Илья Франк - Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

over sixty murders in Corleone and it seemed that death shadowed the town. Further on,

the wood of Ficuzza broke the savage monotony of arable (пахотный ['жr∂bl]) plain.

His two shepherd bodyguards always carried their luparas with them when

accompanying Michael on his walks. The deadly Sicilian shotgun was the favorite

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weapon of the Mafia. Indeed the police chief sent by Mussolini to clean the Mafia out of

Sicily had, as one of his first steps, ordered all stone walls in Sicily to be knocked down

to not more than three feet in height so that murderers with their luparas could not use

the walls as ambush points for their assassinations. This didn't help much and the

police minister solved his problem by arresting and deporting to penal colonies any

male suspected of being a mafioso.

When the island of Sicily was liberated by the Allied Armies, the American military

government officials believed that anyone imprisoned by the Fascist regime was a

democrat and many of these mafiosi were appointed as mayors of villages or

interpreters to the military government. This good fortune enabled the Mafia to

reconstitute itself and become more formidable than ever before.

The long walks, a bottle of strong wine at night with a heavy plate of pasta and meat,

enabled Michael to sleep. There were books in Italian in Dr. Taza's library and though

Michael spoke dialect Italian and had taken some college courses in Italian, his reading

of these books took a great deal of effort and time. His speech became almost

accentless and, though he could never pass as a native of the district, it would be

believed that he was one of those strange Italians from the far north of Italy bordering

the Swiss and Germans.

The distortion of the left side of his face made him more native. It was the kind of

disfigurement common in Sicily because of the lack of medical care. The little injury that

cannot be patched up simply for lack of money. Many children, many men, bore

disfigurements that in America would have been repaired by minor surgery or

sophisticated medical treatments.

Michael often thought of Kay, of her smile, her body, and always felt a twinge of

conscience at leaving her so brutally without a word of farewell. Oddly enough his

conscience was never troubled by the two men he had murdered; Sollozzo had tried to

kill his father, Captain McCluskey had disfigured him for life.

Dr. Taza always kept after him about getting surgery done for his lopsided face,

especially when Michael asked him for pain-killing drugs, the pain getting worse as time

went on, and more frequent. Taza explained that there was a facial nerve below the eye

from which radiated a whole complex of nerves. Indeed, this was the favorite spot for

Mafia torturers, who searched it out on the cheeks of their victims with the needle-fine

point of an ice pick. That particular nerve in Michael's face had been injured or perhaps

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there was a splinter of bone lanced into it. Simple surgery in a Palermo hospital would

permanently relieve the pain.

Michael refused. When the doctor asked why, Michael grinned and said, "It's

something from home."

And he really didn't mind the pain, which was more an ache, a small throbbing in his

skull, like a motored apparatus running in liquid to purify it.

It was nearly seven months of leisurely rustic (сельский, деревенский; простой,

грубый [‘rΛstık]) living before Michael felt real boredom. At about this time Don

Tommasino became very busy and was seldom seen at the villa. He was having his

troubles with the "new Mafia" springing up in Palermo, young men who were making a

fortune out of the postwar construction boom in that city. With this wealth they were

trying to encroach on the country fiefs of old-time Mafia leaders whom they

contemptuously labeled Moustache Petes. Don Tommasino was kept busy defending

his domain. And so Michael was deprived of the old man's company and had to be

content with Dr. Taza's stories, which were beginning to repeat themselves.

One morning Michael decided to take a long hike to the mountains beyond Corleone.

He was, naturally, accompanied by the two shepherd bodyguards. This was not really a

protection against enemies of the Corleone Family. It was simply too dangerous for

anyone not a native to go wandering about by himself. It was dangerous enough for a

native. The region was loaded with bandits, with Mafia partisans fighting against each

other and endangering everybody else in the process. He might also be mistaken for a

pagliaio thief.

A pagliaio is a straw-thatched hut erected in the fields to house farming tools and to

provide shelter for the agricultural laborers so that they will not have to carry them on

the long walk from their homes in the village. In Sicily the peasant does not live on the

land he cultivates. It is too dangerous and any arable land, if he owns it, is too precious.

