the hospital onto the mall here*"
Hagen shook his head. "That's the first thing I asked. Impossible. He's in very bad
shape. He'll pull through but he needs all kinds of attention, maybe some more surgery
(îïåðàöèÿ, õèðóðãè÷åñêîå âìåøàòåëüñòâî). Impossible."
"Then you have to get Sollozzo right away," Michael said. "We can't wait. The guy is
too dangerous. He'll come up with some new idea. Remember, the key is still that he
gets rid of the old man. He knows that. OK, he knows that now it's very tough so he's
willing to take defeat for his life. But if he's going to get killed anyway, he'll have another
crack (íàíåñåò óäàð) at the Don. And with that police captain helping him who knows
what the hell might happen. We can't take that chance. We have to get Sollozzo right
away."
Sonny was scratching his chin thoughtfully. "You're right, kid," he said. "You got right
to the old nuts (ñîâåðøåííî /ñëåíã/). We can't let Sollozzo get another crack at the old
man."
Hagen said quietly, "What about Captain McCluskey*"
Sonny turned to Michael with an odd little smile. "Yeah, kid, what about that tough
police captain*"
Michael said slowly, "OK, it's an extreme. But there are times when the most extreme
measures are justified (ñðåäñòâà îïðàâäàíû). Let's think now that we have to kill
McCluskey. The way to do it would be to have him heavily implicated so that it's not an
honest police captain doing his duty but a crooked (èçîãíóòûé, êðèâîé; èñêàæåííûé;
äîáûòûé íå÷åñòíûì ïóòåì) police official mixed up in the rackets who got what was
coming to him, like any crook (êðþ÷îê, êðþê; æóëèê, ðåíåãàò). We have newspaper
people on our payroll we can give that story to with enough proof so that they can back
it up. That should take some of the heat off. How does that sound*" Michael looked
around deferentially (ïî÷òèòåëüíî, ñ óâàæåíèåì) to the others. Tessio and Clemenza
had gloomy (ìðà÷íûé) faces and refused to speak. Sonny said with the same odd
smile, "Go on, kid, you're doing great. Out of the mouths of infants (óñòàìè
ìëàäåíöà …), as the Don always used to say. Go ahead, Mike, tell us more."
Hagen was smiling too a little and averting his head. Michael flushed. "Well, they want
me to go to a conference with Sollozzo. It will be me, Sollozzo and McCluskey all on our
own. Set up the meeting for two days from now, then get our informers to find out where
the meeting will be held. Insist that it has to be a public place, that I'm not going to let
them take me into any apartments or houses. Let it be a restaurant or a bar at the
height of the dinner hour, something like that, so that I'll feel safe. They'll feel safe too.
Even Sollozzo won't figure that we'll dare to gun the captain. They'll frisk me when I
meet them so I'll have to be clean then, but figure out a way you can get a weapon to
me while I'm meeting them. Then I'll take both of them."
All four heads turned and stared at him. Clemenza and Tessio were gravely
astonished. Hagen looked a little sad but not surprised. He started to speak and thought
better of it. But Sonny, his heavy Cupid's face twitching with mirth (âåñåëüå, ÷óâñòâî
âåñåëîñòè), suddenly broke out in loud roars (ðåâ; õîõîò) of laughter. It was deep belly
laughter, not faking (áåç ïðèòâîðñòâà; to fake – ïîääåëîâàòü, ôàëüñèôèöèðîâàòü).
He was really breaking up. He pointed a finger at Michael, trying to speak through
gasps of mirth. "You, the high-class college kid, you never wanted to get mixed up in
the Family business. Now you wanta kill a police captain and the Turk just because you
got your face smashed by McCluskey. You're taking it personal, it's just business and
you're taking it personal. You wanta kill these two guys just because you got slapped in
the face. It was all a lot of crap. All these years it was just a lot of crap."
Clemenza and Tessio, completely misunderstanding, thinking that Sonny was
laughing at his young brother's bravado for making such an offer, were also smiling
broadly and a little patronizingly at Michael. Only Hagen warily (îñòîðîæíî) kept his
face impassive. Michael looked around at all of them, then stared at Sonny, who still
couldn't stop laughing. "You'll take both of them*" Sonny said. "Hey, kid, they won't give
you medals, they put you in the electric chair. You know that* This is no hero business,
kid, you don't shoot people from a mile away. You shoot when you see the whites of
their eyes like we got taught in school, remember* You gotta stand right next to them
and blow their heads off and their brains get all over your nice Ivy League («Ëèãà
Ïëþùà» – a group of colleges and universities in the northeastern U.S., consisting of
Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Columbia, Dartmouth, Cornell, the University of Pennsylvania,
and Brown, having a reputation for high scholastic achievement and social prestige) suit.
How about that, kid, you wanta do that just because some dumb cop slapped you
around*" He was still laughing.
Michael stood up. "You'd better stop laughing," he said. The change in him was so
extraordinary that the smiles vanished (èñ÷åçëè) from the faces of Clemenza and
Tessio.
Michael was not tall or heavily built but his presence seemed to radiate danger. In that
moment he was a reincarnation of Don Corleone himself. His eyes had gone a pale tan
and his face was bleached (to bleach – áåëèòü, îòáåëèâàòü; îáåñöâå÷èâàòü) of color.
He seemed at any moment about to fling himself on his older and stronger brother.
There was no doubt that if he had had a weapon in his hands Sonny would have been
in danger. Sonny stopped laughing, and Michael said to him in a cold deadly voice,
"Don't you think I can do it, you son of a bitch*"
Sonny had got over his laughing fit (ïðèñòóï). "I know you can do it," he said. "I wasn't
laughing at what you said. I was just laughing at how funny things turn out. I always said
you were the toughest one in the Family, tougher than the Don himself. You were the
only one who could stand off (äåðæàòüñÿ íà ðàññòîÿíèè; ïðîòèâîñòîÿòü) the old man.
I remember you when you were a kid. What a temper you had then. Hell, you even used
to fight me and I was a lot older than you. And Freddie had to beat the shit out of you at
least once a week. And now Sollozzo has you figured for the soft touch in the Family
because you let McCluskey hit you without fighting back and you wouldn't get mixed up
in the Family fights. He figures he got nothing to worry about if he meets you head to
head. And McCluskey too, he's got you figured for a yellow guinea." Sonny paused and
then said softly, "But you're a Corleone after all, you son of a bitch. And I was the only
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one who knew it. I've been sitting here waiting for the last three days, ever since the old
man got shot, waiting for you to crack out of that Ivy League, war hero bullshit character
you've been wearing. I've been waiting for you to become my right arm so we can kill
those fucks that are trying to destroy our father and our Family. And all it took was a
sock (óäàð) on the jaw. How do you like that*" Sonny made a comical gesture, a punch,
and repeated, "How do you like that*"
The tension had relaxed in the room. Mike shook his head. "Sonny, I'm doing it
because it's the only thing to do. I can't give Sollozzo another crack at the old man. I
seem to be the only one who can get close enough to him. And I figured it out. I don't
think you can get anybody else to knock off a police captain. Maybe you would do it,
Sonny, but you have a wife and kids and you have to run the Family business until the
old man is in shape. So that leaves me and Freddie. Freddie is in shock and out of
action. Finally that leaves just me. It's all logic. The sock on the jaw had nothing to do
with it."
Sonny came over and embraced him. "I don't give a damn what your reasons are, just
so long as you're with us now. And I'll tell you another thing, you're right all the way.
Tom, what's your say*"
Hagen shrugged. "The reasoning is solid. What makes it so is that I don't think the
Turk is sincere (èñêðåííèé [sýn'sý*]) about a deal. I think he'll still try to get at the Don.
Anyway on his past performance (èñïîëíåíèå; äåéñòâèå, ïîñòóïîê) that's how we
have to figure him. So we try to get Sollozzo. We get him even if we have to get the
police captain. But whoever does the job is going to get an awful lot of heat. Does it
have to be Mike*"
Sonny said softly, "I could do it."
Hagen shook his head impatiently. "Sollozzo wouldn't let you get within a mile of him if
he had ten police captains. And besides you're the acting head of the Family. You can't
be risked." Hagen paused and said to Clemenza and Tessio, "Do either one of you have
a top button man, someone really special, who would take on this job* He wouldn't
have to worry about money for the rest of his life."
Clemenza spoke first. "Nobody that Sollozzo wouldn't know, he'd catch on right away.
He'd catch on if me or Tessio went too."
Hagen said, "What about somebody really tough who hasn't made his rep yet, a good
rookie (íîâè÷îê, íîâîáðàíåö)*"
Both caporegimes shook their heads. Tessio smiled to take the sting (æàëî) out of his
words and said, "That's like bringing a guy up from the minors to pitch (áðîñàòü,
ïîñûëàòü ìÿ÷) the World Series (/baseball/ an annual series of games between the
winning teams of the two major leagues: the first team to win four games being
champions of the U.S.)"
Sonny broke in curtly, "It has to be Mike. For a million different reasons. Most
important they got him down as faggy (ãîìîñåêñóàëèñò; /çäåñü/ òðóñ). And he can do
the job, I guarantee that, and that's important because this is the only shot we'll get at
that sneaky bastard Turk. So now we have to figure out the best way to back him up.
Tom, Clemenza, Tessio, find out where Sollozzo will take him for the conference, I don't
care how much it costs. When we find that out we can figure out how we can get a
weapon into his hands. Clemenza, I want you to get him a really 'safe' gun out of your
collection, the 'coldest' one you got. Impossible to trace. Try to make it short barrel
(áî÷îíîê; ñòâîë, äóëî /ðóæüÿ, ïèñòîëåòà/) with a lot of blasting (to blast –
âçðûâàòü/ñÿ/) power. It doesn't have to be accurate. He'll be right on top of them when
he uses it. Mike, as soon as you've used the gun, drop it on the floor. Don't be caught
with it on you. Clemenza, tape (îáìàòûâàòü ëåíòîé; tape – ëåíòà) the barrel and the
trigger (êóðîê) with that special stuff you got so he won't leave prints (îòïå÷àòêè).
Remember, Mike, we can square everything, witnesses, and so forth, but if they catch
you with the gun on you we can't square that. We'll have transportation and protection
and then we'll make you disappear for a nice long vacation until the heat wears off.
You'll be gone a long time, Mike, but I don't want you saying good-bye to your girl friend
or even calling her. After it's all over and you're out of the country I'll send her word that
you're OK. Those are orders." Sonny smiled at his brother. "Now stick with Clemenza
and get used to handling the gun he picks out for you. Maybe even practice a little. We'll
take care of everything else. Everything. OK, kid*"
Again Michael Corleone felt that delicious refreshing chilliness all over his body. He
said to his brother, "You didn't have to give me that crap about not talking to my girl
friend about something like this. What the hell did you think I was going to do, call her
up to say good-bye*"
Sonny said hastily, "OK, but you're still a rookie so I spell things out. Forget it."
Michael said with a grin, "What the hell do you mean, a rookie* I listened to the old
man just as hard as you did. How do you think I got so smart*" They both laughed.
Hagen poured drinks for everyone. He looked a little glum (ìðà÷íî, õìóðî). The
statesman forced (ãîñóäàðñòâåííûé äåÿòåëü, âûíóæäåííûé) to go to war, the lawyer
forced to go to law. "Well, anyway now we know what we're going to do," he said.
Chapter 11
Captain Mark McCluskey sat in his office fingering three envelopes bulging with
betting slips (èãðàëüíûå êàðòî÷êè; slip – äëèííàÿ óçêàÿ ïîëîñêà; áëàíê). He was
frowning and wishing he could decode the notations on the slips. It was very important
that he do so. The envelopes were the betting slips that his raiding parties had picked
up when they had hit one of the Corleone Family bookmakers the night before. Now the
bookmaker would have to buy back the slips so that players couldn't claim winners and
wipe him out.
It was very important for Captain McCluskey to decode the slips because he didn't
want to get cheated when he sold the slips back to the bookmaker. If there was fifty
grand worth of action, then maybe he could sell it back for five grand. But if there were a
lot of heavy bets and the slips represented a hundred grand or maybe even two
hundred grand, then the price should be considerably higher. McCluskey fiddled
(âåðòåë â ðóêàõ; fiddle – âåðòåòü; to fiddle – èãðàòü íà ñêðèïêå) with the envelopes
and then decided to let the bookie sweat a little bit and make the first offer. That might
tip off (ìîæåò ïîäñêàçàòü) what the real price should be.
McCluskey looked at the station house clock on the wall of his office. It was time for
him to pick up that greasy (ñàëüíûé, ãðÿçíûé) Turk, Sollozzo, and take him to
wherever he was going to meet the Corleone Family. McCluskey went over to his wall
locker (çàïèðàþùèéñÿ øêàô÷èê) and started to change into his civilian clothes. When
he was finished he called his wife and told her he would not be home for supper that
night, that he would be out on the job. He never confided (to confide – äîâåðÿòü/ñÿ/;
ââåðÿòü /òàéíó/) in his wife on anything. She thought they lived the way they did on his
policeman's salary (çàðïëàòà). McCluskey grunted with amusement. His mother had
thought the same thing but he had learned early. His father had shown him the ropes
(ìåòîäû ðàáîòû; rope – âåðåâêà, êàíàò; ïåòëÿ).
His father had been a police sergeant, and every week father and son had walked
through the precinct and McCluskey Senior had introduced his six-year-old son to the
storekeepers (âëàäåëüöû ìàãàçèíîâ), saying, "And this is my little boy."
