Читать книгу The Favourite Game - Leonard Cohen - Страница 25

Soon she was deep in the rites of young womanhood. She came back from camp half a head taller than Breavman, with breasts that disturbed even bulky sweaters.

‘Hiya, Lisa.’

‘Hello, Lawrence.’

She was meeting her mother downtown, she was flying to New York for clothes. She was dressed with that kind of austerity which can make any thirteen-yearold a poignant beauty. None of the uglifying extravagance to which Westmount Jews and Gentiles are currently devoted.

Good-bye.

He watched her grow away from him, not with sadness but with wonder. At fifteen she was a grand lady who wore traces of lipstick and was allowed an occasional cigarette.

He sat in their old window and saw the older boys call for her in their fathers’ cars. He marvelled that he had ever kissed the mouth that now mastered cigarettes. Seeing her ushered into these long cars by young men with white scarves, seeing her sitting like a duchess in a carriage while they closed the door and walked briskly in front of the machine and climbed importantly into the driver’s seat, he had to convince himself that he had ever had a part in that beauty and grace.

Hey, you forgot one of your little fragrances on my thumb.