Rather, he lives in his village and at sunrise begins his voyage out to work in distant

fields, a commuter (to commute – совершать регулярные поездки из дома на работу

/в отдаленное место, например, из пригорода в город/) on foot. A worker who

arrived at his pagliaio and found it looted was an injured man indeed. The bread was

taken out of his mouth for that day. The Mafia, after the law proved helpless, took this

interest of the peasant under its protection and solved the problem in typical fashion. It

hunted down and slaughtered all pagliaio thieves. It was inevitable that some innocents

suffered. It was possible that if Michael wandered past a pagliaio that had just been

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looted he might be adjudged (to adjudge – выносить приговор, признавать виновным)

the criminal unless he had somebody to vouch (поручиться) for him.

So on one sunny morning he started hiking (to hike – путешествовать, бродить

пешком; бродяжничать) across the fields followed by his two faithful shepherds. One

of them was a plain simple fellow, almost moronic (слабоумный), silent as the dead

and with a face as impassive as an Indian. He had the wiry small build of the typical

Sicilian before they ran to the fat of middle age. His name was Calo.

The other shepherd was more outgoing, younger, and had seen something of the

world. Mostly oceans, since he had been a sailor in the Italian navy during the war and

had just had time enough to get himself tattooed before his ship was sunk and he was

captured by the British. But the tattoo made him a famous man in his village. Sicilians

do not often let themselves be tattooed, they do not have the opportunity nor the

inclination. (The shepherd, Fabrizzio, had done so primarily to cover a splotchy (splotch

– большое неровное пятно) red birthmark on his belly.) And yet the Mafia market carts

had gaily painted scenes on their sides, beautifully primitive paintings done with loving

care. In any case, Fabrizzio, back in his native village, was not too proud of that tattoo

on his chest, though it showed a subject dear to the Sicilian "honor," a husband

stabbing a naked man and woman entwined together on the hairy floor of his belly.

Fabrizzio would joke with Michael and ask questions about America, for of course it was

impossible to keep them in the dark about his true nationality. Still, they did not know

exactly who he was except that he was in hiding and there could be no babbling (to

babble – болтать; выбалтывать, проболтаться) about him. Fabrizzio sometimes

brought Michael a fresh cheese still sweating the milk that formed it.

They walked along dusty country roads passing donkeys pulling gaily painted carts.

The land was filled with pink flowers, orange orchards, groves of almond (рощи

миндаля ['a:m∂nd]) and olive trees, all blooming. That had been one of the surprises.

Michael had expected a barren land because of the legendary poverty of Sicilians. And

yet he had found it a land of gushing (to gush – хлынуть, литься потоком) plenty,

carpeted with flowers scented by lemon blossoms. It was so beautiful that he wondered

how its people could bear to leave it. How terrible man had been to his fellow man could

be measured by the great exodus from what seemed to be a Garden of Eden.

He had planned to walk to the coastal village of Mazara, and then take a bus back to

Corleone in the evening, and so tire himself out and be able to sleep. The two

shepherds wore rucksacks filled with bread and cheese they could eat on the way. They

carried their luparas quite openly as if out for a day's hunting.

It was a most beautiful morning. Michael felt as he had felt when as a child he had

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gone out early on a summer day to play ball. Then each day had been freshly washed,

freshly painted. And so it was now. Sicily was carpeted in gaudy (яркий, кричащий;

цветистый ['go:dı]) flowers, the scent of orange and lemon blossoms so heavy that

even with his facial injury which pressed on the sinuses (sinus ['saın∂s] – пазуха

/анат./), he could smell it.

The smashing on the left side of his face had completely healed but the bone had

formed improperly and the pressure on his sinuses made his left eye hurt. It also made

his nose run continually, he filled up handkerchiefs with mucus (слизь ['mju:k∂s]) and

often blew his nose out onto the ground as the local peasants did, a habit that had

disgusted him when he was a boy and had seen old Italians, disdaining handkerchiefs

as English foppery (щегольство), blow out their noses in the asphalt gutters.

