Английский язык с Крестным Отцом - Илья Франк

Fabrizzio was lazily combing his thick dark hair, his lupara was carelessly thrown across

the garden table. Michael whistled and Fabrizzio looked up to his window.

"Get the car," Michael called down to him. "I'll be leaving in five minutes. Where's

Calo?"

Fabrizzio stood up. His shirt was open, exposing the blue and red lines of the tattoo

on his chest. "Calo is having a cup of coffee in the kitchen," Fabrizzio said. "Is your wife

coming with you?"

Michael squinted (to squint – косить /глазами/; бросить взгляд украдкой) down at

him. It occurred to him that Fabrizzio had been following Apollonia too much with his

eyes the last few weeks. Not that he would dare ever to make an advance toward the

wife of a friend of the Don's. In Sicily there was no surer road to death. Michael said

coldly, "No, she's going home to her family first, she'll join us in a few days." He

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watched Fabrizzio hurry into the stone hut that served as a garage for the Alfa Romeo.

Michael went down the hall to wash. Apollonia was gone. She was most likely in the

kitchen preparing his breakfast with her own hands to wash out the guilt she felt

because she wanted to see her family one more time before going so far away to the

other end of Sicily. Don Tommasino would arrange transportation for her to where

Michael would be.

Down in the kitchen the old woman Filomena brought him his coffee and shyly bid him

a good-bye. "I'll remember you to my father," Michael said and she nodded.

Calo came into the kitchen and said to Michael, "The car's outside, shall I get your

bag?"

"No, I'll get it," Michael said. "Where's Apolla?"

Calo's face broke into an amused grin. "She's sitting in the driver's seat of the car,

dying to step on the gas. She'll be a real American woman before she gets to America."

It was unheard of for one of the peasant women in Sicily to attempt driving a car. But

Michael sometimes let Apollonia guide the Alfa Romeo around the inside of the villa

walls, always beside her however because she sometimes stepped on the gas when

she meant to step on the brake.

Michael said to Calo, "Get Fabrizzio and wait for me in the car." He went out of the

kitchen and ran up the stairs to the bedroom. His bag was already packed. Before

picking it up he looked out the window and saw the car parked in front of the portico

steps rather than the kitchen entrance. Apollonia was sitting in the car, her hands on the

wheel like a child playing. Calo was just putting the lunch basket in the rear seat. And

then Michael was annoyed to see Fabrizzio disappearing through the gates of the villa

on some errand outside. What the hell was he doing? He saw Fabrizzio take a look over

his shoulder, a look that was somehow furtive. He'd have to straighten that damn

shepherd out. Michael went down the stairs and decided to go through the kitchen to

see Filomena again and give her a final farewell. He asked the old woman, "Is Dr. Taza

still sleeping?"

Filomena's wrinkled face was sly. "Old roosters (петух) can't greet the sun. The doctor

went to Palermo last night."

Michael laughed. He went out the kitchen entrance and the smell of lemon blossoms

penetrated even his sinus-filled nose. He saw Apollonia wave to him from the car just

ten paces up the villa's driveway and then he realized she was motioning him to stay

where he was, that she meant to drive the car to where he stood. Calo stood grinning

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beside the car, his lupara dangling in his hand. But there was still no sign of Fabrizzio.

At that moment, without any conscious reasoning process, everything came together in

his mind, and Michael shouted to the girl, "No! No!" But his shout was drowned in the

roar of the tremendous explosion as Apollonia switched on the ignition (зажигание).

The kitchen door shattered into fragments and Michael was hurled along the wall of the

villa for a good ten feet. Stones tumbling from the villa roof hit him on the shoulders and

one glanced off (to glance off – скользнуть; glance [glα:ns] – быстрый взгляд; to

glance – мельком взглянуть; мелькнуть; отражаться) his skull as he was lying on the

ground. He was conscious just long enough to see that nothing remained of the Alfa

Romeo but its four wheels and the steel shafts which held them together.

He came to consciousness in a room that seemed very dark and heard voices that

were so low that they were pure sound rather than words. Out of animal instinct he tried

to pretend he was still unconscious but the voices stopped and someone was leaning

from a chair close to his bed and the voice was distinct now, saying, "Well, he's with us

finally." A lamp went on, its light like white fire on his eyeballs and Michael turned his

head. It felt very heavy, numb. And then he could see the face over his bed was that of

Dr. Taza.

