a summer's reading

2024年2月8日发(作者：)

FICTIONSEPTEMBER 22, 1956 ISSUE

A SUMMER'S READING

By Bernard Malamud

<1>

George Stoyonovich was a neighborhood boy who had quit high school on an impulse

when he was sixteen, run out of patience, and though he was ashamed every time he

went looking for a job, when people asked him if he had finished and he had to say no,

he never went back to school. This summer was a hard time for jobs and he had

none. Having so much time on his hands, George thought of going to summer school,

but the kids in his classes would be too young. He also considered registering in a

night high school, only he didn't like the idea of the teachers always telling him what

to do. He felt they had not respected him. The result was he stayed off the streets

and in his room most of the day. He was close to twenty and had needs with the

neighborhood girls, but no money to spend, and he couldn't get more than an

occasional few cents because his father was poor, and his sister Sophie, who

resembled George, a tall bony girl of twenty-three, earned very little and what she had

she kept for herself. Their mother was dead, and Sophie had to take care of the

house.

Very early in the morning George's father got up to go to work in a fish

market. Sophie left at about eight for her long ride in the subway to a cafeteria in the

Bronx. George had his coffee by himself, then hung around in the house. When the

house, a five-room railroad flat above a butcher store, got on his nerves he cleaned it

up - mopped the floors with a wet mop and put things away. But most of the time he

sat in his room. In the afternoons he listened to the ball game. Otherwise he had a

couple of old copies of the World Almanac he had bought long ago, and he liked to

read in them and also the magazines and newspapers that Sophie brought home, that

had been left on the tables in the cafeteria. They were mostly picture magazines

about movie stars and sports figures, also usually the News and Mirror. Sophie

herself read whatever feel into her hands, although she sometimes read good books.

She once asked George what he did in his room all day and he said he read a lot too.

"Of what besides what I bring home? Do you ever read any worthwhile books?"

"Some," George answered, although he really didn't. He had tried to read a book or

two that Sophie had in the house but found he was in no mood for them. Lately he

couldn't stand made-up stories, they got on his nerves. He wished he had some

hobby to work at - as a kid he was good in carpentry, but where could he work at

it? Sometimes during the day he went for walks, but mostly he did his walking after

the hot sun had gone down and it was cooler in the streets.

In the evening after supper George left the house and wandered in the

neighborhood. During the sultry days some of the storekeepers and their wives sat in

chairs on the thick, broken sidewalks in front of the shops, fanning themselves, and

George walked past them and the guys hanging out on the candy store corner. A

couple of them he had known his whole life, but nobody recognized each other. He

had no place special to go, but generally, saving it till the last, he left the

neighborhood and walked for blocks till he came to a darkly lit little park with

benches and trees and an iron railing, giving it a feeling of privacy. He sat on a

bench here, watching the leafy trees and the flowers blooming on the inside of the

railing, thinking of a better life for himself. He thought of the jobs he had had since

he had quit school - delivery boy, stock clerk, runner, lately working in a factory - and

he was dissatisfied with all of them. He felt he should some day like to have a job

and live in a private house with a porch, on a street with trees. He wanted to have

some dough in his pocket to buy things with, and a girl to go with, so as not to be

lonely, especially on Saturday nights. He wanted people to like and respect him. He

thought about these things often but mostly when he was alone at night. Around

midnight he got up and drifted back to his hot and stony neighborhood.

<2>

One time while on his walk George met Mr. Cattanzara coming home very late from

work. He wondered if he was drunk but then could tell he wasn't. Mr. Cattanzara, a

stocky, baldheaded man who worked in a change booth on an IRT station, lived on

the next block after George's, above a shoe repair store. Nights, during the hot

weather, he sat on his stoop in an undershirt, reading the New York Times in the light

of the shoemaker's window. He read it from the first page to the last, then went up to

sleep. And all the time he was reading the paper, his wife, a fat woman with a white

face, leaned out of the window, gazing into the street, her thick white arms folded

under her loose breast, on the window ledge.

Once in a while Mr. Cattanzara came home drunk, but it was a quiet drunk. He never

made any trouble, only walked stiffly up the street and slowly climbed the stairs into

the hall. Though drunk, he looked the same as always, except for his tight walk, the

quietness, and that his eyes were wet. George liked Mr. Cattanzara because he

remembered him giving him nickels to buy lemon ice with when he was a squirt. Mr.

Cattanzara was a different type than those in the neighborhood. He asked different

questions than the others when he met you, and he seemed to know that went on in all

the newspapers. He read them, as his fat sick wife watched from the window.