His face too felt "heavy." Dr. Taza had told him that this was due to the pressure on

his sinuses caused by the badly healed fracture. Dr. Taza called it an eggshell fracture

of the zygoma; that if it had been treated before the bones knitted, it could have been

easily remedied by a minor surgical procedure using an instrument like a spoon to push

out the bone to its proper shape. Now, however, said the doctor, he would have to

check into a Palermo hospital and undergo a major procedure called maxillo-facial

surgery where the bone would be broken again. That was enough for Michael. He

refused. And yet more than the pain, more than the nose dripping, he was bothered by

the feeling of heaviness in his face.

He never reached the coast that day. After going about fifteen miles he and his

shepherds stopped in the cool green watery shade of an orange grove to eat lunch and

drink their wine. Fabrizzio was chattering about how he would someday get to America.

After drinking and eating they lolled (to loll [lol] – сидеть развалясь) in the shade and

Fabrizzio unbuttoned his shirt and contracted his stomach muscles to make the tattoo

come alive. The naked couple on his chest writhed in a lover's agony and the dagger

thrust by the husband quivered in their transfixed (to transfix [trжns’fıks] – пронзать,

прокалывать) flesh. It amused them. It was while this was going on that Michael was hit

with what the Sicilians call "the thunderbolt."

Beyond the orange grove lay the green ribboned fields of a baronial estate. Down the

road from the grove was a villa so Roman it looked as if it had been dug up from the

ruins of Pompeii. It was a little palace with a huge marble portico and fluted (flute –

канелюра, желобок /архит./) Grecian columns and through those columns came a

bevy (стая /птиц/; общество, собрание /женщин/ ['bevı]) of village girls flanked by two

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stout matrons clad in black. They were from the village and had obviously fulfilled their

ancient duty to the local baron by cleaning his villa and otherwise preparing it for his

winter sojourn (временное пребывание [‘sodG∂:n]). Now they were going into the

fields to pick the flowers with which they would fill the rooms. They were gathering the

pink sulla, purple wisteria (глициния), mixing them with orange and lemon blossoms.

The girls, not seeing the men resting in the orange grove, came closer and closer.

They were dressed in cheap gaily printed frocks that clung to their bodies. They were

still in their teens but with the full womanliness sundrenched flesh ripened into so

quickly. Three or four of them started chasing one girl, chasing her toward the grove.

The girl being chased held a bunch of huge purple grapes in her left hand and with her

right hand was picking grapes off the cluster and throwing them at her pursuers. She

had a crown of ringleted hair as purple-black as the grapes and her body seemed to be

bursting out of its skin.

Just short of the grove she poised, startled, her eyes having caught the alien color of

the men's shirts. She stood there up on her toes poised like a deer to run. She was very

close now, close enough for the men to see every feature of her face.

She was all ovals – oval-shaped eyes, the bones of her face, the contour of her brow.

Her skin was an exquisite dark creaminess and her eyes, enormous, dark violet or

brown but dark with long heavy lashes shadowed her lovely face. Her mouth was rich

without being gross, sweet without being weak and dyed dark red with the juice of the

grapes. She was so incredibly lovely that Fabrizzio murmured, "Jesus Christ, take my

soul, I'm dying," as a joke, but the words came out a little too hoarsely. As if she had

heard him, the girl came down off her toes and whirled away from them and fled back to

her pursuers. Her haunches moved like an animal's beneath the tight print of her dress;

as pagan and as innocently lustful. When she reached her friends she whirled around

again and her face was like a dark hollow against the field of bright flowers. She

extended an arm, the hand full of grapes pointed toward the grove. The girls fled

laughing, with the black-clad, stout matrons scolding them on.

As for Michael Corleone, he found himself standing, his heart pounding in his chest; he

felt a little dizzy. The blood was surging through his body, through all its extremities and

pounding against the tips of his fingers, the tips of his toes. All the perfumes of the

island came rushing in on the wind, orange, lemon blossoms, grapes, flowers. It

seemed as if his body had sprung away from him out of himself. And then he heard the