The Godfather 3 страница

his writing desk. Johnny tilted back (откинулся) and started making calls. His brain was

really whirring (to whirr – жужжать, шуметь) along. He called the author of the book,

the best-selling novel, on which his new film was based. The author was a guy his own

age who had come up the hard way and was now a celebrity in the literary world. He

had come out to Hollywood expecting to be treated like a wheel (что с ним будут

обращаться как с королем) and, like most authors, had been treated like shit. Johnny

had seen the humiliation of the author one night at the Brown Derby. The writer had

been fixed up with a well-known bosomy starlet for a date on the town and a sure

shack-up later. But while they were at dinner the starlet had deserted the famous author

because a ratty-looking movie comic had waggled (to waggle – помахивать,

покачивать) his finger at her. That had given the writer the right slant (наклон, склон;

быстрый взгляд; точка зрения, подход, мнение) on just who was who in the

Hollywood pecking (to peck – клевать /клювом/) order. It didn't matter that his book

had made him world famous. A starlet would prefer the crummiest (crummy –

крошащийся, рыхлый; никудышный, несчастный; to crum – раскрошить), the rattiest,

the phoniest movie wheel.

Now Johnny called the author at his New York home to thank him for the great part he

had written in his book for him. He flattered the shit out of the guy. Then casually he

asked him how he was doing on his next novel and what it was all about. He lit a cigar

while the author told him about a specially interesting chapter and then finally said,

"Gee, I'd like to read it when you're finished. How about sending me a copy? Maybe I

can get you a good deal for it, better than you got with Woltz."

The eagerness in the author's voice told him that he had guessed right. Woltz had

chiseled (надул: «обработал зубилом»: chisel [t∫ızl]) the guy, given him peanuts

(бесценок, «смешные деньги»; peanut – арахис, земляной орех) for the book.

Johnny mentioned that he might be in New York right after the holidays and would the

author want to come and have dinner with some of his friends. "I know a few good-

looking broads," Johnny said jokingly. The author laughed and said OK.

Next Johnny called up the director and cameraman on the film he had just finished to

thank them for having helped him in the film. He told them confidentially that he knew

Woltz had been against him and he doubly appreciated their help and that if there was

ever anything he could do for them they should just call.

Then he made the hardest call of all, the one to Jack Woltz. He thanked him for the

part in the picture and told him how happy he would be to work for him anytime. He did

this merely to throw Woltz off the track. He had always been very square, very straight.

In a few days Woltz would find out about his maneuvering and be astounded by the

treachery of this call, which was exactly what Johnny Fontane wanted him to feel.

After that he sat at the desk and puffed at his cigar. There was whiskey on a side

table but he had made some sort of promise to himself and Hagen that he wouldn't

drink. He shouldn't even be smoking. It was foolish; whatever was wrong with his voice

probably wouldn't be helped by knocking off drinking and smoking. Not too much, but

what the hell, it might help and he wanted all the percentages with him, now that he had

a fighting chance.

Now with the house quiet, his divorced wife sleeping, his beloved daughters sleeping,

he could think back to that terrible time in his life when he had deserted them. Deserted

them for a whore tramp of a bitch who was his second wife. But even now he smiled at

the thought of her, she was such a lovely broad in so many ways and, besides, the only

thing that saved his life was the day that he had made up his mind never to hate a

woman or, more specifically, the day he had decided he could not afford to hate his first

wife and his daughters, his girl friends, his second wife, and the girl friends after that,

right up to Sharon Moore brushing him off so that she could brag about refusing to

screw for the great Johnny Fontane.

He had traveled with the band singing and then he had become a radio star and a star

of the movie stage shows and then he had finally made it in the movies. And in all that

time he had lived the way he wanted to, screwed the women he wanted to, but he had

never let it affect his personal life. Then he had fallen for his soon to be second wife,

Margot Ashton; he had gone absolutely crazy for her. His career had gone to hell, his

voice had gone to hell, his family life had gone to hell. And there had come the day

when he was left without anything.