The storekeepers would shake his hand and compliment him extravagantly and ring
open their cash registers to give the little boy a gift of five or ten dollars. At the end of
the day, little Mark McCluskey would have all the pockets of his suit stuffed with paper
money, would feel so proud that his father's friends liked him well enough to give him a
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present every month they saw him. Of course his father put the money in the bank for
him, for his college education, and little Mark got at most a fifty-cent piece for himself.
Then when Mark got home and his policemen uncles asked him what he wanted to be
when he grew up and he would lisp childishly, "A policeman," they would all laugh
uproariously. And of course later on, though his father wanted him to go to college first,
he went right from high school to studying for the police force.
He had been a good cop, a brave cop. The tough young punks terrorizing street
corners fled when he approached and finally vanished from his beat altogether. He was
a very tough cop and a very fair one. He never took his son around to the storekeepers
to collect his money presents for ignoring garbage violations (íàðóøåíèÿ ïî âûáðîñó
ìóñîðà ['gá:býdG]) and parking violations; he took the money directly into his own hand,
direct because he felt he earned it. He never ducked into a movie house or goofed (to
goof – ëîäûðíè÷àòü, ñëîíÿòüñÿ áåç äåëà) off into restaurants when he was on foot
patrol as some of the other cops did, especially on winter nights. He always made his
rounds. He gave his stores a lot of protection, a lot of service. When winos (àëêàøè)
and drunks filtered up from the Bowery to panhandle on his beat (ïîïðîøàéíè÷àòü íà
ïàòðóëèðóåìîì èì ó÷àñòêå; panhandle – ðó÷êà êàñòðþëè) he got rid of them so
roughly that they never came back. The tradespeople in his precinct appreciated (to
appreciate [* ‘prý:*ýeýt] – öåíèòü) it. And they showed their appreciation.
He also obeyed the system. The bookies in his precinct knew he would never make
trouble to get an extra payoff for himself, that he was content for his share of the station
house bag (ñâîåé äîëåé èç îáùåãî êîòëà; station house – ïîëèöåéñêèé ó÷àñòîê; bag
– ñóìêà; êîøåëåê). His name was on the list with the others and he never tried to make
extras. He was a fair cop who took only clean graft (ðàáîòà, ïðîôåññèÿ; âçÿòêà) and
his rise in the police department was steady if not spectacular (ýôôåêòíûé).
During this time he was raising a large family of four sons, none of whom became
policemen. They all went to Fordham University and since by that time Mark McCluskey
was rising from sergeant to lieutenant and finally to captain, they lacked for nothing. It
was at this time that McCluskey got the reputation for being a hard bargainer (to bargain
[‘bá:gýn] – òîðãîâàòüñÿ, çàêëþ÷àòü ñäåëêó). The bookmakers in his district paid more
protection money than the bookmakers in any other part of the city, but maybe that was
because of the expense of putting four boys through college.
McCluskey himself felt there was nothing wrong with clean graft. Why the hell should
his kids go to CCNY or a cheap Southern college just because the Police Department
didn't pay its people enough money to live on and take care of their families properly
with* He protected all these people with his life and his record showed his citations
(âûçîâû â ñóä; óïîìèíàíèÿ â ñïèñêàõ îá îòëè÷èâøèõñÿ) for gun duels with stickup
(ãðàáåæ) men on his beat, strong-arm protection guys, would-be (ïðåòåíäóþùèé, ñ
ïðåòåíçèåé íà òî, ÷òîáû áûòü êåì-òî) pimps (ñóòåíåðû). He had hammered them
into the ground. He had kept his little corner of the city safe for ordinary people and he
sure as hell was entitled (èìåþùèé ïðàâî, óïîëíîìî÷åííûé) to more than his lousy
one C note (ñòîäîëëàðîâàÿ êóïþðà) a week. But he wasn't indignant (âîçìóùåí)
about his low pay, he understood that everybody had to take care of themselves.
Bruno Tattaglia was an old friend of his. Bruno had gone to Fordham with one of his
sons and then Bruno had opened his nightclub and whenever the McCluskey family
spent an infrequent (íå÷àñòûé) night on the town, they could enjoy the cabaret with
liquor and dinner – on the house. On New Year's Eve they received engraved
invitations to be guests of the management and always received one of the best tables.
Bruno always made sure they were introduced to the celebrities (çíàìåíèòîñòè) who
performed in his club, some of them famous singers and Hollywood stars. Of course
sometimes he asked a little favor, like getting an employee with a record cleared for a
cabaret work license, usually a pretty girl with a police dossier as a hustler or roller
(âîð-êàðìàííèê). McCluskey would be glad to oblige (ñäåëàòü îäîëæåíèå, óãîäèòü
[*b'laýdG]).
McCluskey made it a policy never to show that he understood what other people were
up to. When Sollozzo had approached him with the proposition to leave old man
Corleone uncovered in the hospital, McCluskey didn't ask why. He asked price. When
Sollozzo said ten grand, McCluskey knew why. He did not hesitate. Corleone was one
of the biggest Mafia men in the country with more political connections than Capone
had ever had. Whoever knocked him off would be doing the country a big favor.
McCluskey took the money in advance (çàðàíåå, çàäàòêîì; advance [*d'vá:ns] –
äâèæåíèå âïåðåä; àâàíñ) and did the job. When he received a call from Sollozzo that
there were still two of Corleone's men in front of the hospital he had flown into a rage.
He had locked up all of Tessio's men, he had pulled the detective guards off the door of
Corleone's hospital room. And now, being a man of principle, he would have to give
back the ten grand, money he had already earmarked (earmark – êëåéìî /íà óõå/,
òàâðî; to earmark – êëåéìèòü; îòêëàäûâàòü äåíüãè /íà ÷òî-ëèáî/) to insure the
education of his grandchildren. It was in that rage that he had gone to the hospital and
struck Michael Corleone.
But it had all worked out for the best. He had met with Sollozzo in the Tattaglia
nightclub and they had made an even better deal. Again McCluskey didn't ask
questions, since he knew all the answers. He just made sure of his price. It never
occurred to him that he himself could be in any danger. That anyone would consider
even for a moment killing a New York City police captain was too fantastic. The
toughest hood in the Mafia had to stand still (ïî ñòîéêå ñìèðíî) if the lowliest
patrolman decided to slap him around. There was absolutely no percentage in killing
cops. Because then all of a sudden a lot of hoods were killed resisting arrest or
escaping the scene of a crime, and who the hell was going to do anything about that*
McCluskey sighed and got ready to leave the station house. Problems, always
problems. His wife's sister in Ireland had just died after many years of fighting cancer
and that cancer had cost him a pretty penny. Now the funeral would cost him more. His
own uncles and aunts in the old country needed a little help now and then to keep their
potato farms and he sent the money to do the trick. He didn't begrudge (æàäíè÷àòü,
æàëåòü, ñêóïèòüñÿ) it. And when he and his wife visited the old country they were
treated like a king and queen. Maybe they would go again this summer now that the war
was over and with all this extra money coming in. McCluskey told his patrolman clerk
where he would be if he was needed. He did not feel it necessary to take any
precautions. He could always claim Sollozzo was an informer he was meeting. Outside
the station house he walked a few blocks and then caught a cab to the house where he
would meet with Sollozzo.
It was Tom Hagen who had to make all the arrangements for Michael's leaving the
country, his false passport, his seaman's card, his berth (êîéêà) on an Italian freighter
(ãðóçîâîé êîðàáëü ['freýt*]) that would dock in a Sicilian port. Emissaries were sent that
very day by plane to Sicily to prepare a hiding place with the Mafia chief in the hill
country.
Sonny arranged for a car and an absolutely trustworthy driver to be waiting for
Michael when he stepped out of the restaurant where the meeting would be held with
Sollozzo. The driver would be Tessio himself, who had volunteered for the job. It would
be a beat-up-looking (ïîáèòûé, îáøàðïàííûé) car but with a fine motor. It would have
phony license plates and the car itself would be untraceable. It had been saved for a
special job requiring the best.
Michael spent the day with Clemenza, practicing with the small gun that would be
gotten to him. It was a .22 filled with soft-nosed bullets that made pinpricks
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(áóëàâî÷íûå óêîëû) going in and left insulting gaping holes when they exited from the
human body. He found that it was accurate up to five of his steps away from a target
(öåëü). After that the bullets might go anywhere. The trigger was tight (òóãîé) but
Clemenza worked on this with some tools (èíñòðóìåíòû) so that it pulled easier. They
decided to leave it noisy. They didn't want an innocent bystander misunderstanding the
situation and interfering out of ignorant courage. The report of the gun would keep them
away from Michael.
Clemenza kept instructing him during the training session. "Drop the gun as soon as
you've finished using it. Just let your hand drop to your side and the gun slip out.
Nobody will notice. Everybody will think you're still armed. They'll be staring at your face.
Walk out of the place very quickly but don't run. Don't look anybody directly in the eye
but don't look away from them either. Remember, they'll be scared of you, believe me,
they'll be scared of you. Nobody will interfere. As soon as you're outside Tessio will be
in the car waiting for you. Get in and leave the rest to him. Don't be worried about
accidents. You'd be surprised how well these affairs go. Now put this hat on and let's
see how you look." He clapped a gray fedora (ìÿãêàÿ ôåòðîâàÿ øëÿïà [fý'd*ur*]) on
Michael's head. Michael, who never wore a hat, grimaced. Clemenza reassured him. "It
helps against identification, just in case. Mostly it gives witnesses an excuse to change
their identification when we make them see the light. Remember, Mike, don't worry
about prints. The butt (ðóêîÿòêà) and trigger are fixed with special tape. Don't touch any
other part of the gun, remember that."
Michael said, "Has Sonny found out where Sollozzo is taking me*"
Clemenza shrugged. "Not yet. Sollozzo is being very careful. But don't worry about
him harming you. The negotiator stays in our hands until you come back safe. If
anything happens to you, the negotiator pays."
"Why the hell should he stick his neck out*" Michael asked.
"He gets a big fee (âîçíàãðàæäåíèå, ãîíîðàð)," Clemenza said. "A small fortune.
Also he is an important man in the Families. He knows Sollozzo can't let anything
happen to him. Your life is not worth the negotiator's life to Sollozzo. Very simple. You'll
be safe all right. We're the ones who catch hell afterwards."
"How bad will it be*" Michael asked.
"Very bad," Clemenza said. "It means an all-out war with the Tattaglia Family against
the Corleone Family. Most of the others will line up with the Tattaglias. The Sanitation
Department will be sweeping up a lot of dead bodies this winter." He shrugged. "These
things have to happen once every ten years or so. It gets rid of the bad blood. And then
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if we let them push us around on the little things they wanta take over everything. You
gotta stop them at the beginning. Like they shoulda stopped Hitler at Munich, they
should never let him get away with that, they were just asking for big trouble when they
let him get away with that."
Michael had heard his father say this same thing before, only in 1939 before the war
actually started. If the Families had been running the State Department there would
never have been World War II, he thought with a grin.
They drove back to the mall and to the Don's house, where Sonny still made his
headquarters. Michael wondered how long Sonny could stay cooped up (coop –
êóðÿòíèê; to coop – ñàæàòü â êóðÿòíèê, â êëåòêó) in the safe territory of the mall.
Eventually he would have to venture (îòâàæèòüñÿ) out. They found Sonny taking a nap
on the couch. On the coffee table was the remains of his late lunch, scraps of steak and
bread crumbs and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
His father's usually neat office was taking on the look of a badly kept furnished room.
Michael shook his brother awake and said, "Why don't you stop living like a bum
(ëîäûðü; /çäåñü/ áðîäÿãà) and get this place cleaned up*"
Sonny yawned. "What the hell are you, inspecting the barracks* Mike, we haven't got
the word yet where they plan to take you, those bastards Sollozzo and McCluskey. If we
don't find that out, how the hell are we going to get the gun to you*"
"Can't I carry it on me*" Michael asked. "Maybe they won't frisk me and even if they
do maybe they'll miss it if we're smart enough. And even if they find it – so what. They'll
just take it off me and no harm done."
Sonny shook his head. "Nah," he said. "We have to make this a sure hit on that
bastard Sollozzo. Remember, get him first if you possibly can. McCluskey is slower and
dumber. You should have plenty of time to take him. Did Clemenza tell you to be sure to
drop the gun*"
"A million times," Michael said.
Sonny got up from the sofa and stretched. "How does your jaw feel, kid*"
"Lousy," Michael said. The left side of his face ached except those parts that felt numb
because of the drugged wire holding it together. He took the bottle of whiskey from the
table and swigged (swig – áîëüøîé ãëîòîê /ñïèðòíîãî/; to swig – ïèòü áîëüøèìè
ãëîòêàìè) directly from it. The pain eased.
Sonny said, "Easy, Mike, now is no time to get slowed up by booze (ñïèðòíîå,
áóõëî)."
Michael said, "Oh, Christ, Sonny, stop playing the big brother. I've been in combat
against tougher guys than Sollozzo and under worse conditions. Where the hell are his
mortars (ìèíîìåòû)* Has he got air cover* Heavy artillery* Land mines* He's just a
wise son of a bitch with a big-wheel (âàæíûé, âëèÿòåëüíûé /÷åëîâåê/) cop sidekick
(çàêàäû÷íûé äðóã /ñëåíã/). Once anybody makes up their mind to kill them there's no
other problem. That's the hard part, making up your mind. They'll never know what hit
them."
