Английский язык с Крестным Отцом
Шрифт:
Only forty years of professional mourning kept the overwhelming frustration and hatred from showing on Amerigo Bonasera's face. His beautiful young daughter was still in the hospital with her broken jaw wired together; and now these two animales went free? It had all been a farce. He watched the happy parents cluster around their darling sons. Oh, they were all happy now, they were smiling now.
The black bile, sourly bitter, rose in Bonasera's throat, overflowed through tightly clenched teeth. He used his white linen pocket handkerchief and held it against his lips. He was standing so when the two young men strode freely up the aisle, confident and cool-eyed, smiling, not giving him so much as a glance. He let them pass without saying a word, pressing the fresh linen against his mouth.
The parents of the animales were coming by now, two men and two women his age but more American in their dress. They glanced at him, shamefaced, yet in their eyes was an odd, triumphant defiance.
Out of control, Bonasera leaned forward toward the aisle and shouted hoarsely, "You will weep as I have wept - I will make you weep as your children make me weep" - the linen at his eyes now. The defense attorneys bringing up the rear swept their clients forward in tight little band, enveloping the two young men, who had started back down the aisle as if to protect their parents. A huge bailiff moved quickly to block the row in which Bonasera stood. But it was not necessary.
All his years in America, Amerigo Bonasera had trusted in law and order. And he had prospered thereby. Now, though his brain smoked with hatred, though wild visions of buying a gun and killing the two young men jangled the very bones of his skull, Bonasera turned to his still uncomprehending wife and explained to her, "They have made fools of us." He paused and then made his decision, no longer fearing the cost. "For justice we must go on our knees to Don Corleone."
In a garishly (роскошно,
Gulping (потягивaя: «глотая») at his bottle of scotch, he heard finally his wife's key in the door, but he kept drinking until she walked into the room and stood before him. She was to him so very beautiful, the angelic face, soulful (живые, «одушевленные») violet eyes, the delicately fragile (нежно-хрупкое) but perfectly formed body. On the screen her beauty was magnified, spiritualized (на экране ее красота была возвеличенной, одухотворенной). A hundred million men all over the world were in love with the face of Margot Ashton. And paid to see it on the screen.
"Where the hell were you?" Johnny Fontane asked.
"Out fucking (да потрахаться ходила)," she said.
She had misjudged his drunkenness (неверно оценила его опьянение = степень его опьянения). He sprang over the cocktail table and grabbed her by the throat (схватил за глотку). But close up to that magical face, the lovely violet eyes, he lost his anger (утратил свою злобу) and became helpless again. She made the mistake of smiling mockingly (насмешливо), saw his fist draw back (увидела, что он снова занес кулак). She screamed, "Johnny, not in the face, I'm making a picture."
She was laughing. He punched her (ударил ее; to punch –
But he was not hitting her hard enough. He couldn't. And she was giggling (хихикала) at him. Spread-eagled (раскинувшись, распластавшись) on the floor, her brocaded gown (платье с бархатной оторочкой, с бархатными нашивками; brocade [bru’keid]) hitched up (задранное) above her thighs, she taunted him (насмехалась над ним) between giggles. "Come on, stick it in (воткни его). Stick it in, Johnny, that's what you really want."
Johnny Fontane got up. He hated the woman on the floor but her beauty was a magic shield. Margot rolled away (откатилась в сторону), and in a dancer's spring (прыжком танцовщицы) was on her feet facing him (напротив него, перед ним). She went into a childish mocking dance (она начала по-детски насмешливо пританцовывать) and chanted (напевала), "Johnny never hurt me, Johnny never hurt me." Then almost sadly (почти грустно, с досадой) with grave beauty (со строгой красотой) she said, "You poor silly bastard (жалкий, глупый выродок), giving me cramps (судороги /сводящие ноги/) like a kid. Ah, Johnny, you always will be a dumb romantic guinea (тупым индюком, глупым романтичным итальяшкой; guinea-hen – цесарка ['gini]; /сленг, презрит./ итальяшка), you even make love like a kid. You still think screwing is really like those dopey songs (глуповатые, жалкие, пошлые; dopey также – находящийся под воздействием dope - наркотика) you used to sing." She shook her head and said, "Poor Johnny. Good-bye, Johnny." She walked into the bedroom and he heard her turn the key in the lock (в замке).
Johnny sat on the floor with his face in his hands. The sick, humiliating despair overwhelmed him (унизительное, унижающее отчаяние одолевало, захлестывало его). And then the gutter toughness (упрямство, крепость уличного мальчишки; gutter – водосток, канава) that had helped him survive the jungle of Hollywood made him pick up the phone and call for a car to take him to the airport. There was one person who could save him. He would go back to New York. He would go back to the one man with the power, the wisdom, he needed and a love he still trusted. His Godfather Corleone.
In a garishly decorated Los Angeles hotel suite, Johnny Fontane was as jealously drunk as any ordinary husband. Sprawled on a red couch, he drank straight from the bottle of scotch in his hand, then washed the taste away by dunking his mouth in a crystal bucket of ice cubes and water. It was four in the morning and he was spinning drunken fantasies of murdering his trampy wife when she got home, if she ever did come home. It was too late to call his first wife and ask about the kids and he felt funny about calling any of his friends now that his career was plunging downhill. There had been a time when they would have been delighted, flattered by his calling them at four in the morning but now he bored them. He could even smile a little to himself as he thought that on the way up Johnny Fontane's troubles had fascinated some of the greatest female stars in America.
Gulping at his bottle of scotch, he heard finally his wife's key in the door, but he kept drinking until she walked into the room and stood before him. She was to him so very beautiful, the angelic face, soulful violet eyes, the delicately fragile but perfectly formed body. On the screen her beauty was magnified, spiritualized. A hundred million men all over the world were in love with the face of Margot Ashton. And paid to see it on the screen.
"Where the hell were you?" Johnny Fontane asked.