The thing was, he had always been generous and fair. He had given his first wife

everything he owned when he divorced her. He had made sure his two daughters would

get a piece of everything he made, every record, every movie, every club date. And

when he had been rich and famous he had refused his first wife nothing. He had helped

out all her brothers and sisters, her father and mother, the girl friends she had gone to

school with and their families. He had never been a stuck-up (высокомерный,

заносчивый, самодовольный) celebrity. He had sung at the weddings of his wife's two

younger sisters, something he hated to do. He had never refused her anything except

the complete surrender of his own personality.

And then when he had touched bottom, when he could no longer get movie work,

when he could no longer sing, when his second wife had betrayed him, he had gone to

spend a few days with Ginny and his daughters. He had more or less flung himself on

her mercy (сдался ей на милость) one night because he felt so lousy. That day he had

heard one of his recordings and he had sounded so terrible that he accused the sound

technicians of sabotaging the record. Until finally he had become convinced that that

was what his voice really sounded like. He had smashed the master record and refused

to sing anymore. He was so ashamed that he had not sung a note except with Nino at

Connie Corleone's wedding.

He had never forgotten the look on Ginny's face when she found out about all his

misfortunes. It had passed over her face only for a second but that was enough for him

never to forget it. It was a look of savage and joyful satisfaction. It was a look that could

only make him believe that she had contemptuously hated him all these years. She

quickly recovered and offered him cool but polite sympathy. He had pretended to accept

it. During the next few days he had gone to see three of the girls he had liked the most

over the years, girls he had remained friends with and sometimes still slept with in a

comradely way, girls that he had done everything in his power to help, girls to whom he

had given the equivalent of hundreds of thousands of dollars in gifts or job opportunities.

On their faces he had caught that same fleeting (to fleet – быстро двигаться,

проходить; скользить по поверхности) look of savage satisfaction.

It was during that time that he knew he had to make a decision. He could become like

a great many other men in Hollywood, successful producers, writers, directors, actors,

who preyed (to prey – охотиться; prey – добыча) on beautiful women with lustful

hatred. He could use power and monetary favors grudgingly, always alert for treason,

always believing that women would betray and desert him, adversaries to be bested

(противники, над которыми нужно взять верх, которых надо перехитрить). Or he

could refuse to hate women and continue to believe in them.

He knew he could not afford not to love them, that something of his spirit would die if

he did not continue to love women no matter how treacherous and unfaithful they were.

It didn't matter that the women he loved most in the world were secretly glad to see him

crushed, humiliated, by a wayward (своенравный, капризный, несговорчивый) fortune;

it did not matter that in the most awful way, not sexually, they had been unfaithful to him.

He had no choice. He had to accept them. And so he made love to all of them, gave

them presents, hid the hurt their enjoyment of his misfortunes gave him. He forgave

them knowing he was being paid back for having lived in the utmost freedom from

women and in the fullest flush (внезапный прилив; буйный рост, расцвет; изобилие)

of their flavor. But now he never felt guilty about being untrue to them. He never felt

guilty about how he treated Ginny, insisting on remaining the sole father of his children,

yet never even considering remarrying her, and letting her know that too. That was one

thing he had salvaged (to salvage [‘sжlvıdG] – спасать имущество /при

кораблекрушении, пожаре/) out of his fall from the top. He had grown a thick skin

about the hurts he gave women.

He was tired and ready for bed but one note of memory stuck with him: singing with

Nino Valenti. And suddenly he knew what would please Don Corleone more than

anything else. He picked up the phone and told the operator to get him New York. He

called Sonny Corleone and asked him for Nino Valenti's number. Then he called Nino.

Nino sounded a little drunk as usual.

"Hey, Nino, how'd you like to come out here and work for me," Johnny said. "I need a

guy I can trust."

Nino, kidding around, said, "Gee, I don't know, Johnny, I got a good job on the truck,

boffing (boff – зад /сленг/; to boff – хлопнуть, шлепнуть; трахнуть, перепихнуться

/мягкое выражение/) housewives along my route, picking up a clear hundred-fifty every

week. What you got to offer?"

"I can start you at five hundred and get you blind dates with movie stars, how's that?"

Johnny said. "And maybe I'll let you sing at my parties."