Tom Hagen came into the room. He greeted them with a nod and went directly to the
falsely listed telephone. He called a few times and then shook his head at Sonny. "Not a
whisper," he said. "Sollozzo is keeping it to himself as long as he can."
The phone rang. Sonny answered it and he held up a hand as if to signal for quiet
though no one had spoken. He jotted some notes down on a pad, then said, "OK, he'll
be there," and hung up the phone.
Sonny was laughing. "That son of a bitch Sollozzo, he really is something. Here's the
deal. At eight tonight he and Captain McCluskey pick up Mike in front of Jack
Dempsey's bar on Broadway. They go someplace to talk, and get this. Mike and
Sollozzo talk in Italian so that the Irish cop don't know what the hell they are talking
about. He even tells me, don't worry, he knows McCluskey doesn't know one word in
Italian unless it's 'soldi' (äåíüãè) and he's checked you out, Mike, and knows you can
understand Sicilian dialect."
Michael said dryly, "I'm pretty rusty (ðæàâûé; çàïóùåííûé) but we won't talk long."
Tom Hagen said, "We don't let Mike go until we have the negotiator. Is that
arranged*"
Clemenza nodded. "The negotiator is at my house playing pinochle (âèä êàðòî÷íîé
èãðû) with three of my men. They wait for a call from me before they let him go."
Sonny sank back in the leather armchair. "Now how the hell do we find out the
meeting place* Tom, we've got informers with the Tattaglia Family, how come they
haven't given us the word*"
Hagen shrugged. "Sollozzo is really damn smart. He's playing this close to the vest,
so close that he's not using any men as a cover. He figures the captain will be enough
and that security is more important than guns. He's right too. We'll have to put a tail on
Mike and hope for the best."
Sonny shook his head. "Nah, anybody can lose a tail when they really want to. That's
the first thing they'll check out."
269
By this time it was five in the afternoon. Sonny, with a worried look on his face, said,
"Maybe we should just let Mike blast whoever is in the car when it tries to pick him up."
Hagen shook his head. "What if Sollozzo is not in the car* We've tipped our hand for
nothing. Damn it, we have to find out where Sollozzo is taking him."
Clemenza put in, "Maybe we should start trying to figure why he's making it such a big
secret."
Michael said impatiently, "Because it's the percentage. Why should he let us know
anything if he can prevent it* Besides, he smells danger. He must be leery
(ïîäîçðèòåëüûé, îñòîðîæíûé, îñìîòðèòåëüíûé) as hell even with that police captain
for his shadow."
Hagen snapped his fingers. "That detective, that guy Phillips. Why don't you give him
a ring, Sonny* Maybe he can find out where the hell the captain can be reached. It's
worth a try. McCluskey won't give a damn who knows where he's going."
Sonny picked up the phone and dialed a number. He spoke softly into the phone, then
hung up. "He'll call us back," Sonny said.
They waited for nearly another thirty minutes and then the phone rang. It was Phillips.
Sonny jotted something down on his pad and then hung up. His face was taut (òóãî
íàòÿíóòûé, ïîäòÿíóòûé [to:t]). "I think we've got it," he said. "Captain McCluskey
always has to leave word on where he can be reached. From eight to ten tonight he'll be
at the Luna Azure up in the Bronx. Anybody know it*"
Tessio spoke confidently. "I do. It's perfect for us. A small family place with big booths
(booth [bu:ð] – êèîñê, áóäêà, êàáèíà) where people can talk in private. Good food.
Everybody minds their own business. Perfect." He leaned over Sonny's desk and
arranged stubbed-out (stub – ïåíü; îáëîìîê; îêóðîê; to stub out – ïîãàñèòü /îêóðîê/)
cigarettes into map figures. "This is the entrance. Mike, when you finish just walk out
and turn left, then turn the corner. I'll spot you and put on my headlights and catch you
on the fly. If you have any trouble, yell and I'll try to come in and get you out. Clemenza,
you gotta work fast. Send somebody up there to plant (ñàæàòü /ðàñòåíèå/; ðàçìåùàòü)
the gun. They got an old-fashioned toilet with a space between the water container and
the wall. Have your man tape the gun behind there. Mike, after they frisk you in the car
and find you're clean, they won't be too worried about you. In the restaurant, wait a bit
before you excuse yourself. No, better still, ask permission to go. Act a little in trouble
first, very natural. They can't figure anything. But when you come out again, don't waste
any time. Don't sit down again at the table, start blasting. And don't take chances. In the
head, two shots apiece, and out as fast as your legs can travel."
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Sonny had been listening judiciously. "I want somebody very good, very safe, to plant
that gun," he told Clemenza. "I don't want my brother coming out of that toilet with just
his dick (ïîëîâîé ÷ëåí /ñëåíã/) in his hand."
Clemenza said emphatically (ñ ïàôîñîì, ñ ýìôàçîé, ðåøèòåëüíî, êàòåãîðè÷åñêè
[ým'fætýk*lý]), "The gun will be there."
"OK," Sonny said. "Everybody get rolling."
Tessio and Clemenza left. Tom Hagen said, "Sonny, should I drive Mike down to New
York*"
"No," Sonny said. "I want you here. When Mike finishes, then our work begins and I'll
need you. Have you got those newspaper guys lined up*"
Hagen nodded. "I'll be feeding them info as soon as things break."
Sonny got up and came to stand in front of Michael. He shook his hand. "OK, kid," he
said, "you're on. I'll square it with Mom your not seeing her before you left. And I'll get a
message to your girl friend when I think the time is right. OK*"
"OK," Mike said. "How long do you think before I can come back*"
"At least a year," Sonny said.
Tom Hagen put in, "The Don might be able to work faster than that, Mike, but don't
count on it. The time element hinges (hinge – ïåòëÿ /äâåðíàÿ/; to hinge – êðåïèòüñÿ;
çàâèñåòü îò ÷åãî-ëèáî) on a lot of factors. How well we can plant stories with the
newsmen. How much the Police Department wants to cover up. How violently the other
Families react. There's going to be a hell of a lot of heat and trouble. That's the only
thing we can be sure of."
Michael shook Hagen's hand. "Do your best," he said. "I don't want to do another
three-year stretch away from home."
Hagen said gently, "It's not too late to back out, Mike, we can get somebody else, we
can go back over our alternatives. Maybe it's not necessary to get rid of Sollozzo."
Michael laughed. "We can talk ourselves into any view-point," he said. "But we figured
it right the first time. I've been riding the gravy train (gravy train – ëåãêàÿ íàæèâà,
âûãîäíîå ïðåäïðèÿòèå; gravy – ïîäëèâêà; ëåãêàÿ íàæèâà, íåçàêîííûå äîõîäû
/ñëåíã/) all my life, it's about time I paid my dues (ïîðà ïëàòèòü ïî ñ÷åòó, çà ïðîåçä)."
"You shouldn't let that broken jaw influence you," Hagen said. "McCluskey is a stupid
man and it was business, not personal."
For the second time he saw Michael Corleone's face freeze into a mask that
resembled uncannily (æóòêî, çëîâåùå) the Don's. "Tom, don't let anybody kid you. It's
all personal, every bit of business. Every piece of shit every man has to eat every day of
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his life is personal. They call it business. OK. But it's personal as hell. You know where I
learned that from* The Don. My old man. The Godfather. If a bolt (ìîëíèÿ) of lightning
hit a friend of his the old man would take it personal. He took my going into the Marines
personal. That's what makes him great. The Great Don. He takes everything personal.
Like God. He knows every feather that falls from the tail of a sparrow (âîðîáåé) or
however the hell it goes. Right* And you know something* Accidents don't happen to
people who take accidents as a personal insult. So I came late, OK, but I'm coming all
the way. Damn right, I take that broken jaw personal; damn right, I take Sollozzo trying
to kill my father personal." He laughed. "Tell the old man I learned it all from him and
that I'm glad I had this chance to pay him back for all he did for me. He was a good
father." He paused and then he said thoughtfully to Hagen, "You know, I can never
remember him hitting me. Or Sonny. Or Freddie. And of course Connie, he wouldn't
even yell at her. And tell me the truth, Tom, how many men do you figure the Don killed
or had killed."
Tom Hagen turned away. "I'll tell you one thing you didn't learn from him: talking the
way you're talking now. There are things that have to be done and you do them and you
never talk about them. You don't try to justify them. They can't be justified. You just do
them. Then you forget it."
Michael Corleone frowned. He said quietly, "As the Consigliori, you agree that it's
dangerous to the Don and our Family to let Sollozzo live*"
"Yes," Hagen said.
"OK," Michael said. "Then I have to kill him."
Michael Corleone stood in front of Jack Dempsey's restaurant on Broadway and
waited for his pickup. He looked at his watch. It said five minutes to eight. Sollozzo was
going to be punctual. Michael had made sure he was there in plenty of time. He had
been waiting fifteen minutes.
All during the ride from Long Beach into the city he had been trying to forget what he
had said to Hagen. For if he believed what he said, then his life was set on an
irrevocable (íåîòìåíÿåìûé, áåñïîâîðîòíûé [ý’rev*k*bl]) course. And yet, could it be
otherwise after tonight* He might be dead after tonight if he didn't stop all this crap,
Michael thought grimly. He had to keep his mind on the business at hand. Sollozzo was
no dummy (äóðèê) and McCluskey was a very tough egg. He felt the ache in his wired
jaw and welcomed the pain, it would keep him alert.
Broadway wasn't that crowded on this cold winter night, even though it was near
theater time. Michael flinched as a long black car pulled up to the curb and the driver,
leaning over, opened the front door and said, "Get in, Mike." He didn't know the driver, a
young punk with slick black hair and an open shirt, but he got in. In the back seat were
Captain McCluskey and Sollozzo.
Sollozzo reached a hand over the back of the seat and Michael shook it. The hand
was firm, warm and dry. Sollozzo said, "I'm glad you came, Mike. I hope we can
straighten everything out. AIl this is terrible, it's not the way I wanted things to happen at
all. It should never have happened."
Michael Corleone said quietly, "I hope we can settle things tonight, I don't want my
father bothered any more."
"He won't be," Sollozzo said sincerely. "I swear to you by my children he won't be.
Just keep an open mind when we talk. I hope you're not a hothead like your brother
Sonny. It's impossible to talk business with him."
Captain McCluskey grunted. "He's a good kid, he's all right." He leaned over to give
Michael an affectionate pat (ïîõëîïûâàíèå) on the shoulder. "I'm sorry about the other
night, Mike. I'm getting too old for my job, too grouchy (âîð÷ëèâûé, çäåñü: ëåãêî
ñðûâàþñü). I guess I'll have to retire pretty soon. Can't stand the aggravation
(óõóäøåíèå ñîñòîÿíèÿ; çäåñü: äîñàäà, ðàçäðàæåíèå), all day I get aggravation. You
know how it is." Then with a doleful (ñêîðáíûé, ñòðàäàëü÷åñêèé) sigh, he gave Michael
a thorough frisk for a weapon.
Michael saw a slight smile on the driver's lips. The car was going west with no
apparent attempt to elude any trailers (èçáåæàòü ôóðãîíîâ, ïðèöåïîâ [ý'lu:d]). It went
up on to the West Side Highway, speeding in and out of traffic. Anyone following would
have had to do the same. Then to Michael's dismay (èñïóã, ñìÿòåíèå [dýs’mei]) it took
the exit for the George Washington Bridge, they were going over to New Jersey.
Whoever had given Sonny the info on where the meeting was to be held had given him
the wrong dope.
The car threaded (ìàøèíà ïðîáðàëàñü, ïðîñêîëüçíóëà; thread [èred] – íèòü)
through the bridge approaches (ïîäñòóïû, ïîäõîäû) and then was on it, leaving the
blazing (to blaze – ñâåðêàòü, ñèÿòü, áëèñòàòü) city behind. Michael kept his face
impassive. Were they going to dump (âûãðóçèòü, âûâàëèòü; èçáàâèòüñÿ, áðîñèòü) him
into the swamps or was it just a last-minute change in meeting place by the wily
Sollozzo* But when they were nearly all the way across, the driver gave the wheel a
violent twist. The heavy automobile jumped into the air when it hit the divider and
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bounced over into the lanes going back to New York City. Both McCluskey and Sollozzo
were looking back to see if anyone had tried doing the same thing. The driver was really
hitting it back to New York and then they were off the bridge and going toward the East
Bronx. They went through the side streets with no cars behind them. By this time it was
nearly nine o'clock. They had made sure there was no one on their tail. Sollozzo lit up a
cigarette after offering his pack to McCluskey and Michael, both of whom refused.
Sollozzo said to the driver, "Nice work. I'll remember it."
Ten minutes later the car pulled up in front of a restaurant in a small Italian
neighborhood. There was no one on the streets and because of the lateness of the hour
only a few people were still at dinner. Michael had been worried that the driver would
come in with them, but he stayed outside with his car. The negotiator had not mentioned
a driver, nobody had. Technically Sollozzo had broken the agreement by bringing him
along. But Michael decided not to mention it, knowing they would think he would be
afraid to mention it, afraid of ruining the chances for the success of the parley (ðàçãîâîð,
ïåðåãîâîðû [pá:lý].
The three of them sat at the only round table, Sollozzo refusing a booth. There were
only two other people in the restaurant. Michael wondered whether they were Sollozzo
plants (‘ïîäñàäíûå óòêè’; to plant – ñàæàòü /ðàñòåíèå/). But it didn't matter. Before
they could interfere it would be all over.
