Chapter 4 Four

Four "Jenny's downstairs in the phone booth." That's what the girl in charge of the desk told me, though I haven't told her who I am, or who I was looking for at Briggs Hall that (Monday) evening.I quickly concluded that this meant the odds were in my favor.Evidently the Radcliffe schoolgirl who greeted me was a reader of the Scarlet and knew who I was.This kind of thing has happened many times before, and that's nothing.Even more important was the fact that Jenny had mentioned that she was dating me. "Thank you," I said. "Then I'll wait here for a while."

"That game against Cornell was so pissed off. The Scarlet said four guys hit you." "Well. Instead, I was sent off. And a penalty is five minutes." "exactly." The difference between a friend and a fan is this: when talking to a fan, the words are quickly finished. "Is Jenny on the phone yet?" She checked the switchboard and replied, "No." Who the hell was Jenny talking on the phone to take up time off my date?Is it some music nerd?I'm not unaware of a man named Martin Davidson, a fourth-year student at Adams Hall and director of the Bach Club's orchestra, who thought he had the privilege of winning Janney's favor.But it's a dream to try to keep Jen's own; I don't think the guy can handle more than a baton.Either way, I have to stop this encroachment on my time.

"Where's the phone booth?" "It's around the corner," she said, pointing in that direction. I walked slowly into the hall, and I could see Jenny talking on the phone from a distance.She did not close the door of the telephone booth.I walked over slowly, with a nonchalant look, hoping that she would see me, the bandages on my face, and my injury like this, hoping that she would be so moved that she would throw the phone away and jump into my arms immediately Come here.Going further, I can already hear a few words from the call: "Yes. Of course! It must be. Oh, me too, Phil. I love you too, Phil."

I stopped.Who is she talking to?This man wasn't Davidson—his name didn't have the word Phil throughout.I've checked the Harvard roster long ago: Martin Eugene Davidson, 70 Riverside Drive, New York.Graduated from Music Art High School.From his picture, he was a sensitive, intelligent man who weighed about fifty pounds less than I did.But why should I bother about Davidson?It was obvious: Davidson and I had been kicked away by Jennifer Cavilelli for some guy named Phil, and she was blowing kisses to that guy on the phone right now! (Simply disgusting!) It's only been forty-eight hours since I broke up with her and some jerk named Phil has sneaked into Jenny's bed (it must be!).

"Yes, Phil, I love you too. Goodbye." She hung up the phone, saw me, didn't even blush, and blew me a kiss with a smile.How could she be so double-handed? She kissed the uninjured side of my face lightly. "Hi! You look so scary." "I'm hurt, Jen." "Is that guy on the other side worse?" "Well. Much worse. I always make it worse." I tried to make my words as vicious as I could, with the vague meaning that if any rival in love sneaked into Jenny's bed when she was out of sight and out of my mind, I'd give him a hard time.Jenny grabbed me by the sleeve and together we walked toward the door.

"Good night, Jenny," the desk girl greeted her. "Good night, Sarah Jane," replied Jenny. We went outside, and when I was about to step into my MG sports car, I took a deep breath of the evening air and asked as casually as possible: 1. This kind of car was originally used for sports competitions, and it was first developed by British Moms Geqe.It is manufactured by the company, so it is called MG brand car. "Uh, Jen..." "Ok?" "Uh—who's Phil?" As she got into the car, she replied nonchalantly: "My dad." I don't believe in such nonsense.

"You call your father Phil?" "That's his name. What do you call your father?" Janney once told me.She was raised by her father, who was probably a baker or something, in Cranston, Rhode Island.When Jenny was very young, her mother died in a car accident.This is what she told me as she explained why she didn't have a driver's license.Her father, who was "a very good man" (as she put it) in every other respect, was superstitious and would never let his only daughter drive.This was a real inconvenience in Janney's final years of high school, when she took piano lessons with a man as far away as Providence.However, in those few years, she used the time of long-distance bus rides to read all of Proust's works.

