

“Why are you sitting here when all your friends are out playing?”

The voice was Jenny’s. I ignored her, and encouraged my teammates instead.

“Come on, Harvard, get that puck!”

“What did you do wrong?”

I turned and answered her. I invited her, after all.

“I tried too hard.”

And I went back to watching my teammates.

“Is this a big disgrace?”

“Jenny, please, I’m trying to concentrate!”

“On what?”

“On how I’m going to total that bastard Al Redding!”

I looked out onto the ice to give moral support to my colleagues.

“Are you a dirty player? Would you ever ‘total’ me?”

I answered her without turning.

“I will right now if you don’t shut up.”

“I’m leaving. Good-bye.”

By the time I turned, she had disappeared. As I stood up to look further, I was informed that my two-minute sentence was up. I leaped the barrier, back onto the ice.

The crowd welcomed my return. Wherever she was hiding, Jenny could hear the big enthusiasm for my presence. So who cares where she is.

Where is she?

As I skated after the puck, I thought I had a second to glance up at the stands to search for Jenny. I did. I saw her. She was there.

The next thing I knew I was on my ass.

Two Green bastards had slammed into me, my ass was on the ice, and I was – Christ! – really embarrassed. What would Jenny think?

Dartmouth had the puck around our goal again. Kennaway pushed it at Johnston, who passed it to me (I had stood up by this time). I took the puck and sped all out across Dartmouth’s blue line. Two Dartmouth defensemen were coming straight at me.

“Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads off!”

I heard Jenny’s shrill scream above the crowd. It was really loud. I faked out one defenseman, slammed the other so hard he lost his breath and then I passed off to Davey Johnston, who had come up the right side. Davey slapped it into the nets.

Harvard score!

In an instant, we were hugging. Me and Davey Johnston and the other guys. The crowd was screaming. This really broke Dartmouth’s back. (That’s a metaphor; the defenseman got up when he caught his breath.) We creamed[16] them 7–0.

If I were a sentimentalist, and cared enough about Harvard to hang a photograph on the wall, it would not be of Winthrop House[17], or Mem Church[18], but of Dillon. Dillon

Field House[19]. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard, this was it. Every afternoon of my college life I walked into that place, greeted my friends, took off the trappings of civilization and turned into a jock. How great to put on the pads and the good old number 7 shirt, to take the skates and walk out toward the Watson Rink.

The return to Dillon was even better. Peeling off the sweaty gear, walking naked to the supply desk to get a towel.

“How did it go today, Ollie?”

“Good, Richie. Good, Jimmy.”

Then into the showers to listen to who did what to whom how many times last Saturday night.

And I was privileged to enjoy a private place of meditation. I had a bad knee and I had to give it some whirlpool after playing. As I sat and watched the rings run round my knee, I could think about anything or nothing.

I let my body slide into the whirlpool, closed my eyes and just sat there, up to my neck in warmth. Ahhhhhhh.

Jesus! Jenny must be waiting outside. I hope! Still! Jesus! She was out there in the Cambridge cold! I set a new record for getting dressed. I wasn’t even quite dry as I pushed open the center door of Dillon.

The cold air hit me. It was freezing. And dark. There was still a small group of fans. Mostly old hockey fans, the graduates who have never mentally taken off the pads.

I took three or four steps away from the fans, searching desperately. Suddenly she jumped out from behind a bush. Her face was wrapped in a scarf, only her eyes were showing.

“Hey, Preppie, it’s cold as hell out here.”

Was I glad to see her!

“Jenny!”

Like instinctively, I kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Did I say you could?” she said.

“What?”

“Did I say you could kiss me?”

“Sorry. I was carried away.”

“I wasn’t.”

We were all alone out there, and it was dark and cold and late. I kissed her again. But not on the forehead, and not lightly. It lasted a long nice time. When we stopped kissing, she was still holding on to my sleeves.

“I don’t like it,” she said.

“What?”

“The fact that I like it.”

As we walked all the way back (I have a car, but she wanted to walk), Jenny held on to my sleeve. Not my arm, my sleeve. Don’t ask me to explain that. At the doorstep of her dorm, I did not kiss her good night.

“Listen, Jen, I may not call you for a few months.”

She was silent for a moment. A few moments.

Finally she asked, “Why?”

“Though I may call you as soon as I get to my room.”

I turned and began to walk off.

“Bastard!” I heard her whisper.

I turned again and scored from a distance of twenty feet.

“See, Jenny, you can dish it out, but you can’t take it![20]”

My roommate, Ray Stratton, was playing poker with two football buddies as I entered the room.

“Hello, animals.”

They responded with appropriate grunts.

“What did you get tonight, Ollie?” Ray asked.

“An assist and a goal,” I replied.

“Off[21] Cavilleri.”

“None of your business,” I replied.

“Who’s this?” asked one of the monsters.

“Jenny Cavilleri,” answered Ray. “Wonky music type.”

“I know that one,” said another. “A real tight-ass[22].”

I ignored these bastards as I took the phone into my bedroom.

“She plays piano with the Bach Society[23],” said Stratton.

“What does she play with Barrett?”

“Probably hard to get[24]!”

The animals were laughing.