McCluskey asked with real interest, "Is the Italian food good here*"
Sollozzo reassured him. "Try the veal (òåëÿòèíà), it's the finest in New York." The
solitary waiter had brought a bottle of wine to the table and uncorked it (âûíóë ïðîáêó:
cork). He poured three glasses full. Surprisingly McCluskey did not drink. "I must be the
only Irishman who don't take the booze (àëêîãîëü, âûïèâêà /ñëåíã/)," he said. "I seen
too many good people get in trouble because of the booze."
Sollozzo said placatingly (to placate – óìèðîòâîðÿòü, óíèìàòü, óñïîêàèâàòü) to the
captain, "I am going to talk Italian to Mike, not because I don't trust you but because I
can't explain myself properly in English and I want to convince Mike that I mean well,
that it's to everybody's advantage for us to come to an agreement (ñîãëàøåíèå) tonight.
Don't be insulted by this, it's not that I don't trust you."
Captain McCluskey gave them both an ironic grin.
"Sure, you two go right ahead," he said. "I'll concentrate on my veal and spaghetti."
Sollozzo began speaking to Michael in rapid (áûñòðûé, áåãëûé) Sicilian. He said,
"You must understand that what happened between me and your father was strictly a
business matter. I have a great respect for Don Corleone and would beg for the
opportunity to enter his service. But you must understand that your father is an old-
fashioned man. He stands in the way of progress. The business I am in is the coming
thing, the wave of the future, there are untold millions of dollars for everyone to make.
But your father stands in the way because of certain unrealistic scruples (ñîìíåíèÿ,
óãðûçåíèÿ ñîâåñòè). By doing this he imposes his will on men like myself. Yes, yes, I
know, he says to me, 'Go ahead, it's your business,' but we both know that is unrealistic.
We must tread on each other's corns (áóäåì íàñòóïàòü äðóã äðóãó íà ìîçîëü; corn –
çåðíî; ìîçîëü). What he is really telling me is that I cannot operate my business. I am
a man who respects himself and cannot let another man impose his will on me so what
had to happen did happen. Let me say that I had the support, the silent support of all
the New York Families. And the Tattaglia Family became my partners. If this quarrel
(ññîðà, ðàçäîð [‘kwor*l]) continues, then the Corleone Family will stand alone against
everyone. Perhaps if your father were well, it could be done. But the eldest son is not
the man the Godfather is, no disrespect intended (áåç îáèäû áóäåò ñêàçàíî: «íèêàêîå
íåóâàæåíèå íå âõîäèò â íàìåðåíèå»). And the Irish Consigliori, Hagen, is not the
man Genco Abbandando was, God rest his soul (óïîêîé åãî äóøó). So I propose a
peace, a truce (ïåðåìèðèå). Let us cease all hostilities (ïðåêðàòèòü âðàæäåáíûå
äåéñòâèÿ) until your father is well again and can take part in these bargainings. The
Tattaglia Family agrees, upon my persuasions and my indemnities (indemnity –
ãàðàíòèÿ îò óáûòêîâ; âîçìåùåíèå), to forgo (îòêàçàòüñÿ, âîçäåðæàòüñÿ) justice for
their son Bruno. We will have peace. Meanwhile, I have to make a living and will do a
little trading in my business. I do not ask your cooperation but I ask you, the Corleone
Family, not to interfere. These are my proposals. I assume (ïðåäïîëàãàþ) you have the
authority to agree, to make a deal."
Michael said in Sicilian, "Tell me more about how you propose to start your business,
exactly what part my Family has to play in it and what profit we can take from this
business."
"You want the whole proposition in detail then*" Sollozzo asked.
Michael said gravely, "Most important of all I must have sure guarantees that no more
attempts will be made on my father's life."
Sollozzo raised his hand expressively. "What guarantees can I give you* I'm the
hunted one. I've missed my chance. You think too highly of me, my friend. I am not that
clever."
Michael was sure now that the conference was only to gain a few days' time. That
Sollozzo would make another attempt to kill the Don. What was beautiful was that the
275
Turk was underrating him as a punk kid. Michael felt that strange delicious chill filling his
body. He made his face look distressed. Sollozzo asked sharply, "What is it*"
Michael said with an embarrassed air, "The wine went right to my bladder (ìî÷åâîé
ïóçûðü). I've been holding it in. Is it all right if I go to the bathroom*"
Sollozzo was searching his face intently with his dark eyes. He reached over and
roughly thrust his hand in Michael's crotch, under it and around, searching for a weapon.
Michael looked offended. McCluskey said curtly, "I frisked him. I've frisked thousands of
young punks. He's clean."
Sollozzo didn't like it. For no reason at all he didn't like it. He glanced at the man
sitting at a table opposite them and raised his eyebrows toward the door of the
bathroom. The man gave a slight nod that he had checked it, that there was nobody
inside. Sollozzo said reluctantly (íåîõîòíî), "Don't take too long." He had marvelous
antenna, he was nervous.
Michael got up and went into the bathroom. The urinal had a pink bar of soap in it
secured by a wire net. He went into the booth. He really had to go, his bowels
(êèøå÷íèê) were loose (ñâîáîäíûé, íåïðèâÿçàííûé; íåñäåðæèâàåìûé). He did it
very quickly, then reached behind the enamel (ýìàëèðîâàííûé [ý’næm*l]) water
cabinet until his hand touched the small, blunt-nosed (blunt – òóïîé) gun fastened with
tape. He ripped the gun loose, remembering that Clemenza had said not to worry about
leaving prints on the tape. He shoved the gun into his waistband (ïîÿñ) and buttoned
his jacket over it. He washed his hands and wet his hair. He wiped his prints off the
faucet (âåíòèëü, âòóëêà; âîäîïðîâîäíûé êðàí [fo:sýt]) with his handkerchief. Then he
left the toilet.
Sollozzo was sitting directly facing the door of the toilet, his dark eyes blazing with
alertness. Michael gave a smile. "Now I can talk," he said with a sigh of relief.
Captain McCluskey was eating the plate of veal and spaghetti that had arrived. The
man on the far wall had been stiff with attention, now he too relaxed visibly.
Michael sat down again. He remembered Clemenza had told him not to do this, to
come out of the toilet and blaze away. But either out of some warning instinct or sheer
funk (èëè ïðîñòî îò èñïóãà, ñî ñòðàõà; funk – ñèëüíûé çàïàõ, çëîâîíèå) he had not
done so. He had felt that if he had made one swift move he would have been cut down.
Now he felt safe and he must have been scared because he was glad he was no longer
standing on his legs. They had gone weak with trembling.
Sollozzo was leaning toward him. Michael, his belly covered by the table, unbuttoned
his jacket and listened intently. He could not understand a word the man was saying. It
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was literally gibberish (íåâíÿòíàÿ ðå÷ü, òàðàáàðùèíà [‘gýb*rý*]) to him. His mind was
so filled with pounding (to pound – áèòü/ñÿ/, êîëîòèòü/ñÿ/) blood that no word
registered. Underneath the table his right hand moved to the gun tucked into his
waistband and he drew it free. At that moment the waiter came to take their order and
Sollozzo turned his head to speak to the waiter. Michael thrust the table away from him
with his left hand and his right hand shoved the gun almost against Sollozzo's head.
The man's coordination was so acute ([*‘kju:t] îñòðîêîíå÷íûé, îñòðûé; ñèëüíûé,
ðåçêèé) that he had already begun to fling himself away at Michael's motion. But
Michael, younger, his reflexes sharper, pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Sollozzo
squarely between his eye and his ear and when it exited on the other side blasted out a
huge gout (áðûçãè, ïîòîê) of blood and skull fragments onto the petrified
(îñòîëáåíåâøèé; to petrify [‘petrýfaý] – ïðåâðàùàòü/ñÿ/ â êàìåíü, îêàìåíåâàòü)
waiter's jacket. Instinctively Michael knew that one bullet was enough. Sollozzo had
turned his head in that last moment and he had seen the light of life die in the man's
eyes as clearly as a candle goes out.
Only one second had gone by as Michael pivoted to bring the gun to bear on
McCluskey. The police captain was staring at Sollozzo with phlegmatic surprise, as if
this had nothing to do with him. He did not seem to be aware of his own danger. His
veal-covered fork was suspended («ïîäâåøåííàÿ» = çàñòûâøàÿ â âîçäóõå) in his
hand and his eyes were just turning on Michael. And the expression on his face, in his
eyes, held such confident outrage (òàêîå ñàìîóâåðåííîå âîçìóùåíèå), as if now he
expected Michael to surrender or to run away, that Michael smiled at him as he pulled
the trigger. This shot was bad, not mortal (ñìåðòåëüíûé). It caught McCluskey in his
thick bull-like throat and he started to choke loudly as if he had swallowed too large a
bite of the veal. Then the air seemed to fill with a fine mist of sprayed blood as he
coughed it out of his shattered lungs (ëåãêèå). Very coolly, very deliberately, Michael
fired the next shot through the top of his white-haired skull.
The air seemed to be full of pink mist (ðîçîâàÿ äûìêà). Michael swung toward the
man sitting against the wall. This man had not made a move. He seemed paralyzed.
Now he carefully showed his hands on top of the table and looked away. The waiter
was staggering back toward the kitchen, an expression of horror on his face, staring at
Michael in disbelief. Sollozzo was still in his chair, the side of his body propped up (to
prop – ïîäïèðàòü) by the table. McCluskey, his heavy body pulling downward, had
fallen off his chair onto the floor. Michael let the gun slip out of his hand so that it
bounced off (îòñêî÷èë îò; bounce – áóìñ! áóõ!) his body and made no noise. He saw
277
that neither the man against the wall nor the waiter had noticed him dropping the gun.
He strode the few steps toward the door and opened it. Sollozzo's car was parked at the
curb still, but there was no sign of the driver. Michael turned left and around the corner.
Headlights flashed on and a battered sedan pulled up to him, the door swinging open.
He jumped in and the car roared away. He saw that it was Tessio at the wheel, his trim
features hard as marble.
"Did you do the job on Sollozzo*" Tessio asked.
For that moment Michael was struck by the idiom Tessio had used. It was always
used in a sexual sense, to do the job on a woman meant seducing (to seduce [sý’dju:s]
– ñîáëàçíÿòü) her. It was curious that Tessio used it now. "Both of them," Michael said.
"Sure*" Tessio asked.
"I saw their brains," Michael said.
There was a change of clothes for Michael in the car. Twenty minutes later he was on
an Italian freighter slated (to slate – íàìå÷àòü, ïëàíèðîâàòü) for Sicily. Two hours later
the freighter put out to sea and from his cabin Michael could see the lights of New York
City burning like the fires of hell. He felt an enormous sense of relief. He was out of it
now. The feeling was familiar and he remembered being taken off the beach of an
island his Marine division had invaded (to invade – çàõâàòûâàòü, âòîðãàòüñÿ,
îêêóïèðîâàòü). The battle had been still going on but he had received a slight wound
and was being ferried back (ferry – ïàðîì) to a hospital ship. He had felt the same
overpowering relief then that he felt now. All hell would break loose (ðàçðàçèòñÿ) but he
wouldn't be there.
On the day after the murder of Sollozzo and Captain McCluskey, the police captains
and lieutenants in every station house in New York City sent out the word: there would
be no more gambling, no more prostitution, no more deals of any kind until the murderer
of Captain McCluskey was caught. Massive raids began all over the city. All unlawful
business activities came to a standstill (ïîëíîñòüþ îñòàíîâèëèñü; standstill –
îñòàíîâêà, ïàóçà).
Later that day an emissary from the Families asked the Corleone Family if they were
prepared to give up the murderer. They were told that the affair did not concern them.
That night a bomb exploded in the Corleone Family mall in Long Beach, thrown from a
car that pulled up to the chain, then roared away. That night also two button men of the
Corleone Family were killed as they peaceably ate their dinner in a small Italian
restaurant in Greenwich Village. The Five Families War of 1946 had begun.
Ïðèëîæåíèå
Ýðíåñò Õýìèíãóýé
Êèëëåðû
Ìåòîä ÷òåíèÿ Èëüè Ôðàíêà
Ernest Hemingway
The Killers
The door of Henry’s lunch-room opened (äâåðü çàêóñî÷íîé Ãåíðè îòâîðèëàñü) and
two men came in (è äâîå ìóæ÷èí âîøëè /âíóòðü/). They sat down at the counter (îíè
ñåëè ó ñòîéêè).
“What’s yours (÷òî äëÿ âàñ, ÷òî áóäåòå áðàòü: «÷òî âàøå»)*” George asked them
(ñïðîñèë èõ).
“I don’t know (ÿ íå çíàþ),” one of the men said (ñêàçàë îäèí èç ìóæ÷èí). “What do you
want to eat (÷òî òû õî÷åøü ñúåñòü), Al*”
“I don’t know,” said All. “I don’t know what I want to eat.”
Outside it was getting dark (íà óëèöå: «ñíàðóæè» òåìíåëî: «ñòàíîâèëîñü òåìíî»).
The street-light came on outside the window (óëè÷íûé ôîíàðü çàæåãñÿ çà îêíîì; light
– ñâåò; to come on – ïîÿâèòüñÿ /íà ñöåíå/, âîçíèêíóòü). The two men at the
counter read the menu (÷èòàëè ìåíþ). From the other end of the counter (ñ äðóãîãî
êîíöà ñòîéêè) Nick Adams watched them (ãëÿäåë íà íèõ). He had been talking to
George (îí ðàçãîâàðèâàë ñ Äæîðäæåì) when they came in (êîãäà îíè âîøëè).
