Читать книгу The Beautiful and Damned / Прекрасные и обреченные. Уровень 4 - Френсис Скотт Фицджеральд, Френсис Фицджеральд - Страница 11

Anthony turned over sleepily in his bed. Bounds was close to the bed, his dark-brown eyes fixed imperturbably upon his master.

Anthony blinked.

“Bounds.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you come around about four and serve some tea and sandwiches or something?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Some sandwiches,” Anthony repeated helplessly, “oh, some cheese sandwiches and chicken and olive, I guess.”

He shut his eyes wearily, let his head roll to rest inertly, and quickly relaxed. Richard Caramel had called on him[17] at midnight; they had drunk four bottles of beer.

Suddenly he was awake, saying: “What?”

“For how many, sir?” It was still Bounds, standing patient and motionless.

“How many what?”

“I think, sir, I’d better know how many are coming. I’ll have to plan for the sandwiches, sir.”

“Two,” muttered Anthony huskily; “lady and a gentleman.”

Bounds said, “Thank you, sir,” and moved away.

After a long time Anthony arose. With a last yawn he went into the bathroom. Then he lit a cigarette and glanced through several letters and the morning Tribune.

An hour later, shaven and dressed, he was sitting at his desk looking at a small piece of paper he had taken out of his wallet. “Dick and Gloria Gilbert for tea.”

These words brought him obvious satisfaction. In justification of his manner of living there was first, of course, The Meaninglessness of Life. From a world fraught with the stupidity of many Geraldines he was thankfully delivered.

But he found in himself a growing horror and loneliness. The idea of eating alone frightened him; in preference he dined often with men he detested. Travel, which had once charmed him, seemed unendurable.

And yet he wanted something, something. After cocktails and luncheon at the University Club Anthony felt better. He was Anthony Patch, brilliant, magnetic, the heir of many years and many men. With his grandfather’s money he might build his own pedestal. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its versatile intelligence. He tried to imagine himself in Congress. Little men with copy-book ambitions, the lustreless and unromantic heaven of a government.

Back in his apartment the grayness returned. His thoughts were bitter. Anthony Patch with no achievement, without courage, without strength. Oh, he was a pretentious fool, making careers out of cocktails. He was empty, it seemed, empty as an old bottle.

The buzzer rang at the door. Anthony sprang up and lifted the tube to his ear. It was Richard Caramel’s voice, stilted and facetious:

“Announcing Miss Gloria Gilbert.”