"What are you doing with yourself this summer, Goerge?" Mr. Cattanzara asked. "I

see you walkin' around at nights."

George felt embarrassed. "I like to walk."

"What are you doin' in the day now?"

"Nothing much just right now. I'm waiting for a job." Since it shamed him to admit

he wasn't working, George said, "I'm staying home - but I'm reading a lot to pick up

my education."

Mr. Cattanzara looked interested. He mopped his hot face with a red handkerchief.

"What are you readin'?"

George hesitated, then said, "I got a list of books in the library once, and now I'm

gonna read them this summer." He felt strange and a little unhappy saying this, but

he wanted Mr. Cattanzara to respect him.

"How many books are there on it?"

"I never counted them. Maybe around a hundred."

Mr. Cattanzara whistled though his teeth.

"I figure if I did that," George went on earnestly, "it would help me in my

education. I don't mean the kind they give you in high school. I want to know

different things than they learn there, if you know what I mean."

The change maker nodded. "Still and all, one hundred books is a pretty big load for

one summer."

"It might take longer."

"After you're finished with some, maybe you and I can shoot the breeze about them?"

said Mr. Cattanzara.

"When I'm finished," George answered.

Mr. Cattanzara went home and Geroge continued on his walk. After that, though he

had the urge to, George did nothing different from usual. He still took his walks at

night, ending up in the little park. But one evening the shoemaker on the next block

stopped George to say he was a good boy, and Geroge figured that Mr. Cattanzara had

told him all about the books he was reading. From the shoemaker it must have gone

down the street, because George saw a couple of people smiling kindly at him, though

nobody spoke to him personally. He felt a little better around the neighborhood and

liked it more, though not so much he would want to live in it for ever. He had never

exactly disliked the people in it, yet he had never liked them very much either. It was

the fault of the neighborhood. To his surprise, George found out that his father and

Sophie knew about his reading too. His father was too shy to say anything about it -

he was never much of a talker in his while life - but Sophie was softer to George, and

she showed him in other ways she was proud of him.

As the summer went on George felt in a good mood about things. He cleaned the

house every day, as a favor to Sophie, and he enjoyed the ball games more. Sophie

gave him a buck a week allowance, and though it still wasn't enough and he had to

use it carefully, it was a helluva lot better than just having two bits now and

then. What he bought with the money - cigarettes mostly an occasional beer or

movie ticket - he got a big kick out of. Life wasn't so bad if you knew how to

appreciate it. Occasionally he bought a paperback book from the new-stand, but he

never got around to reading it, though he was glad to have a couple of books in his

room. But he read thoroughly Sophie's magazines and newspapers. And at night

was the most enjoyable time, because when he passed the storekeepers sitting outside

their stores, he could tell they regarded him highly. He walked erect, and though he

did not say much to them, or they to him, he could feel approval on all sides. A

couple of nights he felt so good that he skipped the park at the end of the

evening. He just wandered in the neighborhood, where people had known him from

the time he was a kid playing punchball whenever there was a game of it going; he

wandered there, then came home and got undressed for bed, feeling fine.

<3>

For a few weeks he had talked only once with Mr. Cattanzara, and though the change

maker had said nothing more about the books, asked no questions, his silence made

George a little uneasy. For a while George didn't pass in front of Mr. Cattanzara's

house any more, until one night, forgetting himself, he approached it from a different

direction than he usually did when he did. It was already past midnight. The street,

except for one or two people, was deserted, and George was surprised when he saw

Mr. Cattanzara still reading his newspaper by the light of the street lamp

overhead. His impulse was to stop at the stoop and talk to him. He wasn't sure what

he wanted to say, though he felt the words would come when he began to talk; but the

more he thought about it, the more the idea scared him, and he decided he'd better

not. He even considered beating it home by another street, but he was too near Mr.

Cattanzara, and the change maker might see him as he ran, and get annoyed. So

George unobtrusively crossed the street, trying to make it seem as if he had to look in

a store window on the other side, which he did, and then went on, uncomfortable at

what he was doing. He feared Mr. Cattanzara would glance up from his paper and

call him a dirty rat for walking on the other side of the street, but all he did was sit

there, sweating through his undershirt, his bald head shining in the dim light as he

read his Times, and upstairs his fat wife leaned out of the window, seeming to read the

paper along with him. George thought she would spy him and yell out to Mr.

Cattanzara, but she never moved her eyes off her husband.

