Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

did not understand that the technical part of his profession was the least important. She

thought, like most other people, that he was paid for his skill in making the dead look so

lifelike in their coffins. And indeed his skill in this was legendary. But even more

important, even more necessary was his physical presence at the wake

(бодрствование; поминки /перед погребением/). When the bereaved family

(скорбящая, понесшая потерю семья; to bereave – лишать, отнимать) came at night

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to receive their blood relatives and their friends beside the coffin of their loved one, they

needed Amerigo Bonasera with them.

For he was a strict chaperone (опекун, сопровождающий; chaperone – пожилая

дама, сопровождающия молодую девушку на балы и пр.; компаньонка [‘∫жp∂r∂un])

to death. His face always grave, yet strong and comforting, his voice unwavering, yet

muted to a low register, he commanded the mourning ritual. He could quiet grief that

was too unseemly, he could rebuke (упрекать, делать выговор [rı’bju:k]) unruly

children whose parents had not the heart to chastise (подвергать наказанию

/особенно телесному/ [t∫жs’taız]). Never cloying (слащав; to cloy – пресыщать) in the

tender of his condolences, yet never was he offhand (импровизированный; /здесь/

бесцеремонный). Once a family used Amerigo Bonasera to speed a loved one on

(проводить, отправить в последний путь близкого человека), they came back to him

again and again. And he never, never, deserted one of his clients on that terrible last

night above ground.

Usually he allowed himself a little nap after supper. Then he washed and shaved

afresh, talcum powder generously used to shroud (посыпать, укрыть; shroud – саван;

пелена, покров) the heavy black beard. A mouthwash always. He respectfully changed

into fresh linen, white gleaming shirt, the black tie, a freshly pressed dark suit, dull black

shoes and black socks. And yet the effect was comforting instead of somber. He also

kept his hair dyed black, an unheard-of frivolity in an Italian male of his generation; but

not out of vanity. Simply because his hair had turned a lively pepper and salt, a color

which struck him as unseemly for his profession.

After he finished his soup, his wife placed a small steak before him with a few forkfuls

of green spinach oozing yellow oil. He was a light eater. When he finished this he drank

a cup of coffee and smoked another Camel cigarette. Over his coffee he thought about

his poor daughter. She would never be the same. Her outward beauty had been

restored but there was the look of a frightened animal in her eyes that had made him

unable to bear the sight of her. And so they had sent her to live in Boston for a time.

Time would heal her wounds. Pain and terror was not so final as death, as he well knew.

His work made him an optimist.

He had just finished the coffee when his phone in the living room rang. His wife never

answered it when he was home, so he got up and drained his cup and stubbed out his

cigarette. As he walked to the phone he pulled off his tie and started to unbutton his

shirt, getting ready for his little nap. Then he picked up the phone and said with quiet

courtesy, "Hello."

The voice on the other end was harsh, strained. "This is Tom Hagen," it said. "I'm

calling for Don Corleone, at his request."

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Amerigo Bonasera felt the coffee churning (churn – маслобойка, мешалка; to churn

– взбивать /масло/; взбалтывать, вспенивать) sourly in his stomach, felt himself

going a little sick. It was more than a year since he had put himself in the debt of the

Don to avenge his daughter's honor and in that time the knowledge that he must pay

that debt had receded. He had been so grateful seeing the bloody faces of those two

ruffians that he would have done anything for the Don. But time erodes gratitude more

quickly than it does beauty. Now Bonasera felt the sickness of a man faced with

disaster. His voice faltered as he answered, "Yes, I understand. I'm

listening."

He was surprised at the coldness in Hagen's voice. The Consigliori had always been

a courteous man, though not Italian, but now he was being rudely brusque. "You owe

the Don a service," Hagen said. "He has no doubt that you will repay him. That you will

be happy to have this opportunity. In one hour, not before, perhaps later, he will be at

your funeral parlor to ask for your help. Be there to greet him. Don't have any people

who work for you there. Send them home. If you have any objections to this, speak now

and I'll inform Don Corleone. He has other friends who can do him this service."

Amerigo Bonasera almost cried out in his fright, "How can you think I would refuse the

Godfather? Of course I'll do anything he wishes. I haven't forgotten my debt. I'll go to my

business immediately, at once."

Hagen's voice was gentler now, but there was something strange about it. "Thank

you," he said. "The Don never doubted you. The question was mine. Oblige him tonight

and you can always come to me in any trouble, you'll earn my personal friendship."