The door of Henry’s lunch-room opened and two men came in. They sat down at
the counter.
“What’s yours*” George asked them.
“I don’t know,” one of the men said. “What do you want to eat, Al*”
“I don’t know,” said All. “I don’t know what I want to eat.”
279
Outside it was getting dark. The street-light came on outside the window. The two
men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams
watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in.
counter [kaunt*] menu [`menju:]
“I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin (ÿ âîçüìó æàðåíîå ñâèíîå ôèëå: tenderloin – ôèëå,
âûðåçêà: tender – íåæíûé, ìÿãêèé + loin – ïîÿñíèöà; ôèëåéíàÿ ÷àñòü) with apple
sauce (ñ ÿáëî÷íûì ñîóñîì) and mashed potatoes (è êàðòîôåëüíûì ïþðå; to mash –
ðàçäàâëèâàòü, ðàçìèíàòü),” the first man said (ñêàçàë ïåðâûé ìóæ÷èíà).
“It isn’t ready yet (îíî åùå íå ãîòîâî).”
“What the hell (êàêîãî ÷åðòà: «àäà») do you put it on the card for (òû ïîìåùàåøü,
ñòàâèøü ýòî â ìåíþ)*”
“That’s the dinner (ýòî îáåä),” George explained (îáúÿñíèë). “You can get that at six
o’clock (òû ìîæåøü ïîëó÷èòü ýòî â øåñòü ÷àñîâ).”
George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter (ïîñìîòðåë íà ÷àñû íà
ñòåíå çà ñòîéêîé).
“It’s five o’clock (/ñåé÷àñ/ ïÿòü ÷àñîâ).”
“The clock says twenty minutes past five (÷àñû ïîêàçûâàþò: «ãîâîðÿò» äâàäöàòü
ìèíóò ïîñëå ïÿòè = äâàäöàòü ìèíóò øåñòîãî),” the second man said (ñêàçàë âòîðîé
ìóæ÷èíà).
“It’s twenty minutes fast (îíè ñïåøàò íà äâàäöàòü ìèíóò; fast – áûñòðûé).”
“Oh, to hell with the clock,” the first man said. “What have you got to eat (÷òî ó òåáÿ
åñòü ïîåñòü)*”
“I can give you any kind of sandwiches (ìîãó äàòü âàì ðàçíûå ñàíäâè÷è: «ëþáîé âèä
ñàíäâè÷à»),” George said. “You can have ham and eggs (ñâèíèíó è ÿéöà = ñàíäâè÷ ñ
âåò÷èíîé è ÿè÷íèöåé), bacon (áýêîí, êîï÷åíóþ ñâèíóþ ãðóäèíêó) and eggs, liver
(ïå÷åíêó) and bacon, or a steak (èëè áèôøòåêñ).”
“I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes,” the first
man said.
“It isn’t ready yet.”
“What the hell do you put it on the card for*”
“That’s the dinner,” George explained. “You can get that at six o’clock.”
George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.
“It’s five o’clock.”
“The clock says twenty minutes past five,” the second man said.
“It’s twenty minutes fast.”
“Oh, to hell with the clock,” the first man said. “What have you got to eat*”
“I can give you any kind of sandwiches,” George said. “You can have ham and
eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak.”
sauce [so:s] potato [p*`teýt*u] liver [lýv*]
“Give me chicken croquettes (äàé ìíå êóðèíûå êðîêåòû) with green peas (ñ çåëåíûì
ãîðîøêîì) and cream sauce (ïîä áåëûì: «ñëèâî÷íûì» ñîóñîì) and mashed
potatoes.”
“That’s the dinner.”
“Everything we want’s the dinner (âñå, ÷òî ìû õîòèì – îáåä), eh* That’s the way you
work it (òàê: «òàêèì ïóòåì» òû ýòî äåëàåøü: «ñðàáàòûâàåøü, óñòðàèâàåøü» = íó è
ïîðÿäêè).”
“I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver – ”
“I’ll take ham and eggs (ÿ âîçüìó ÿè÷íèöó ñ âåò÷èíîé),” the man called Al said. He
wore a derby hat (íà íåì áûë: «îí íîñèë» êîòåëîê) and a black overcoat (è ÷åðíîå
ïàëüòî) buttoned across the chest (çàñòåãíóòîå íàãëóõî: «÷åðåç ãðóäü»; button -
ïóãîâèöà). His face was small and white (åãî ëèöî áûëî ìàëåíüêèì è áåëûì) and he
had tight lips (è ó íåãî áûëè ñæàòûå ãóáû; tight – ïëîòíûé, òóãîé). He wore a silk
muffler (øåëêîâîå êàøíå; to muffle – çàêóòûâàòü, óêóòûâàòü; ãëóøèòü /çâóê/) and
gloves (è ïåð÷àòêè).
“Give me bacon and eggs,” said the other man (ñêàçàë äðóãîé ìóæ÷èíà). He was
about the same size as Al (îí áûë ïðèìåðíî òîãî æå ðîñòà: «ðàçìåðà», ÷òî è Ýë).
Their faces were different (ëèöà áûëè ðàçëè÷íû), but they were dressed like twins (íî
îíè áûëè îäåòû, êàê áëèçíåöû). Both wore overcoats too tight for them (ñëèøêîì
óçêèå äëÿ íèõ). They sat leaning forward (íàêëîíèâøèñü âïåðåä), their elbows on the
counter (èõ ëîêòè íà ñòîéêå).
“Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed
potatoes.”
“That’s the dinner.”
“Everything we want’s the dinner, eh* That’s the way you work it.”
“I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver – ”
“I’ll take ham and eggs,” the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat and a black
overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had
tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves.
“Give me bacon and eggs,” said the other man. He was about the same size as Al.
Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats
too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter.
croquettes [kro`ket] button [bËtn] glove [glËv]
“Got anything to drink (åñòü ÷òî-íèáóäü âûïèòü)*” Al asked.
“Silver beer («ñåðåáðÿíîå ïèâî» – ñîðò ïèâà), bevo (ìîðñ, íàïèòîê /èòàëüÿíñêîå
ñëîâî/), ginger-ale (èìáèðíîå ïèâî),” George said.
“I mean (ÿ èìåþ â âèäó) you got anything to drink*”
“Just those I said (òîëüêî òî, ÷òî ÿ ñêàçàë).”
“This is a hot town (âåñåëûé ãîðîäîê, íó è ãîðîäîê: «ýòî æàðêèé ãîðîäîê»),” said the
other. “What do they call it (êàê îí òàì íàçûâàåòñÿ: «êàê îíè åãî íàçûâàþò»)*”
“Summit (ïîñåëîê ê þãî-çàïàäó îò ×èêàãî).”
“Ever hear of it (êîãäà-íèáóäü ñëûøàë î íåì)*” Al asked his friend (ñïðîñèë ñâîåãî
äðóãà).
“No,” said the friend.
“What do you do here nights (÷òî âû çäåñü äåëàåòå ïî âå÷åðàì)*” Al asked.
“They eat the dinner,” his friend said. “They all come here and eat the big dinner (îíè
âñå ïðèõîäÿò ñþäà è åäÿò áîëüøîé îáåä).”
“That’s right (ýòî òàê, âåðíî),” George said.
“So you think that’s right (òàê òû äóìàåøü, ñ÷èòàåøü, ÷òî ýòî ïðàâèëüíî)*” Al asked
George.
“Sure (êîíå÷íî).”
“You’re a pretty bright boy (î÷åíü óìíûé: «ñâåòëûé» ïàðåíü; pretty – êðàñèâûé,
ñèìïàòè÷íûé; äîâîëüíî, âåñüìà), aren’t you (íå ïðàâäà ëè: «íå åñòü ëè òû»)*”
“Sure,” said George.
“Well, you’re not (íó, òàê âîò, òû âîâñå íå óìíûé ïàðåíü),” said the other little man
(äðóãîé ìàëåíüêèé ÷åëîâåê). “Is he (óìíûé ëè îí), Al*”
“He’s dumb (òóïîé: «íåìîé»),” said Al. He turned to Nick (ïîâåðíóëñÿ ê Íèêó). “What’s
your name (êàê òåáÿ çîâóò: «êàêîâî òâîå èìÿ»)*”
“Adams.”
“Another bright boy (äðóãîé = åùå îäèí óìíèê),” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max
(/íó/ íå óìíèê ëè îí; ain't = isn't; aren't)*”
“The town’s full of bright boys (ãîðîä ïîëîí óìíèêîâ),” Max said.
“Got anything to drink*” Al asked.
“Silver beer, bevo, ginger-ale,” George said.
“I mean you got anything to drink*”
“Just those I said.”
“This is a hot town,” said the other. “What do they call it*”
“Summit.”
“Ever hear of it*” Al asked his friend.
“No,” said the friend.
“What do you do here nights*” Al asked.
“They eat the dinner,” his friend said. “They all come here and eat the big
dinner.”
“That’s right,” George said.
“So you think that’s right*” Al asked George.
“Sure.”
“You’re a pretty bright boy, aren’t you*”
“Sure,” said George.
“Well, you’re not,” said the other little man. “Is he, Al*”
“He’s dumb,” said Al. He turned to Nick. “What’s your name*”
“Adams.”
“Another bright boy,” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max*”
“The town’s full of bright boys,” Max said.
dumb [dËm] pretty [prýtý]
George put the two platters (ïîñòàâèë äâå òàðåëêè), one of ham and eggs, the other of
bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side-dishes of fried potatoes
(ïîñòàâèë äâå ïîðöèè æàðåíîãî êàðòîôåëÿ; siede-dish – áîêîâîå =
ñîïðîâîæäàþùåå áëþäî – áëþäî ñ ãàðíèðîì) and closed the wicket into the kitchen
(è çàêðûë îêîøå÷êî â êóõíþ; wicket – êàëèòêà; çàäâèæíîå îêîøêî).
“Which is yours*” he asked Al.
“Don’t you remember (òû íå ïîìíèøü)*”
“Ham and eggs.”
“Just a bright boy (ïðîñòî óìíèöà, íó ðàçâå íå óìíèê),” Max said. He leaned forward
and took the ham and eggs (è âçÿë âåò÷èíó ñ ÿè÷íèöåé). Both men ate with their
gloves on (îáà åëè ñ íàäåòûìè ïåð÷àòêàìè). George watched them eat (ñìîòðåë,
íàáëþäàë, êàê îíè åäÿò).
“What are you looking at (íà ÷òî òû /òàê/ ñìîòðèøü)*” Max looked at George.
“Nothing (íè íà ÷òî: «/íà/ íè÷òî»).”
“The hell you were (êàê æå, ðàññêàçûâàé, ÷åðòà-ñ-äâà òû íå ñìîòðèøü). You were
looking at me (íà ìåíÿ).”
“Maybe the boy meant it for a joke (ìîæåò áûòü, ïàðåíü ïîøóòèë: «èìåë â âèäó ýòî,
âûñêàçàë ýòî ìíåíèå äëÿ øóòêè = êàê øóòêó»), Max,” Al said.
George laughed (çàñìåÿëñÿ).
“You don’t have to laugh (íå÷åãî ñìåÿòüñÿ: «òåáå íå íàäî ñìåÿòüñÿ»),” Max said to
him. “You don’t have to laugh at all (âîâñå), see (ïîíÿë: «âèäèøü»)*”
“All right,” said George.
“So he thinks it’s all right (èòàê, îí ïîëàãàåò, ÷òî ýòî â ïîðÿäêå, ïðàâèëüíî).” Max
turned to Al. He thinks it’s all right. That’s a good one (õîðîø îí).”
“Oh, he’s a thinker (ìûñëèòåëü),” Al said. They went on eating (ïðîäîëæàëè åñòü).
George put the two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs,
on the counter. He set down two side-dishes of fried potatoes and closed the
wicket into the kitchen.
“Which is yours*” he asked Al.
“Don’t you remember*”
“Ham and eggs.”
“Just a bright boy,” Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs.
Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat.
“What are you looking at*” Max looked at George.
“Nothing.”
“The hell you were. You were looking at me.”
“Maybe the boy meant it for a joke, Max,” Al said.
George laughed.
“You don’t have to laugh,” Max said to him. “You don’t have to laugh at all, see*”
“All right,” said George.
284
“So he thinks it’s all right.” Max turned to Al. He thinks it’s all right. That’s a good
one.”
“Oh, he’s a thinker,” Al said. They went on eating.
meant [ment] laugh [lá:f]
“What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter (êàê çîâóò òîãî óìíèêà, ÷òî ñ äðóãîé
ñòîðîíû ñòîéêè)*” Al asked Max.
“Hey, bright boy,” Max said to Nick. “You go around on the other side of the counter
(çàéäè çà ñòîéêó: «èäè âîêðóã íà äðóãóþ ñòîðîíó ñòîéêè») with your boy friend (ñ
òâîèì äðóæêîì = òóäà, ãäå òâîé äðóæîê).”
“What’s the idea (à â ÷åì äåëî, çà÷åì ýòî: «÷òî çà èäåÿ, â ÷åì èäåÿ»)*” Nick asked.
“There isn’t any idea (òóò íåò íèêàêîé èäåè = ïðîñòî òàê, äà íè â ÷åì).”
“You better go around (ëó÷øå çàéäè), bright boy,” Al said. Nick went around behind the
counter (çà ñòîéêó).
“What’s the idea*” George asked.
“None of your damn business (íå òâîå ÷åðòîâî: «ïðîêëÿòîå» äåëî; none – íè÷òî, íè
îäèí, íèêàêîé),” Al said. “Who’s out in the kitchen (êòî òàì: «ñíàðóæè» íà êóõíå)*”
“The nigger (íåãð).”
