Илья Франк - Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

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

two shepherds laughing.

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"You got hit by the thunderbolt, eh?" Fabrizzio said, clapping him on the shoulder.

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Even Calo became friendly, patting him on the arm and saying, "Easy, man, easy," but

with affection. As if Michael had been hit by a car. Fabrizzio handed him a wine bottle

and Michael took a long slug (глоток /спиртного/). It cleared his head.

"What the hell are you damn sheep lovers talking about?" he said.

Both men laughed. Calo, his honest face filled with the utmost seriousness, said, "You

can't hide the thunderbolt. When it hits you, everybody can see it. Christ, man, don't be

ashamed of it, some men pray for the thunderbolt. You're a lucky fellow."

Michael wasn't too pleased about his emotions being so easily read. But this was the

first time in his life such a thing had happened to him. It was nothing like his adolescent

crushes (увлечение, пылкая любовь; to crush – раздавить, сокрушить), it was

nothing like the love he'd had for Kay, a love based as much on her sweetness, her

intelligence and the polarity of the fair and dark. This was an overwhelming desire for

possession, this was an inerasible printing of the girl's face on his brain and he knew

she would haunt his memory every day of his life if he did not possess her. His life had

become simplified, focused on one point, everything else was unworthy of even a

moment's attention. During his exile he had always thought of Kay, though he felt they

could never again be lovers or even friends. He was, after all was said, a murderer, a

Mafioso who had "made his bones." But now Kay was wiped completely out of his

consciousness.

Fabrizzio said briskly, "I'll go to the village, we'll find out about her. Who knows, she

may be more available than we think. There's only one cure for the thunderbolt, eh,

Calo?"

The other shepherd nodded his head gravely. Michael didn't say anything. He

followed the two shepherds as they started down the road to the nearby village into

which the flock of girls had disappeared.

The village was grouped around the usual central square with its fountain. But it was

on a main route so there were some stores, wine shops and one little cafй with three

tables out on a small terrace. The shepherds sat at one of the tables and Michael joined

them. There was no sign of the girls, not a trace. The village seemed deserted except

for small boys and a meandering (to meander [mı'жnd∂] – бродить без цели; meander

– извилина /дороги, реки/; меандр /орнамент/) donkey.

The proprietor of the cafй came to serve them. He was a short, burly man, almost

dwarfish but he greeted them cheerfully and set a dish of chickpeas (нут, горох

турецкий) at their table. "You're strangers here," he said, "so let me advise you. Try my

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wine. The grapes come from my own farm and it's made by my sons themselves. They

mix it with oranges and lemons. It's the best wine in Italy."

They let him bring the wine in a jug and it was even better than he claimed, dark

purple and as powerful as a brandy. Fabrizzio said to the cafй proprietor, "You know all

the girls here, I'll bet. We saw some beauties coming down the road, one in particular

got our friend here hit with the thunderholt." He motioned to Michael.

The cafй owner looked at Michael with new interest. The cracked face had seemed

quite ordinary to him before, not worth a second glance. But a man hit with the

thunderbolt was another matter. "You had better bring a few bottles home with you, my

friend," he said. "You'll need help in getting to sleep tonight."

Michael asked the man, "Do you know a girl with her hair all curly? Very creamy skin,

very big eves, very dark eyes. Do you know a girl like that in the village?"

The cafй owner said curtly, "No. I don't know any girl like that." He vanished from the

terrace into his cafй.

The three men drank their wine slowly, finished off the jug and called for more. The

owner did not reappear. Fabrizzio went into the cafй after him. When Fabrizzio came

out he grimaced and said to Michael, "Just as I thought, it's his daughter we were

talking about and now he's in the back boiling up his blood to do us a mischief. I think

we'd better start walking toward Corleone."

Despite his months on the island Michael still could not get used to the Sicilian

touchiness on matters of sex, and this was extreme even for a Sicilian. But the two

shepherds seemed to take it as a matter of course. They were waiting for him to leave.

Fabrizzio said, "The old bastard mentioned he has two sons, big tough lads that he has

only to whistle up. Let's get going."

Michael gave him a cold stare. Up to now he had been a quiet, gentle young man, a

typical American, except that since he was hiding in Sicily he must have done

something manly. This was the first time the shepherds had seen the Corleone stare.

Don Tommasino, knowing Michael's true identity and deed, had always been wary

(осторожный, настороженный ['wε∂rı]) of him, treating him as a fellow "man of

respect." But these unsophisticated sheep herders had come to their own opinion of

Michael, and not a wise one. The cold look, Michael's rigid white face, his anger that

came off him like cold smoke off ice, sobered their laughter and snuffed out (snuff –

нагар на свече; to snuff out – потушить /свечу/; разрушить, подавить) their familiar

friendliness.

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When he saw he had their proper, respectful attention Michael said to them, "Get that

man out here to me."

They didn't hesitate. They shouldered their luparas and went into the dark coolness of

the cafй. A few seconds later they reappeared with the cafй owner between them. The

stubby man looked in no way frightened but his anger had a certain wariness about it.

Michael leaned back in his chair and studied the man for a moment. Then he said

very quietly, "I understand I've offended you by talking about your daughter. I offer you

my apologies, I'm a stranger in this country, I don't know the customs that well. Let me

say this. I meant no disrespect to you or her." The shepherd bodyguards were

impressed. Michael's voice had never sounded like this before when speaking to them.

There was command and authority in it though he was making an apology. The cafй

owner shrugged, more wary still, knowing he was not dealing with some farmboy. "Who

are you and what do you want from my daughter?"

Without even hesitating Michael said, "I am an American hiding in Sicily, from the

police of my country. My name is Michael. You can inform the police and make your

fortune but then your daughter would lose a father rather than gain a husband. In any

case I want to meet your daughter. With your permission and under the supervision of

your family. With all decorum. With all respect. I'm an honorable man and I don't think of

dishonoring your daughter. I want to meet her, talk to her and then if it hits us both right

we'll marry. If not, you'll never see me again. She may find me unsympathetic after all,