Love story - Stupid and rich, clever and poor | Текст песни

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• Love story
• Stupid and rich, clever and poor

What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
You can say that she was beautiful and intelligent. She loved Mozart and Bach and the Beatles. And tne. Once, when she told me that, I asked her who came first. She answered, smiling, ''Like in the ABC.' I smiled too. But now I wonder.
Was she talking about my first name? If she was, I came last, behaid Mozart. Or did she mean my last name? If she did, I came between Bach and the Beatles. But I still didn't come first. That worries me terribly now. You see, I always had to be Number One. Family pride, you see.
In the autumn of my last year at Harvard university, I studied a lot in the Radcliffe library. The library was quiet, nobody knew me there, and they had the books that I needed for my studies. The day before an examination I went over to the library desk to ask for a book. Two girls were working there. One was tall and sporty. The other was quiet and wore glasses. I chose her, and asked for my book. She gave me an unfriendly look. 'Don't you have a library at Harvard?' she asked. 'Radcliffe let us use their library,' I answered.
'Yes, Preppie, they do - but is it fair? Harvard has five million books. We have a few thousand.'

Oh dear, I thought. A clever Radcliffe girl. I can usually make girls like her feel very small. But I needed that damn book, so I had to be polite.
'Listen, I need that damn book.'
'Don't speak like that to a lady, Preppie.'
'Why are you so sure that I went to prep school?'
She took off her glasses. 'You look stupid and rich,' she said.
'You're wrong,' I said. 'I'm actually clever and poor.'
'Oh no, Preppie,' she said. 'I'm clever and poor.'
She was looking straight at me. All right, she had pretty brown eyes; and OK, perhaps I looked rich. But I don't let anyone call me stupid.
'What makes you so clever?' I asked.
'I'm not going to go for coffee with you,' she said.
'Listen - I'm not going to ask you!'
'That', she said, 'is what makes you stupid.'
Let me explain why I took her for coffee. I got the book that I wanted, didn't I? And she couldn't leave the library until closing time. So I was able to study the book for a good long time. I got an A in my exam the next day.
I gave the girl's legs an A too, when she came out from behind the library desk. We went to a coffee shop and I ordered coffee for both of us.
'I'm Jennifer Cavilleri,' she said. 'I'm American, but my family came from Italy. I'm studying music'
'My name is Oliver,' I said.
'Is that your first or your last name?' she asked.
'First. My other name is Barrett.'
'Oh,' she said. 'Like Elizabeth Barrett the writer?'
'Yes,' I said. 'No relation.'
I was pleased that she hadn't said, 'Barrett, like Barrett Hall?' That Barrett is a relation of mine. Barrett Hall is a large, unlovely building at Harvard University. My greatgrandfather gave it to Harvard long ago, and I am deeply ashamed of it.
She was silent. She sat there, half-smiling at me. I looked at her notebooks.
'Sixteenth-century music?' I said. 'That sounds difficult.'
'It's too difficult for you, Preppie,' she said coldly.
Why was I letting her talk to me like this? Didn't she read the university magazine? Didn't she know who I was?
'Hey, don't you know who I am?'
'Yes,' she answered. 'You're the man who owns Barrett Hall.'
She didn't know who I was.
'I don't own Barrett Hall,' I argued. 'My great-grandfather gave it to Harvard, that's all.'
'So that's why his not-so-great grandson could get into Harvard so easily!'
I was angry now. 'Jenny, if I'm no good, why did you want me to invite you for coffee?'
S

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