Английский язык с Крестным Отцом
Шрифт:
The girl being chased held a bunch of huge purple grapes in her left hand and with her
right hand was picking grapes off the cluster and throwing them at her pursuers. She
had a crown of ringleted hair as purple-black as the grapes and her body seemed to be
bursting out of its skin.
Just short of the grove she poised, startled, her eyes having caught the alien color of
the men's shirts. She stood there up on her toes poised like a deer to run. She was very
close now, close enough for the men to see every feature of her face.
She was all ovals – oval-shaped eyes, the bones of her face, the contour of her brow.
Her skin was an exquisite dark creaminess and her eyes, enormous, dark violet or
brown but dark with long heavy lashes shadowed her lovely face. Her mouth was rich
without being gross, sweet without being weak and dyed dark red with the juice of the
grapes. She was so incredibly lovely that Fabrizzio murmured, "Jesus Christ, take my
soul, I'm dying," as a joke, but the words came out a little too hoarsely. As if she had
heard him, the girl came down off her toes and whirled away from them and fled back to
her pursuers. Her haunches moved like an animal's beneath the tight print of her dress;
as pagan and as innocently lustful. When she reached her friends she whirled around
again and her face was like a dark hollow against the field of bright flowers. She
extended an arm, the hand full of grapes pointed toward the grove. The girls fled
laughing, with the black-clad, stout matrons scolding them on.
As for Michael Corleone, he found himself standing, his heart pounding in his chest; he
felt a little dizzy. The blood was surging through his body, through all its extremities and
pounding against the tips of his fingers, the tips of his toes. All the perfumes of the
island came rushing in on the wind, orange, lemon blossoms, grapes, flowers. It
seemed as if his body had sprung away from him out of himself. And then he heard the
two shepherds laughing.
"You got hit by the thunderbolt, eh?" Fabrizzio said, clapping him on the shoulder.
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Even Calo became friendly, patting him on the arm and saying, "Easy, man, easy," but
with affection. As if Michael had been hit by a car. Fabrizzio handed him a wine bottle
and Michael took a long slug (глоток /спиртного/). It cleared his head.
"What the hell are you damn sheep lovers talking about?" he said.
Both men laughed. Calo, his honest face filled with the utmost seriousness, said, "You
can't hide the thunderbolt. When it hits you, everybody can see it. Christ, man, don't be
ashamed of it, some men pray for the thunderbolt. You're a lucky fellow."
Michael wasn't too pleased about his emotions being so easily read. But this was the
first time in his life such a thing had happened to him. It was nothing like his adolescent
crushes (увлечение,
nothing like the love he'd had for Kay, a love based as much on her sweetness, her
intelligence and the polarity of the fair and dark. This was an overwhelming desire for
possession, this was an inerasible printing of the girl's face on his brain and he knew
she would haunt his memory every day of his life if he did not possess her. His life had
become simplified, focused on one point, everything else was unworthy of even a
moment's attention. During his exile he had always thought of Kay, though he felt they
could never again be lovers or even friends. He was, after all was said, a murderer, a
Mafioso who had "made his bones." But now Kay was wiped completely out of his
consciousness.
Fabrizzio said briskly, "I'll go to the village, we'll find out about her. Who knows, she
may be more available than we think. There's only one cure for the thunderbolt, eh,
Calo?"
The other shepherd nodded his head gravely. Michael didn't say anything. He
followed the two shepherds as they started down the road to the nearby village into
which the flock of girls had disappeared.
The village was grouped around the usual central square with its fountain. But it was
on a main route so there were some stores, wine shops and one little cafй with three
tables out on a small terrace. The shepherds sat at one of the tables and Michael joined
them. There was no sign of the girls, not a trace. The village seemed deserted except
for small boys and a meandering (to meander [mi'жnd] – бродить без цели; meander
– извилина /дороги, реки/; меандр /орнамент/) donkey.
The proprietor of the cafй came to serve them. He was a short, burly man, almost
dwarfish but he greeted them cheerfully and set a dish of chickpeas (нут, горох
турецкий) at their table. "You're strangers here," he said, "so let me advise you. Try my
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wine. The grapes come from my own farm and it's made by my sons themselves. They
mix it with oranges and lemons. It's the best wine in Italy."
They let him bring the wine in a jug and it was even better than he claimed, dark
purple and as powerful as a brandy. Fabrizzio said to the cafй proprietor, "You know all
the girls here, I'll bet. We saw some beauties coming down the road, one in particular
got our friend here hit with the thunderholt." He motioned to Michael.
The cafй owner looked at Michael with new interest. The cracked face had seemed