Читать книгу Suzanne - Anais Barbeau-Lavalette - Страница 19

On Saturdays, you used to go with your mother to the hairdresser’s. It was your outing. While she was having her hair curled, lightening up in a way she rarely did, you would line up for the telex. A small, seemingly ordinary machine, but one that helped the poor get rich. People would read stock prices, current up to the minute. The small machine sitting between two permed ladies was wired to Wall Street.

That impressed you.

Your father speculated like everyone else. After carefully noting the numbers on the palm of your hand, you called home and gave them to him.

Often, a few days later, a new oven, fridge, or set of dishes, bought on credit, would find their way into the house.

You deserved to be rich. Like everyone else.