George made up his mind to stray away from the change maker until he had got some

of his softback books read, but when he started them and saw they were mostly story

books, he lost his interest and didn't bother to finish them. He lost his interest in

reading other things too. Sophie's magazines and newspapers went unread. She saw

them piling up on a chair in his room and asked why he was no longer looking at them,

and George told her it was because of all the other reading he had to do. Sophie said

she had guessed that was it. So for most of the day, George had the radio on, turning

to music when he was sick of the human voice. He kept the house fairly neat, and

Sophie said nothing on the days when he neglected it. She was still kind and gave

him his extra buck, though things weren't so good for him as they had been before.

But they were good enough, considering. Also his night walks invariably picked him

up, no matter how bad the day was. Then one night George saw Mr. Cattanzara

coming down the street towards him. George was about to turn and run but he

recognized from Mr. Cattanzara's walk that he was drunk, and if so, probably he

would not even bother to notice him. So George kept on walking straight ahead until

he came abreast of Mr. Cattanzara and though he felt wound up enough to pop into

the sky, he was not surprised when Mr. Cattanzara passed him without a word,

walking slowly, his face and body still. George drew a breath in relief at his narrow

escape, when he heard his name called, and there stood Mr. Cattanzara at his elbow,

smelling like the inside of a beer barrel. His eyes were sad as he gazed at George,

and George felt so intensely uncomfortable he was tempted to shove the drunk aside

and continue on his walk.

But he couldn't act that way to him, and, besides, Mr. Cattanzara took a nickel out of

his pants pocket and handed it to him.

"Go buy yourself a lemon ice, Georgie."

"It's not that time any more, Mr. Cattanzara," George said, "I am a big guy now."

"No, you ain't," said Mr. Cattanzara, to which George made no reply he could think

of.

"How are all your books comin' along?" Mr. Cattanzara asked. Though he tried to

stand steady, he swayed a little.

"Fine, I guess," said George, feeling the red crawling up his face.

"You ain't sure?" The change maker smiled slyly, a way George had never seen him

smile.

"Sure I'm sure. They're fine."

Though his head swayed in little arcs, Mr. Cattanzara's eyes were steady. He had

small blue eyes which could hurt if you looked at them too long.

"George," he said, "name me one book on that list that you read this summer, and I

will drink to your health."

"I don't want anybody drinking to me."

"Name me one so I can ask you a question on it. Who can tell, if it's a good book

maybe I might wanna read it myself."

George knew ho looked passable on the outside, but inside he was crumbling apart.

Unable to reply, he shut he eyes, but when - years later - he opened them, he saw that

Mr. Cattanzara had, out of pity, gone away, but in his ears he still head the words he

had said when he left: "George, don't do what I did."

<4>

The next night he was afraid to leave his room, and though Sophie argued with him he

wouldn't open the door.

"What are you doing in there?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Are you reading?"

"No."

She was silent a minute, then asked, "Where do you keep the books you read? I never

see any in your room outside of a few cheap trashy ones."

He wouldn't tell her.

"In that case you're not worth a buck of my hard-earned money. Why should I break

my back for you? Go on out, you bum, and get a job."

He stayed in his room for almost a week, except to sneak into the kitchen when

nobody was home. Sophie railed at him, then begged him to come out, and his old

father wept, but George wouldn't budge, though the weather was terrible and his small

room stifling. He found it very hard to breathe, each breath was like drawing a flame

into his lungs.

<5>

One night, unable to stand the heat any more, he burst into the street at , a

shadow of himself. He hoped to sneak to the park without being seen, but there were

people all over the block, wilted and listless, waiting for a breeze. Geroge lowered his

eyes and walked, in disgrace, away from them, but before long he discovered they

were still friendly to him. He figured Mr. Cattanzara hadn't told on him. Maybe when

he woke up out of his drunk the next morning, he had forgotten all about meeting

George. George felt his confidence slowly come back to him.

That same nigh a man on a street corner asked him if it was true that he had finished

reading so many books, and George admitted he had. The man said it was a wonderful

thing for a boy his age to read so much.

"Yeah," George said, but he felt relieved. He hoped nobody would mention the books

any more, and when, after a couple of days, he accidentally met Mr. Cattanzara

again, he didn't, though George had the idea he was the one who hadstarted the rumor

that he had finished all the books.

One evening in the fall, George ran out of his house to the library, where he hadn't

been in years. There were books all over the place, wherever he looked, and though he

was struggling to control an inward trembling, he easily counted off a hundred, then

sat down at a table to read.