1 State capital of Rhode Island. 2 Marcel Proust (1871-1922), a French novelist, is representative of the novel "Reminiscence of Things Past", which reflects the life of the French aristocratic salon and describes the subconscious activities of the protagonist. There are as many as seven volumes. "What do you call your father?" she repeated. I was so distracted that I didn't catch her question. "My what?" "What name do you use when referring to your lord?" I answered with the name I've always wanted to use. "Son of a bitch."

"In his face?" Jenny asked. "I've never seen his real face." "He's wearing a mask?" "You could say the same thing. A stone mask. A real stone mask." "Forget it—he must be very proud. You're a sports star at Harvard." I looked at Jenny and thought: She doesn't know what's going on after all. "So did he, Gianni." "More famous than the wingers of the All Ivey United?" I couldn't be happier that Gianni appreciates my popularity on the playing field.It is a pity that by telling her about my father I must have made myself look worse by comparison.

"He competed in the single sculls at the 1928 Olympics." "Jesus," Gianni said, "did he win a championship?" "No," I replied.She probably could have seen it then: my father's sixth-place finish in the final made me feel better. A moment of silence ensued.Now Gianni may understand: being the fourth Oliver Barrett means not only having to endure the gray stone building in Harvard Garden, but also means a kind of pressure, forcing you to have a A strong body is indispensable.I mean, there's a dark cloud hanging over you -- or me -- over the achievements of previous generations in sports.

"But what did he do that you call him a bastard?" Jenny asked. "Do what I can," I replied. "What did you say?" "I can do what I can," I repeated. Her eyes were as big as saucers. "You mean incest or something?" she asked. "Don't tell me if you have family ugliness, Zhan, my own is enough for me." "And what do you mean, Oliver?" asked Jenny. "What did he force you to do?" "Do 'what should be done,'" I said. "What's wrong with doing 'what should be done'?" She probably thought this seemingly contradictory situation was funny, so she continued to ask. I told her I didn't like my family following the Barrett tradition of planning my future—she should have known that, since she'd seen the time when I had to add "Fourth" to my name. He looked like he couldn't lift his head up.Besides, I don't want to have to pay for how many credits I have to take every semester. "That's right," Gianni's words were obviously sarcastic, "No wonder I don't like seeing you get an A in the exam, and I don't like being selected for the All-Ivy League..." "What I don't like is that he's always demanding so much of me!" Let Jenny know about it all. "And whenever I did, he acted like it wasn't a thing at all. I mean, like he thought I deserved it, and there was nothing to say." "But he's a busy man. Doesn't he have to run several banks and things like that?" "My God, Jenny, are you on our side or the enemy?" "Is this a war?" she asked. "Not at all," I replied. "That's ridiculous, Oliver." It seems that she really does not accept my point of view.For the first time, I felt vaguely the difference in our upbringing.I mean, the three-and-a-half years at Harvard and Radcliffe had basically made us all traditional products of that institution of higher learning—high-minded intellectuals, and yet, when it came time to admit that my father was When considering the fact that it is made of stone, she insists on some kind of Italian-Mediterranean stereotype that "every father loves children", and there is no room for debate. I want to give an illustrative example, and I bring up that ridiculous conversation after the Cornell game that had nothing to say.She was undoubtedly moved after hearing this.But, heck, this example doesn't help. "Did he come to Ithaca specifically to watch a boring ice hockey game?" I tried to explain that my father had everything in form but nothing in substance.But Gianni kept saying that, after all, he traveled all the way to watch such a relatively insignificant game. "Hey, Jenny, let's not talk about it, shall we?" "Thank goodness you're not comfortable talking about your dad," she replied. "This shows that you are not perfect." "Oh, so you're perfect?" "No, preppy. If I were perfect, would I still go out with you?" So we got back to business, and it was business as usual.