Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/анат./), he could smell it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the feeling of heaviness in his face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

with what the Sicilians call "the thunderbolt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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