"Let me look at you a minute and I'll put the light out," Dr. Taza said gently. He was

busy shining a small pencil flashlight (ручной фонарик) into Michael's eyes. "You'll be

all right," Dr. Taza said and turned to someone else in the room. "You can speak to

him."

It was Don Tommasino sitting on a chair near his bed, Michael could see him clearly

now. Don Tommasino was saying, "Michael, Michael, can I talk to you? Do you want to

rest?"

It was easier to raise a hand to make a gesture and Michael did so and Don

Tommasino said, "Did Fabrizzio bring the car from the garage?"

Michael, without knowing he did so, smiled. It was in some strange way, a chilling smile,

of assent (согласие; разрешение [∂'sent]). Don Tommasino said, "Fabrizzio has

vanished. Listen to me, Michael. You've been unconscious for nearly a week. Do you

understand? Everybody thinks you're dead, so you're safe now, they've stopped looking

for you. I've sent messages to your father and he's sent back instructions. It won't be

long now, you'll be back in America. Meanwhile you'll rest here quietly. You're safe up in

the mountains, in a special farmhouse I own. The Palermo people have made their

peace with me now that you're supposed to be dead, so it was you they were after all

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the time. They wanted to kill you while making people think it was me they were after.

That's something you should know. As for everything else, leave it all to me. You

recover your strength and be tranquil (спокойный [‘trжŋkwıl])."

Michael was remembering everything now. He knew his wife was dead, that Calo was

dead. He thought of the old woman in the kitchen. He couldn't remember if she had

come outside with him. He whispered, "Filomena?" Don Tommasino said quietly, "She

wasn't hurt, just a bloody nose from the blast. Don't worry about her."

Michael said, "Fabrizzio. Let your shepherds know that the one who gives me

Fabrizzio will own the finest pastures in Sicily."

Both men seemed to sigh with relief. Don Tommasino lifted a glass from a nearby

table and drank from it an amber fluid (янтарная жидкость ['flu:ıd]) that jolted (to jolt –

подбрасывать) his head up. Dr. Taza sat on the bed and said almost absently, "You

know, you're a widower. That's rare in Sicily." As if the distinction might comfort him.

Michael motioned to Don Tommasino to lean closer. The Don sat on the bed and bent

his head. "Tell my father to get me home," Michael said. "Tell my father I wish to be his

son."

But it was to be another month before Michael recovered from his injuries and another

two months after that before all the necessary papers and arrangements were ready.

Then he was flown from Palermo to Rome and from Rome to New York. In all that time

no trace had been found of Fabrizzio.

Book 7

Chapter 25

When Kay Adams received her college degree, she took a job teaching grade school

in her New Hampshire hometown. The first six months after Michael vanished she made

weekly telephone calls to his mother asking about him. Mrs. Corleone was always

friendly and always wound up saying, "You a very very nice girl. You forget about Mikey

and find a nice husband." Kay was not offended at her bluntness and understood that

the mother spoke out of concern for her as a young girl in an impossible situation.

When her first school term ended, she decided to go to New York to buy some decent

clothes and see some old college girl friends. She thought also about looking for some

sort of interesting job in New York. She had lived like a spinster for almost two years,

reading and teaching, refusing dates, refusing to go out at all, even though she had

given up making calls to Long Beach. She knew she couldn't keep that up, she was

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becoming irritable and unhappy. But she had always believed Michael would write her

or send her a message of some sort. That he had not done so humiliated her, it

saddened her that he was so distrustful even of her.

She took an early train and was checked into her hotel by midafternoon. Her girl

friends worked and she didn't want to bother them at their jobs, she planned to call them

at night. And she didn't really feel like going shopping after the exhausting train trip.

Being alone in the hotel room, remembering all the times she and Michael had used

hotel rooms to make love, gave her a feeling of desolation. It was that more than

anything else that gave her the idea of calling Michael's mother out in Long Beach.

The phone was answered by a rough masculine voice with a typical, to her, New York

accent. Kay asked to speak to Mrs. Corelone. There was a few minutes' silence and

then Kay heard the heavily accented voice asking who it was.