“What do you mean the nigger*”
“The nigger that cooks (êîòîðûé ãîòîâèò, ñòðÿïàåò).”
“Tell him to come in (ñêàæè åìó, ÷òîáû çàøåë).”
“What’s the idea*”
“Tell him to come in.”
“Where do you think you are (ãäå, âû äóìàåòå, âû íàõîäèòåñü)*”
“We know damn well where we are (ìû çíàåì ÷åðòîâñêè õîðîøî, ãäå ìû
íàõîäèìñÿ),” the man called Max said (ñêàçàë ÷åëîâåê, êîòîðîãî çâàëè Ìàêñ). “Do
we look silly (ìû âûãëÿäèì äóðà÷êàìè, ãëóïî)*”
“You talk silly (òû ðàçãîâàðèâàåøü ãëóïî),” Al said to him. “What the hell do you argue
with this kid for (êàêîãî ÷åðòà òû ñïîðèøü ñ ýòèì ðåáåíêîì)* Listen (ïîñëóøàé),” he
said to George, “tell the nigger to come out here.”
“What are you going to do to him (÷òî âû ñîáèðàåòåñü ñ íèì: «åìó» ñäåëàòü)*”
“Nothing. Use your head (ïîøåâåëè ìîçãàìè: «èñïîëüçóé ñâîþ ãîëîâó»), bright boy.
What would we do to a nigger (÷òî áû ìû ñäåëàëè íåãðó)*”
George opened the slit (îòêðûë îêîøå÷êî; slit – äëèííûé ðàçðåç, ùåëü; to slit –
ðàçðåçàòü â äëèíó) that opened back into the kitchen (êîòîðîå îòêðûâàëîñü íàçàä =
âîâíóòðü â êóõíþ). “Sam,” he called. “Come in here a minute (çàéäè-êà ñþäà íà
ìèíóòêó).”
“What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter*” Al asked Max.
“Hey, bright boy,” Max said to Nick. “You go around on the other side of the
counter with your boy friend.”
“What’s the idea*” Nick asked.
“There isn’t any idea.”
“You better go around, bright boy,” Al said. Nick went around behind the counter.
“What’s the idea*” George asked.
“None of your damn business,” Al said. “Who’s out in the kitchen*”
“The nigger.”
“What do you mean the nigger*”
“The nigger that cooks.”
“Tell him to come in.”
“What’s the idea*”
“Tell him to come in.”
“Where do you think you are*”
“We know damn well where we are,” the man called Max said. “Do we look silly*”
“You talk silly,” Al said to him. “What the hell do you argue with this kid for*
Listen,” he said to George, “tell the nigger to come out here.”
“What are you going to do to him*”
“Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger*”
George opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen. “Sam,” he called.
“Come in here a minute.”
idea [aý`dý*] argue [`á:gju:] minute [`mýnýt]
The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. “What was it (â ÷åì äåëî: «÷òî
ýòî áûëî»)*” he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him (îãëÿäåëè åãî:
«âçÿëè âçãëÿä»).
“All right (âñå â ïîðÿäêå), nigger. You stand right there (ñòàíü òóò),” Al said.
286
Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron (ñòîÿ â ñâîåì ôàðòóêå), looked at the two men
sitting at the counter. “Yes, sir,” he said. Al got down from his stool (ñëåç ñî ñâîåãî
ñòóëà, òàáóðåòà).
“I’m going back to the kitchen (ÿ ïîéäó íàçàä = òóäà íà êóõíþ) with the nigger and
bright boy,” he said. “Go on back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, Bright boy.”
The little man walked after Nick and Sam (ïðîøåë âñëåä çà Íèêîì è Ñýìîì), the cook
(ïîâàðîì), back into the kitchen. The door shut after them (äâåðü çà íèìè çàêðûëàñü).
The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George (íàïðîòèâ Äæîðäæà). He
didn’t look at George (îí íå ñìîòðåë íà Äæîðäæà) but looked in the mirror (à ñìîòðåë
â çåðêàëî) that ran along back of the counter (êîòîðîå òÿíóëîñü: «áåæàëî» âäîëü çà
ñòîéêîé). Henry’s had been made over (çàâåäåíèå Ãåíðè áûëî ïåðåäåëàíî) from a
saloon into a lunch-counter (èç ñàëóíà, áàðà â çàêóñî÷íóþ).
The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. “What was it*” he asked.
The two men at the counter took a look at him.
“All right, nigger. You stand right there,” Al said.
Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the
counter. “Yes, sir,” he said. Al got down from his stool.
“I’m going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,” he said. “Go on
back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, Bright boy.” The little man walked
after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The
man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn’t look at George but
looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter. Henry’s had been made
over from a saloon into a lunch-counter.
apron [`eýpr*n] opposite [`op*zýt]
“Well, bright boy,” Max said, looking into the mirror, “why don’t you say something
(ïî÷åìó òû íå ñêàæåøü ÷òî-íèáóäü)*”
“What’s it all about (÷òî âñå ýòî çíà÷èò: «î ÷åì âñå ýòî»)*”
“Hey, Al,” Max called, “bright boy wants to know (õî÷åò çíàòü) what’s all about.”
“Why don’t you tell him (÷òî æå òû åìó íå ñêàæåøü)*” Al’s voice came from the kitchen
(îòîçâàëñÿ ãîëîñ Ýëà èç êóõíè).
“What do you think it’s all about*”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think*”
Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking (âñå âðåìÿ, ïîêà ãîâîðèë).
“I wouldn’t say (ÿ áû íå ñêàçàë, íå ñêàæó, ïîæàëóé, íå çíàþ).”
“Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn’t what he thinks it’s all about.”
“I can hear you, all right (ÿ ìîãó ñëûøàòü òåáÿ, â ïîðÿäêå, õîðîøî = íå êðè÷è, ÿ è òàê
ñëûøó),” Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit (îí ïîäïåð, ÷òîáû
îñòàâàëîñü îòêðûòûì, îêîøå÷êî, îòâåðñòèå: «ùåëü») that dishes passed through
into the kitchen (÷åðåç êîòîðîå ïåðåäàâàëèñü áëþäà íà êóõíþ) with a catsup bottle
(áóòûëêîé êåò÷óïà). “Listen, bright boy,” he said from the kitchen to George. “Stand a
little further (ñòàíü íåìíîãî äàëüøå) along the bar (âäîëü áàðà). You move a little to
the left (ïîäâèíüñÿ íåìíîãî íàëåâî), Max.” He was like a photographer arranging for a
group picture (îí áûë òî÷íî ôîòîãðàô, ðàññòàâëÿþùèé /ëþäåé/ äëÿ ãðóïïîâîé
ôîòîãðàôèè).
“Well, bright boy,” Max said, looking into the mirror, “why don’t you say
something*”
“What’s it all about*”
“Hey, Al,” Max called, “bright boy wants to know what’s all about.”
“Why don’t you tell him*” Al’s voice came from the kitchen.
“What do you think it’s all about*”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think*”
Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.
“I wouldn’t say.”
“Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn’t what he thinks it’s all about.”
“I can hear you, all right,” Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit
that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. “Listen, bright
boy,” he said from the kitchen to George. “Stand a little further along the bar. You
move a little to the left, Max.” He was like a photographer arranging for a group
picture.
move [mu:v] arrange [*`reýnd¿] picture [pýkt**]
“Talk to me (ïîãîâîðè ñî ìíîé, ïîáåñåäóåì), bright boy,” Max said. “What do you
think’s going to happen (÷òî, êàê òû äóìàåøü, ñåé÷àñ ïðîèçîéäåò)*”
George did not say anything (íå ñêàçàë íè÷åãî).
“I’ll tell you (ÿ ñêàæó òåáå),” Max said. “We’re going to kill a Swede (ìû ñåé÷àñ óáüåì
øâåäà, ìû ñîáèðàåìñÿ óáèòü øâåäà). Do you know a big Swede named Ole
Andreson (òû çíàåøü áîëüøîãî = çäîðîâîãî, äëèííîãî øâåäà ïî èìåíè Îëå
Àíäðåñîí)*”
“Yes.”
“He comes here to eat every night, don’t he (îí ïðèõîäèò ñþäà ïîåñòü êàæäûé âå÷åð,
íå òàê ëè)*”
“Sometimes he comes here (èíîãäà îí ñþäà ïðèõîäèò).”
“He comes here at six o’clock, don’t he*”
“If he comes (åñëè ïðèõîäèò).”
“We know all that (ìû âñå ýòî çíàåì), bright boy,” Max said.
“Talk about something else (ïîãîâîðèì î ÷åì-íèáóäü äðóãîì). Ever go to the movies
(êîãäà-íèáóäü õîäèøü â êèíî)*”
“Once in a while (èçðåäêà: «èíîãäà â ïðîìåæóòîê âðåìåíè»).”
“You ought to go to the movies more (òû äîëæåí áû õîäèòü â êèíî áîëüøå = ÷àùå).
The movies are fine (ïðåêðàñíî, îòëè÷íî) for a bright boy like you.”
“What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for (çà ÷òî, äëÿ ÷åãî âû õîòèòå óáèòü Îëå
Àíäðåñîíà)* What did he ever do to you (÷òî îí âàì òàêîãî: «êîãäà-ëèáî» ñäåëàë)*”
“He never had a chance to do anything to us (ó íåãî íèêîãäà íå áûëî âîçìîæíîñòè
ñäåëàòü ÷òî-íèáóäü íàì). He never even seen us (îí äàæå íèêîãäà íå âèäåë íàñ).”
“And he’s only going to see us once (è îí óâèäèò íàñ òîëüêî îäíàæäû),” Al said from
the kitchen.
“What are you going to kill him for, then (òîãäà)*” George asked.
“We’re killing him for a friend (äëÿ äðóãà). Just to oblige a friend (ïðîñòî, âñåãî ëèøü,
÷òîáû óñëóæèòü, ñäåëàòü ïðèÿòíîå äðóãó), bright boy.”
“Shut up (çàòêíèñü),” said Al from the kitchen. You talk too goddam much (òû
ãîâîðèøü ñëèøêîì ÷åðòîâñêè ìíîãî).”
“Well, I got to keep bright boy amused (íó, ìíå æå íàäî, ÿ æå äîëæåí ðàçâëåêàòü
óìíèêà: «ñîõðàíÿòü, äåðæàòü åãî ðàçâëåêàåìûì»). Don’t I, bright boy*”
“You talk too damn much,” Al said. “The nigger and my bright boy are amused by
themselves (ñàìè ðàçâëåêàþòñÿ). I got them tied up (ÿ èõ ñâÿçàë) like a couple of girl
friends in the convent (êàê ïàðî÷êó ïîäðóæåê â ìîíàñòûðå, â ìîíàñòûðñêîé øêîëå).”
“I suppose you were in a convent (çíà÷èò, òû áûë â ìîíàñòûðå: «ÿ ïðåäïîëàãàþ, òû
áûë â ìîíàñòûðå»)*”
“You never know (ìîæåò, è áûë: «íèêîãäà íå çíàåøü»).”
“You were in a kosher convent (òû áûë â êîøåðíîì ìîíàñòûðå /ò.å. â õåäåðå, â
øêîëå ïðè ñèíàãîãå/). That’s where you were (âîò ãäå òû áûë).”
“Talk to me, bright boy,” Max said. “What do you think’s going to happen*”
George did not say anything.
“I’ll tell you,” Max said. “We’re going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede
named Ole Andreson*”
“Yes.”
“He comes here to eat every night, don’t he*”
“Sometimes he comes here.”
“He comes here at six o’clock, don’t he*”
“If he comes.”
“We know all that, bright boy,” Max said.
“Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies*”
“Once in a while.”
“You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like
you.”
“What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for* What did he ever do to you*”
“He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us.”
“And he’s only going to see us once,” Al said from the kitchen.
“What are you going to kill him for, then*” George asked.
“We’re killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy.”
“Shut up,” said Al from the kitchen. You talk too goddam much.”
“Well, I got to keep bright boy amused. Don’t I, bright boy*”
“You talk too damn much,” Al said. “The nigger and my bright boy are amused by
themselves. I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent.”
“I suppose you were in a convent*”
“You never know.”
“You were in a kosher convent. That’s where you were.”
Swede [swi:d] oblige [*`blaýd¿] convent [`konv*nt]
George looked up at the clock.
“If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off (åñëè êòî-íèáóäü ïðèäåò, òû èì
ñêàæåøü, ÷òî ïîâàð óøåë: «ñâîáîäåí /îò ðàáîòû/, íà ïåðåðûâå»; off – óêàçûâàåò
íà óäàëåíèå èëè ïðåêðàùåíèå ÷åãî-ëèáî), and if they keep after it (à åñëè îíè áóäóò
íàñòàèâàòü), you tell them you’ll go back (÷òî òû ïîéäåøü íà êóõíþ: «â çàäíþþ
êîìíàòó») and cook yourself (è ïðèãîòîâèøü ñàì). Do you get that (òû ïîíÿë:
«ïîëó÷èë» ýòî), bright boy*”
“All right,” George said. “What you going to do with us afterward (÷òî âû ñäåëàåòå ñ
íàìè ïîñëå)*”
“That’s depend (ýòî çàâèñèò = ñìîòðÿ ïî îáñòîÿòåëüñòâàì),” Max said. “That’s one of
those things you never know at the time (ýòî îäíà èç âåùåé, êîòîðûå íèêîãäà íå
çíàåøü â äàííîå âðåìÿ = çàðàíåå)."
