Английский язык с Крестным Отцом
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Romeo to the village and parked it just outside the cafй. Calo and Fabrizzio were in the
back seat with their luparas and Michael told them they were to wait in the cafй, they
were not to come to the house. The cafй was closed but Vitelli was there waiting for
them, leaning against the railing of his empty terrace.
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They shook hands all around and Michael took the three packages, the presents, and
trudged (идти с трудом, устало тащиться) up the hill with Vitelli to his home. This
proved to be larger than the usual village hut, the Vitellis were not poverty-stricken.
Inside the house was familiar with statues of the Madonna entombed in glass, votive
(исполненный по обету; ['vutiv]) lights flickering redly at their feet. The two sons were
waiting, also dressed in their Sunday black. They were two sturdy young men just out of
their teens but looking older because of their hard work on the farm. The mother was a
vigorous woman, as stout as her husband. There was no sign of the girl.
After the introductions, which Michael did not even hear, they sat in the room that
might possibly have been a living room or just as easily the formal dining room. It was
cluttered with all kinds of furniture and not very large but for Sicily it was middle-class
splendor.
Michael gave Signor Vitelli and Signora Vitelli their presents. For the father it was a
gold cigar-cutter, for the mother a bolt (кусок, рулон /холста, шелковой материи/) of
the finest cloth purchasable in Palermo. He still had one package for the girl. His
presents were received with reserved thanks. The gifts were a little too premature, he
should not have given anything until his second visit.
The father said to him, in man-to-man country fashion, "Don't think we're so of no
account to welcome strangers into our house so easily. But Don Tommasino vouched
for you personally and nobody in this province would ever doubt the word of that good
man. And so we make you welcome. But I must tell you that if your intentions are
serious about my daughter, we will have to know a little more about you and your family.
You can understand, your family is from this country."
Michael nodded and said politely, "I will tell you anything you wish to know anytime."
Signor Vitelli held up a hand. "I'm not a nosy (носатый; любопытный) man. Let's see
if it's necessary first. Right now you're welcome in my house as a friend of Don
Tommasino."
Despite the drug painted inside his nose, Michael actually smelled the girl's presence
in the room. He turned and she was standing in the arched doorway that led to the back
of the house. The smell was of fresh flowers and lemon blossoms but she wore nothing
in her hair of jet black curls, nothing on her plain severe black dress, obviously her
Sunday best. She gave him a quick glance and a tiny smile before she cast her eyes
down demurely and sat down next to her mother.
Again Michael felt that shortness of breath, that flooding through his body of
something that was not so much desire as an insane possessiveness. He understood
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for the first time the classical jealousy of the Italian male. He was at that moment ready
to kill anyone who touched this girl, who tried to claim her, take her away from him. He
wanted to own her as wildly as a miser (скупец, скряга) wants to own gold coins, as
hungrily as a sharecropper (испольщик, издольщик) wants to own his own land.
Nothing was going to stop him from owning this girl, possessing her, locking her in a
house and keeping her prisoner only for himself. He didn't want anyone even to see her.
When she turned to smile at one of her brothers Michael gave that young man a
murderous look without even realizing it. The family could see it was a classical case of
the "thunderholt" and they were reassured. This young man would be putty (оконная
замазка; шпатлевка; послушное орудие, игрушка /в чьих-либо руках/) in their
daughter's hands until they were married. After that of course things would change but it
wouldn't matter.
Michael had bought himself some new clothes in Palermo and was no longer the
roughly dressed peasant, and it was obvious to the family that he was a Don of some
kind. His smashed face did not make him as evil-looking as he believed; because his
other profile was so handsome it made the disfigurement interesting even. And in any
case this was a land where to be called disfigured you had to compete with a host of
men who had suffered extreme physical misfortune.
Michael looked directly at the girl, the lovely ovals of her face. Her lips now he could
see were almost blue so dark was the blood pulsating in them. He said, not daring to
speak her name, "I saw you by the orange groves the other day. When you ran away. I