Kay was a little embarrassed now. "This is Kay Adams, Mrs. Corleone," she said. "Do

you remember me?"

"Sure, sure, I remember you," Mrs. Corleone said. "How come you no call up no more?

You get a married?"

"Oh, no," Kay said. "I've been busy." She was surprised at the mother obviously being

annoyed that she had stopped calling. "Have you heard anything from Michael? Is he all

right?"

There was silence at the other end of the phone and then Mrs. Corleone's voice came

strong. "Mikey is a home. He no call you up? He no see you?"

Kay felt her stomach go weak from shock and a humiliating desire to weep. Her voice

broke a little when she asked, "How long has he been home?"

Mrs. Corleone said, "Six months."

"Oh, I see," Kay said. And she did. She felt hot waves of shame that Michael's mother

knew he was treating her so cheaply. And then she was angry. Angry at Michael, at his

mother, angry at all foreigners, Italians who didn't have the common courtesy to keep

up a decent show of friendship even if a love affair was over. Didn't Michael know she

would be concerned for him as a friend even if he no longer wanted her for a bed

companion, even if he no longer wanted to marry her? Did he think she was one of

those poor benighted Italian girls who would commit suicide or make a scene after

giving up her virginity and then being thrown over? But she kept her voice as cool as

possible. "I see, thank you very much," she said. "I'm glad Michael is home again and

all right. I just wanted to know. I won't call you again."

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Mrs. Corleone's voice came impatiently over the phone as if she had heard nothing

that Kay had said. "You wanta see Mikey, you come out here now. Give him a nice

surprise. You take a taxi, and I tell the man at the gate to pay the taxi for you. You tell

the taxi man he gets two times his clock, otherwise he no come way out the Long Beach.

But don't you pay. My husband's man at the gate pay the taxi."

"I couldn't do that, Mrs. Corleone," Kay said coldly. "If Michael wanted to see me, he

would have called me at home before this. Obviously he doesn't want to resume our

relationship."

Mrs. Corleone's voice came briskly over the phone. "You a very nice girl, you gotta

nice legs, but you no gotta much brains." She chuckled. "You come out to see me, not

Mikey. I wanta talk to you. You come right now. An' no pay the taxi. I wait for you." The

phone clicked. Mrs. Corleone had hung up.

Kay could have called back and said she wasn't coming but she knew she had to see

Michael, to talk to him, even if it was just polite talk. If he was home now, openly, that

meant he was no longer in trouble, he could live normally. She jumped off the bed and

started to get ready to see him. She took a great deal of care with her makeup and

dress. When she was ready to leave she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Was she

better-looking than when Michael had disappeared? Or would he find her unattractively

older? Her figure had become more womanly, her hips rounder, her breasts fuller.

Italians liked that supposedly, though Michael had always said he loved her being so

thin. It didn't matter really, Michael obviously didn't want anything to do with her

anymore, otherwise he most certainly would have called in the six months he had been

home.

The taxi she hailed refused to take her to Long Beach until she gave him a pretty

smile and told him she would pay double the meter. It was nearly an hour's ride and the

mall in Long Beach had changed since she last saw it. There were iron fences around it

and an iron gate barred the mall entrance. A man wearing slacks and a white jacket

over a red shirt opened the gate, poked his head into the cab to read the meter and

gave the cab driver some bills. Then when Kay saw the driver was not protesting and

was happy with the money paid, she got out and walked across the mall to the central

house.

Mrs. Corleone herself opened the door and greeted Kay with a warm embrace that

surprised her. Then she surveyed Kay with an appraising eye. "You a beautiful girl," she

said flatly. "I have stupid sons." She pulled Kay inside the door and led her to the

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kitchen, where a platter of food was already set out and a pot of coffee perked on the

stove. "Michael comes home pretty soon," she said. "You surprise him."

They sat down together and the old woman forced Kay to eat, meanwhile asking

questions with great curiosity. She was delighted that Kay was a schoolteacher and that

she had come to New York to visit old girl friends and that Kay was only twenty-four

years old. She kept nodding her head as if all the facts accorded with some private

specifications in her mind. Kay was so nervous that she just answered the questions,