George looked up the clock. It was a quarter past six (÷åòâåðòü ïîñëå øåñòè =
÷åòâåðòü ñåäüìîãî). The door from the street opened (äâåðü ñ óëèöû îòêðûëàñü). A
street-car motorman came in (âîøåë òðàìâàéíûé âîæàòûé).
“Hello, George,” he said. “Can I get supper (ïîóæèíàòü ìîæíî: «ìîãó ÿ ïîëó÷èòü
óæèí»)*”
“Sam’s gone out (âûøåë),” George said. “He’ll be back in about half an hour (îí
âåðíåòñÿ ïðèìåðíî ÷åðåç ïîë÷àñà).”
“I’d better go up the street (ÿ, ïîæàëóé, ëó÷øå ïîéäó ââåðõ ïî óëèöå = ïîéäó åùå
êóäà-íèáóäü),” the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes
past six.
“That was nice (ýòî áûëî ñëàâíî /ïðîäåëàíî/), bright boy,” Max said. “You’re a regular
little gentleman (íàñòîÿùèé ìàëåíüêèé äæåíòåëüìåí).”
“He knew I’d blow his head off (îí çíàë, ÷òî ÿ åìó ãîëîâó ñíåñó = ïðîñòðåëþ; to blow
– äóòü),” Al said from the kitchen.
“No,” said Max. “It ain’t that (íå ïîýòîìó, íå â ýòîì äåëî). Bright boy is nice. He’s a
nice boy. I like him (îí ìíå íðàâèòñÿ).”
George looked up at the clock.
“If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you
tell them you’ll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy*”
“All right,” George said. “What you going to do with us afterward*”
“That’s depend,” Max said. “That’s one of those things you never know at the
time."
George looked up the clock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street
opened. A street-car motorman came in.
“Hello, George,” he said. “Can I get supper*”
“Sam’s gone out,” George said. “He’ll be back in about half an hour.”
“I’d better go up the street,” the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It
was twenty minutes past six.
“That was nice, bright boy,” Max said. “You’re a regular little gentleman.”
“He knew I’d blow his head off,” Al said from the kitchen.
“No,” said Max. “It ain’t that. Bright boy is nice. He’s a nice boy. I like him.”
depend [dý`pend] regular [`regjul*]
At six-fifty-five (â øåñòü /÷àñîâ/ ïÿòüäåñÿò ïÿòü) George said: “He’s not coming (îí íå
ïðèäåò).”
Two other people had been in the lunch-room (äâîå äðóãèõ ëþäåé ïîáûâàëè â
çàêóñî÷íîé). Once (îäèí ðàç) George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-
and-egg sandwich “to go” (íà âûíîñ) that a man wanted to take with him (êîòîðûé
÷åëîâåê õîòåë âçÿòü ñ ñîáîé). Inside the kitchen he saw Al (âíóòðè êóõíè îí óâèäåë
Ýëà), his derby hat tipped back (åãî êîòåëîê /áûë/ ñäâèíóò íàçàä; to tip –
íàêëîíÿòü/ñÿ/; çàïðîêèäûâàòüñÿ), sitting on a stool beside the wicket (ñèäÿùèì íà
òàáóðåòå âîçëå îêîøå÷êà) with the muzzle (ñ äóëîì; muzzle – ìîðäà; äóëî) of of a
sawed-off shotgun (îòïèëåííîãî ðóæüÿ = îáðåçà) resting (ëåæàùèì, ïîêîÿùèìñÿ) on
the ledge (íà ïëàíêå, êðàþ /îêîøå÷êà/). Nick and the cook were back in the corner (â
óãëó), a towel tied in each of their mouths (ïîëîòåíöå, çàâÿçàííîå = çàòêíóòîå â
êàæäîì èç èõ ðòîâ = âî ðòó ó êàæäîãî). George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it
up in oiled paper (çàâåðíóë åãî â ïåðãàìåíòíóþ áóìàãó; oil – ðàñòèòåëüíîå èëè
ìèíåðàëüíîå ìàñëî; oiled – ïðîïèòàííûé ìàñëîì, ïðîìàñëåííûé), put it in a bag
(ïîëîæèë åãî â ïàêåò), brought it in (âûíåñ èç êóõíè, çàíåñ â êîìíàòó), and the man
had paid for it (çàïëàòèë çà íåãî) and gone out.
“Bright boy can do everything (âñå óìååò: «ìîæåò äåëàòü âñå»),” Max said. “He can
cook and everything. You’d make some girl a nice wife (òû áû ñäåëàë êàêóþ-íèáóäü
äåâóøêó ñëàâíîé æåíîé = ïîâåçëî òâîåé áóäóùåé æåíå), bright boy.”
“Yes*” George said. “Your friend (âàø äðóã), Ole Andreson, isn’t going to come (íå
ïðèäåò).”
“We’ll give him ten minutes (ìû äàäèì åìó äåñÿòü ìèíóò),” Max said.
Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o’clock
(ñòðåëêè ÷àñîâ ïîêàçàëè ñåìü), and then five minutes past seven (à çàòåì ïÿòü
ìèíóò ïîñëå ñåìè = ïÿòü ìèíóò âîñüìîãî).
At six-fifty-five George said: “He’s not coming.”
Two other people had been in the lunch-room. Once George had gone out to the
kitchen and made a ham-and-egg sandwich “to go” that a man wanted to take
with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tipped back, sitting on a
stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the
ledge. Nick and the cook were back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their
mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a
bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out.
“Bright boy can do everything,” Max said. “He can cook and everything. You’d
make some girl a nice wife, bright boy.”
“Yes*” George said. “Your friend, Ole Andreson, isn’t going to come.”
“We’ll give him ten minutes,” Max said.
Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven
o’clock, and then five minutes past seven.
“Come on (äà ëàäíî, äàâàé), Al,” said Max. “We better go. He’s not coming.”
“Better give him five minutes,” Al said from the kitchen.
In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick
(îáúÿñíèë, ÷òî ïîâàð áîëåí).
“Why don’t you get another cook (ïî÷åìó æå âû íå âîçüìåòå äðóãîãî ïîâàðà)*” the
man asked.
“Aren’t you running a lunch-counter (ðàçâå âû íå äåðæèòå çàêóñî÷íóþ)*” He went out.
“Come on, Al,” Max said.
“What about (à ÷òî íàñ÷åò, à êàê ñ) the two bright boys and the nigger*”
“The’re all right (ïóñòü èõ: «îíè â ïîðÿäêå, íîðìàëüíî»).”
“You think so (òû òàê ïîëàãàåøü)*”
“Sure. We’re through with it (çäåñü óæå âñå /çàêîí÷åíî/: «ìû /óæå/ ñêâîçü, ÷åðåç
ýòî»).”
“I don’t like it (ìíå ýòî íå íðàâèòñÿ),” said Al. It’s sloppy (íå÷èñòàÿ ðàáîòà; slop –
æèäêàÿ ãðÿçü; sloppy – ïîêðûòûé ëóæàìè; íåðÿøëèâûé, íåáðåæíûé). You talk too
much (òû ñëèøêîì ìíîãî áîëòàåøü).”
“Oh, what the hell,” said Max. “We got to keep amused, haven’t we*”
“You talk too much, all the same (âñå ðàâíî),” Al said. He came out from the kitchen.
The cut-off barrels of the shotgun (îáðåçàííûå ñòâîëû ðóæüÿ) made a slight bulge
(äåëàëè ëåãêóþ âûïóêëîñòü) under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat (ïîä
òàëèåé = íà áîêó åãî ñëèøêîì óçêîãî ïàëüòî). He straightened his coat (îí îäåðíóë
ñâîå ïàëüòî) with his gloved hands.
“So long (ïðîùàé, ïîêà), bright boy,” he said to George. “You got a lot of luck (âåçåò
òåáå: «èìååøü ìíîãî óäà÷è, áîëüøóþ óäà÷ó»).”
“That’s the truth (ýòî ïðàâäà),” Max said. You ought to play the races (òåáå íàäî áû
èãðàòü íà ñêà÷êàõ), bright boy.”
The two of them went out the door. George watched them, through the window, pass
under the arc-light (êàê îíè ïðîøëè ïîä /äóãîâûì/ ôîíàðåì; arc – /ýëåêòðè÷åñêàÿ/
äóãà) and cross the street (è ïåðåñåêëè óëèöó). In their tight overcoats and derby hats
they looked like a vaudeville team (íà âîäåâèëüíóþ êîìàíäó, íà ýñòðàäíóþ ïàðó).
George went back through the swinging-door (÷åðåç âðàùàþùóþñÿ, äâóñòâîð÷àòóþ,
îòêðûâàþùóþñÿ â îáå ñòîðîíû äâåðü) into the kitchen and untied (ðàçâÿçàë) Nick
and the cook.
“Come on, Al,” said Max. “We better go. He’s not coming.”
“Better give him five minutes,” Al said from the kitchen.
In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick.
“Why don’t you get another cook*” the man asked.
“Aren’t you running a lunch-counter*” He went out.
“Come on, Al,” Max said.
“What about the two bright boys and the nigger*”
“The’re all right.”
“You think so*”
“Sure. We’re through with it.”
“I don’t like it,” said Al. It’s sloppy. You talk too much.”
“Oh, what the hell,” said Max. “We got to keep amused, haven’t we*”
294
“You talk too much, all the same,” Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The cut-
off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-
fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.
“So long, bright boy,” he said to George. “You got a lot of luck.”
“That’s the truth,” Max said. You ought to play the races, bright boy.”
The two of them went out the door. George watched them, through the window,
pass under the arc-light and cross the street. In their tight overcoats and derby
hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging-
door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.
vaudeville [`v*ud*výl]
“I don’t want any more of that (ÿ íå õî÷ó áîëüøå íè÷åãî ïîäîáíîãî = ñ ìåíÿ
äîâîëüíî),” said Sam, the cook. “I don’t want any more of that.”
Nick stood up (âñòàë). He had never had a towel in his mouth before (îí íèêîãäà
ðàíüøå íå èìåë ïîëîòåíöà âî ðòó).
“Say (ïîñëóøàé: «ñêàæè»),” he said. “What the hell*” He was trying to swagger it off
(îí ïûòàëñÿ îòìàõíóòüñÿ îò ýòîãî /îò ïðîèñøåäøåãî/, ñäåëàòü âèä, ÷òî åìó âñå
íèïî÷åì; to swagger – ðàñõàæèâàòü ñ âàæíûì âèäîì; ÷âàíèòüñÿ; õâàñòàòü).
“They were going to kill Ole Andreson,” George said. “They were going to shoot him
(îíè ñîáèðàëèñü çàñòðåëèòü åãî) when he came in to eat.”
“Ole Andreson*”
“Sure.”
The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs (ïîòðîãàë óãëû ñâîåãî ðòà
áîëüøèìè ïàëüöàìè; to feel – ÷óâñòâîâàòü; îùóïûâàòü).
“They all gone*” he asked.
“Yeah,” said George. “They’re gone now (îíè òåïåðü âñå óøëè).”
“I don’t like it,” said the cook. “I don’t like any of it at all.”
“Listen,” George said to Nick. “You better go see Ole Andreson.”
“All right.”
“You better not have anything to do with it at all (ëó÷øå íå ñâÿçûâàéñÿ: «íå èìåé
íèêàêîãî äåëà ñ ýòèì âñåì»),” Sam, the cook, said. “You better stay way out of it
(ëó÷øå äåðæèñü ïîäàëüøå îò ýòîãî: «îñòàâàéñÿ ïðî÷ü, âíå ýòîãî»).”
“Don’t go if you don’t want to (íå õîäè, åñëè íå õî÷åøü),” George said.
“Mixing up in this (âìåøèâàÿñü â ýòî, âìåøàòåëüñòâî â ýòî) ain’t going to get you
anywhere (íèêóäà òåáÿ íå ïðèâåäåò = íè ê ÷åìó õîðîøåìó íå ïðèâåäåò),” the cook
said. “You stay out of it.”
“I’ll go see him,” Nick said to George. “Where does he live (ãäå îí æèâåò)*”
The cook turned away (îòâåðíóëñÿ).
“Little boys always know what they want to do (ìàëåíüêèå ìàëü÷èêè âñåãäà çíàþò,
÷òî îíè õîòÿò äåëàòü),” he said.
“He lives up (ââåðõ ïî óëèöå) at Hirsch’s rooming-house (â ìåáëèðîâàííûõ êîìíàòàõ
Õèðø),” George said to Nick.
“I’ll go up there.”
“I don’t want any more of that,” said Sam, the cook. “I don’t want any more of
that.”
Nick stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before.
“Say,” he said. “What the hell*” He was trying to swagger it off.
“They were going to kill Ole Andreson,” George said. “They were going to shoot
him when he came in to eat.”
“Ole Andreson*”
“Sure.”
The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.
“They all gone*” he asked.
“Yeah,” said George. “They’re gone now.”
“I don’t like it,” said the cook. “I don’t like any of it at all.”
“Listen,” George said to Nick. “You better go see Ole Andreson.”
“All right.”
“You better not have anything to do with it at all,” Sam, the cook, said. “You
better stay way out of it.”
“Don’t go if you don’t want to,” George said.
“Mixing up in this ain’t going to get you anywhere,” the cook said. “You stay out
of it.”
“I’ll go see him,” Nick said to George. “Where does he live*”
The cook turned away.
“Little boys always know what they want to do,” he said.