“Gentlemen,” I announced as I took leave, “up yours[25].”

I closed my door, took off my shoes, lay back on the bed and dialed Jenny’s number.

We spoke in whispers.

“Hey, Jen…”

“Yeah?”

“Jen… what would you say if I told you…”

I hesitated. She waited.

“I think… I’m in love with you.”

There was a pause. Then she answered very softly.

“I would say… you were a lier.”

She 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 to my quiet little sarcasm.

“But among your classmates,” he continued, “what is the attitude there?”

“Sir?”

“Do they feel the Peace Corps is important to their lives?”

I guess my father needs to hear the phrase as much as a fish needs water: “Yes, sir.”

At about eleven-thirty, I walked him to his car.

“Anything I can do, son?”

“No, sir. Good night, sir.”

And he drove off.

Yes, there are planes between Boston and Ithaca, New York, but Oliver Barrett III chose to drive.

Not that those many hours at the wheel could be taken as some kind of parental gesture. My father simply likes to drive. Fast. I have no doubt that Oliver Barrett III was going to break his speed record, set the year previous after we had beaten Cornell and taken the title.

I went back to the motel to phone Jenny.

It was the only good part of the evening. I told her all about the fight and I could tell she enjoyed it. Not many of her wonky musician friends either threw or received punches.

“Did you at least total the guy that hit you?” she asked.

“Yeah. Totally. I creamed him.”

“I regret I didn’t see it. Maybe you’ll beat up somebody in the Yale game, huh?”

“Yeah.”

I smiled. How she loved the simple things in life.

4

“Jenny’s on the downstairs phone.”

This information was announced to me by the girl on bells[39], although I had not identified myself or my purpose in coming to Jenny’s dorm that Monday evening. I quickly concluded that this was good for me. Obviously the “Clifeif ” who greeted me read the Crimson and knew who I was. Okay, that had happened many times. More significant was the fact that Jenny had been mentioning that she was dating me.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll wait here.”

“Too bad about Cornell. The Crime[40] says four guys attacked you.”

“Yeah. And I got the penalty. Five minutes.”

“Yeah.”

The difference between a friend and a fan is that with the latter you quickly run out of conversation.

“Jenny off the phone yet?”

She checked her switchboard, replied, “No.”

Who was Jenny talking to? Some musical wonk? It was not unknown to me that Martin Davidson, conductor of the Bach Society orchestra, considered himself to have a franchise on Jenny’s attention[41]. Not body; I don’t think the guy could wave more than his baton. Anyway, I would put a stop to this usurpation of my time.

“Where’s the phone booth?”

“Around the corner.”

I walked into the lounge area. From afar[42] I could see Jenny on the phone. She had left the booth door open. I walked slowly, casually, hoping she would catch sight of me – my bandages, my injuries – and she would slam down the receiver and rush to my arms. As I approached, I could hear fragments of conversation.

“Yeah. Of course! Absolutely. Oh, me too, Phil. I love you too, Phil.”

I stopped walking. Who was she talking to? It wasn’t Davidson – there was no Phil in any part of his name. I had long ago checked him out in our Class Register: Martin Eugene Davidson, 70 Riverside Drive, New York, High School of Music and Art. His photo suggested sensitivity, intelligence and about fifty pounds[43] less than me. But why was I bothering about Davidson? Clearly both he and I were denied by Jennifer Cavilleri for someone to whom she was at this moment blowing kisses into the phone!

I had been away only forty-eight hours, and some bastard named Phil had crawled into bed with Jenny!

“Yeah, Phil, I love you too. Bye.”

As she was hanging up, she saw me, and without blushing, she smiled and waved me a kiss. How could she be so twofaced?

She kissed me lightly on my unhurt cheek.

“Hey – you look awful.”

“I’m injured, Jen.”

“Does the other guy look worse?”

“Yeah. Much. I always make the other guy look worse.”

I said that as ominously as I could, sort of implying that I would punch out any rivals who would creep into bed with Jenny while I was out of sight and evidently out of mind[44]. She grabbed my sleeve and we started toward the door.

“Night, Jenny,” called the girl on bells.

“Night, Sara Jane,” Jenny called back.

When we were outside, about to step into my MG[45], I put the question as casually as I could.

“Say, Jen…”

“Yeah?”

“Uh – who’s Phil?”

She answered calmly as she got into the car: “My father.”

I wasn’t going to believe a story like that.

“You call your father Phil?”

“That’s his name. What do you call yours?”

Jenny had once told me she had been raised by her father, a baker, in Cranston, Rhode Island. When she was very young, her mother was killed in a car crash. She had told me all this explaining why she had no driver’s license. Her father, in every other way “a truly good guy” (her words), was incredibly superstitious about letting his only daughter drive.

“What do you call yours?” she asked again.

I had been so distracted that I hadn’t heard her question.

“My what?”

“What term do you use when you speak of your father?”

I answered with the term I’d always wanted to use.

“Sonovabitch.[46]’

“To his face?” she asked.

“I never see his face.”

“He wears a mask?”

“In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.”

“Come on – he must be proud as hell. You’re a big Harvard jock.”

I looked at her. I guess she didn’t know everything, after all.

“So was he, Jenny.”

“Bigger than you?”