Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

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/ ['bevı]) 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.

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, пылкая любовь; to crush – раздавить, сокрушить), it was

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.