“He lives up at Hirsch’s rooming-house,” George said to Nick.
“I’ll go up there.”
thumb [èËm]
Outside the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree (íà óëèöå äóãîâîé
ôîíàðü ñâåòèë ñêâîçü ãîëûå âåòêè äåðåâà). Nick walked up the street beside the car-
tracks (âîçëå òðàìâàéíûõ ïóòåé) and turned at the next arc-light down a side-street (è
ñâåðíóë ó ñëåäóþùåãî ôîíàðÿ â áîêîâóþ óëèöó, â ïåðåóëîê). Three houses up the
street (÷åðåç òðè äîìà) was Hirsch’s rooming-house. Nick walked up the two steps
(ïîäíÿëñÿ íà äâå ñòóïåíüêè) and pushed the bell (è íàäàâèë êíîïêó çâîíêà). A
woman came to the door.
“Is Ole Andreson here*”
“Do you want to see him*”
“Yes, if he’s in (åñëè îí äîìà).”
Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs (ïîñëåäîâàë çà æåíùèíîé ââåðõ ïî
ïðîëåòó ëåñòíèöû) and back to the end of a corridor. She knocked on the door (îíà
ïîñòó÷àëà â äâåðü).
“Who is it (êòî òàì: «êòî ýòî»)*”
“It’s somebody to see you (òóò âàñ ñïðàøèâàþò: «êòî-òî ê âàì»), Mr. Andreson,” the
woman said.
“It’s Nick Adams.”
“Come in.”
Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed
(ëåæàë íà êðîâàòè) with all his clothes on (îäåòûé: «ñ îäåæäîé íà íåì»). He had
been a heavyweight prize-fighter (áîêñåðîì-òÿæåëîâåñîì; heavy – òÿæåëûé; weight
– âåñ; prize – íàãðàäà, ïðåìèÿ; to fight – äðàòüñÿ, áèòüñÿ) and he was too long for
the bed (ñëèøêîì äëèííûé äëÿ êðîâàòè). He lay with his head on two pillows (ñ
ãîëîâîé íà äâóõ ïîäóøêàõ). He did not look at Nick.
Outside the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up
the street beside the car-tracks and turned at the next arc-light down a side-street.
Three houses up the street was Hirsch’s rooming-house. Nick walked up the two
steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door.
“Is Ole Andreson here*”
“Do you want to see him*”
“Yes, if he’s in.”
Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of a corridor.
She knocked on the door.
“Who is it*”
“It’s somebody to see you, Mr. Andreson,” the woman said.
“It’s Nick Adams.”
“Come in.”
Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed
with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prize-fighter and he was too
long for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick.
heavy [hevý] weight [weýt]
“What was it (â ÷åì äåëî: «÷òî ýòî áûëî»)*” he asked.
“I was up at Henry’s,” Nick said, “and two fellows came in (ïðèøëè äâà ïàðíÿ, òèïà)
and tied me and the cook, and they said they were going to kill you.”
It sounded silly when he said it (ïðîçâó÷àëî, çâó÷àëî ãëóïî, êîãäà îí ýòî ñêàçàë). Ole
Andreson said nothing.
“George thought I better come and tell you about it (Äæîðäæ ïîäóìàë, ÷òî ìíå ëó÷øå
ïðèäòè è ñêàçàòü âàì îá ýòîì).”
“There isn’t anything I can do about it (ÿ íè÷åãî íå ìîãó ïîäåëàòü ñ ýòèì),” Ole
Andreson said.
“I’ll tell you what they were like (êàê îíè âûãëÿäåëè: «íà ÷òî îíè áûëè ïîõîæè»).”
“I don’t want to know (ÿ íå õî÷ó çíàòü) what they were like,” Ole Andreson said. He
looked at the wall (íà ñòåíó). “Thanks for coming to tell me about it (ñïàñèáî, ÷òî
ïðèøåë ðàññêàçàòü ìíå îá ýòîì).”
“That’s all right (íå ñòîèò /áëàãîäàðíîñòè/: «ýòî â ïîðÿäêå»).”
Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.
“Don’t you want me to go and see the police (íå õîòèòå, ÷òîáû ÿ ñõîäèë è çàÿâèë â
ïîëèöèþ)*”
“No,” Ole Andreson said. “That wouldn’t do any good (ýòî áåñïîëåçíî: «ýòî íå
ñäåëàëî áû íè÷åãî õîðîøåãî»).”
“Isn’t there something I could do (åñòü òóò ÷òî-íèáóäü, ÷òî áû ÿ ìîã ñäåëàòü = ìîãó ÿ
÷åì-íèáóäü ïîìî÷ü)*”
“No. There ain’t anything to do.”
“Maybe it was just a bluff (ìîæåò áûòü, ýòî áûë ïðîñòî îáìàí, áëåô).”
“No. It ain’t just a bluff.”
Ole Andreson rolled over (ïåðåâåðíóëñÿ: «ïåðåêàòèëñÿ») toward the wall (ê ñòåíå), “I
just can’t make up my mind (ÿ ïðîñòî íå ìîãó ðåøèòüñÿ, ñîáðàòüñÿ ñ äóõîì) to go out
(âûéòè). I been in here all day (ÿ áûë çäåñü âíóòðè öåëûé äåíü).”
“Couldn’t you get out of town (íå ìîãëè áû âû óåõàòü èç ãîðîäà)*”
“No,” Ole Andreson said. “I’m through with all that running around (ÿ ïîêîí÷èë ñî âñåé
ýòîé áåãîòíåé: «áåãàíüåì âîêðóã, ïîâñþäó»).”
He looked at the wall.
“There ain’t anything to do now.”
“Couldn’t you fix it up some way (íå ìîãëè áû âû ýòî óëàäèòü êàê-íèáóäü; to fix –
óêðåïèòü; ïî÷èíèòü)*”
“No. I got in wrong (ÿ ñäåëàë îøèáêó, âëèï = òåïåðü óæå ïîçäíî; wrong – íåâåðíûé,
íåïðàâèëüíûé).” He talked in the same flat voice (îí ãîâîðèë òåì æå ïëîñêèì =
óíûëûì ãîëîñîì). “There ain’t anything to do. After a while (÷åðåç íåêîòîðîå âðåìÿ)
I’ll make up my mind to go out.”
“I better go back and see George,” Nick said.
“So long,” said Ole Andreson. He did not look toward Nick. “Thanks for coming around
(ñïàñèáî, ÷òî çàøåë).”
“What was it*” he asked.
“I was up at Henry’s,” Nick said, “and two fellows came in and tied me and the
cook, and they said they were going to kill you.”
It sounded silly when he said it. Ole Andreson said nothing.
“George thought I better come and tell you about it.”
“There isn’t anything I can do about it,” Ole Andreson said.
“I’ll tell you what they were like.”
“I don’t want to know what they were like,” Ole Andreson said. He looked at the
wall. “Thanks for coming to tell me about it.”
“That’s all right.”
Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.
“Don’t you want me to go and see the police*”
“No,” Ole Andreson said. “That wouldn’t do any good.”
“Isn’t there something I could do*”
“No. There ain’t anything to do.”
“Maybe it was just a bluff.”
“No. It ain’t just a bluff.”
Ole Andreson rolled over toward the wall, “I just can’t make up my mind to go out.
I been in here all day.”
“Couldn’t you get out of town*”
“No,” Ole Andreson said. “I’m through with all that running around.”
He looked at the wall.
“There ain’t anything to do now.”
“Couldn’t you fix it up some way*”
“No. I got in wrong.” He talked in the same flat voice. “There ain’t anything to do.
After a while I’ll make up my mind to go out.”
“I better go back and see George,” Nick said.
“So long,” said Ole Andreson. He did not look toward Nick. “Thanks for coming
around.”
police [p*`li:s]]
Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on, lying on
the bed looking at the wall.
“He’s been in his room all day,” the landlady said downstairs (ñêàçàëà õîçÿêà êîìíàò
âíèçó /ëåñòíèöû/). “I guess he don’t feel well (ÿ äóìàþ, óæ íå çàáîëåë ëè: «îí íå
÷óâñòâóåò ñåáÿ õîðîøî»; to guess – óãàäûâàòü; ïðåäïîëàãàòü). I said to him: ‘Mr.
Andreson, you ought to go out and take a walk (âàì íàäî áû âûéòè è ïðîãóëÿòüñÿ:
«âçÿòü = ñäåëàòü ïðîãóëêó») on a nice fall day like this (â òàêîé ïðåêðàñíûé îñåííèé
äåíü),’ but he didn’t feel like it (åìó íå çàõîòåëîñü).”
“He doesn’t want to go out (îí íå õî÷åò âûõîäèòü èç äîìó).”
“I’m sorry he don’t feel well (ìíå æàëü, ÷òî îí ÷óâñòâóåò ñåáÿ íåâàæíî),” the woman
said. “He’s an awfully nice man (óæàñíî ñëàâíûé ÷åëîâåê). He was in the ring (îí áûë
íà ðèíãå = áûë áîêñåðîì), you know.”
“I know it.”
“You’d never know it (íèêîãäà áû íå äîãàäàòüñÿ: âû áû íèêîãäà ýòîãî íå óçíàëè)
except from the way his face is (çà èñêëþ÷åíèåì, êðîìå êàê ïî òîìó, êàêîâî åãî
ëèöî),” the woman said. They stood talking just inside the street door (îíè ñòîÿëè,
ðàçãîâàðèâàÿ, ïðÿìî â äâåðè íà óëèöó). “He’s just as gentle (íàñòîëüêî îí ìÿãêèé,
êðîòêèé).”
“Well, good-night (ïðîùàéòå, äîáðîãî âå÷åðà, íî÷è), Mrs. Hirsch,” Nick said.
“I’m not Mrs. Hirsch,” the woman said. “She owns the place (îíà âëàäååò ýòèì
ìåñòîì). I just look after it for her (ÿ ïðîñòî ïðèñìàòðèâàþ çà íèì äëÿ íåå). I’m Mrs.
Bell.”
“Well, good-night, Mrs. Bell,” Nick said.
“Good-night,” the woman said.
Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on,
lying on the bed looking at the wall.
“He’s been in his room all day,” the landlady said downstairs. “I guess he don’t
feel well. I said to him: ‘Mr. Andreson, you ought to go out and take a walk on a
nice fall day like this,’ but he didn’t feel like it.”
“He doesn’t want to go out.”
“I’m sorry he don’t feel well,” the woman said. “He’s an awfully nice man. He was
in the ring, you know.”
“I know it.”
“You’d never know it except from the way his face is,” the woman said. They
stood talking just inside the street door. “He’s just as gentle.”
“Well, good-night, Mrs. Hirsch,” Nick said.
“I’m not Mrs. Hirsch,” the woman said. “She owns the place. I just
look after it for her. I’m Mrs. Bell.”
“Well, good-night, Mrs. Bell,” Nick said.
“Good-night,” the woman said.
guess [ges]
Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc-light (ïðîøåë ïî òåìíîé
óëèöå äî óãëà ïîä ôîíàðåì), and then along the car-tracks to Henry’s eating house.
George was inside, back of the counter.
“Did you see Ole*”
“Yes,” said Nick. “He’s in his room and he won’t go out.”
The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick’s voice.
“I don’t even listen to it (ÿ äàæå íå ñëóøàþ ýòî),” he said and shut the door.
“Did you tell him about it*” George asked.
“Sure. I told him but he knows what it’s all about.”
“What’s he going to do*”
“Nothing.”
“They’ll kill him.”
“I guess they will.”
“He must have not mixed up in something in Chicago (åìó íå íàäî áûëî âïóòûâàòüñÿ
âî ÷òî-òî òàì â ×èêàãî).”
“I guess so (ïîëàãàþ, ÷òî òàê),” said Nick.
“It’s a hell of a thing (ñêâåðíîå: «àäñêîå» äåëî; hell – àä).”
“It’s an awful thing,” Nick said.
They did not say anything. George reached down for a towel (äîñòàë ïîëîòåíöå:
«ïîòÿíóëñÿ âíèç çà ïîëîòåíöåì») and wiped the counter (è âûòåð ñòîéêó).
“I wonder what he did (èíòåðåñíî, ÷òî æå îí òàêîå ñäåëàë)*” Nick said.
“Double-crossed somebody (ïåðåõèòðèë, îáîøåë êîãî-òî, ïåðåáåæàë êîìó-òî
äîðîãó). That’s what they kill them for (âîò çà ÷òî îíè èõ óáèâàþò = èìåííî çà ýòî
îáû÷íî óáèâàþò).”
“I’m going to get out of this town (ÿ óåäó, õîòåë áû, ñîáèðàþñü óåõàòü èç ýòîãî
ãîðîäà),” Nick said.
“Yes,” said George. “That’s a good thing to do (ýòî õîðîøî áû: «ýòî õîðîøàÿ øòóêà =
õîðîøî áû òàê ñäåëàòü»).”
“I can’t stand (ÿ íå ìîãó âûíåñòè, òåðïåòü) to think about him waiting in the room
(êîãäà ïîäóìàþ, êàê îí æäåò â êîìíàòå) and knowing he’s going to get it (è çíàåò, ÷òî
ïîëó÷èò ýòî = ÷òî ñ íèì êîí÷åíî). It’s too damned awful (ýòî óæàñíî: «ýòî ñëèøêîì
÷åðòîâñêè: «ïðîêëÿòî» óæàñíî»).”
“Well,” said George, “you better not think about it (à òû ëó÷øå íå äóìàé îá ýòîì).”