"Yeah, OK, let me think about it." Nino said. "Let me talk it over with my lawyer and

my accountant and my helper on the truck."

"Hey, no kidding around, Nino," Johnny said. "I need you out here. I want you to fly

out tomorrow morning and sign a personal contract for five hundred a week for a year.

Then if you steal one of my broads and I fire you, you pick up at least a year's salary.

OK?"

There was a long pause. Nino's voice was sober. "Hey, Johnny, you kidding?"

Johnny said, "I'm serious, kid. Go to my agent's office in New York. They'll have your

plane ticket and some cash. I'm gonna call them first thing in the morning. So you go up

there in the afternoon. OK? Then I'll have somebody meet you at the plane and bring

you out to the house."

Again there was a long pause and then Nino's voice, very subdued (приглушенный,

смягченный), uncertain, said, "OK, Johnny." He didn't sound drunk anymore.

Johnny hung up the phone and got ready for bed. He felt better than any time since

he had smashed that master record.

Chapter 13

Johnny Fontane sat in the huge recording studio and figured costs on a yellow pad.

Musicians were filing in, all of them friends he had known since he was a kid singer with

the bands. The conductor, top man in the business of pop accompaniment and a man

who had been kind to him when things went sour, was giving each musician bundles of

music and verbal instructions. His name was Eddie Neils. He had taken on this

recording as a favor to Johnny, though his schedule (расписание, график [‘∫edju:l]) was

crowded.

Nino Valenti was sitting at a piano fooling around nervously with the keys. He was

also sipping from a huge glass of rye. Johnny didn't mind that. He knew Nino sang just

as well drunk as sober and what they were doing today wouldn't require any real

musicianship on Nino's part.

Eddie Neils had made special arrangements of some old Italian and Sicilian songs,

and a special job on the duel-duet song that Nino and Johnny had sung at Connie

Corleone's wedding. Johnny was making the record primarily because he knew that the

Don loved such songs and it would be a perfect Christmas gift for him. He also had a

hunch (горб; предчувствие) that the record would sell in the high numbers, not a

million, of course. And he had figured out that helping Nino was how the Don wanted his

payoff. Nino was, after all, another one of the Don's godchildren.

Johnny put his clipboard and yellow pad on the folding chair beside him and got up to

stand beside the piano. He said, "Hey, paisan (земляк – сицилийск.)," and Nino

glanced up and tried to smile. He looked a little sick. Johnny leaned over and rubbed his

shoulder blades. "Relax, kid," he said. "Do a good job today and I'll fix you up with the

best and most famous piece of ass in Hollywood."

Nino took a gulp of whiskey. "Who's that, Lassie?"

Johnny laughed. "No, Deanna Dunn. I guarantee the goods (the goods – требуемые

качества; именно то, что нужно)."

Nino was impressed but couldn't help saying with pseudo-hopefulness, "You can't get

me Lassie?"

The orchestra swung into the opening song of the medley (смесь; попурри). Johnny

Fontane listened intently. Eddie Neils would play all the songs through in their special

arrangements. Then would come the first take (выручка) for the record. As Johnny

listened he made mental notes on exactly how he would handle each phrase, how he

would come into each song. He knew his voice wouldn't last long, but Nino would be

doing most of the singing, Johnny would be singing under him. Except of course in the

duet-duel song. He would have to save himself for that.

He pulled Nino to his feet and they both stood by their microphones. Nino flubbed (to

flub – сделать неудачно, совершить промах) the opening, flubbed it again. His face

was beginning to get red with embarrassment. Johnny kidded him, "Hey, you stalling (to

stall – ставить в стойло; застревать; останавливать, задерживать) for overtime?"

"I don't feel natural without my mandolin," Nino said.

Johnny thought that over for a moment. "Hold that glass of booze in your hand," he

said. It seemed to do the trick. Nino kept drinking from the glass as he sang but he was

doing fine. Johnny sang easily, not straining, his voice merely dancing around Nino's

main melody. There was no emotional satisfaction in this kind of singing but he was

amazed at his own technical skill. Ten years of vocalizing had taught him something.

When they came to the duet-duel song that ended the record, Johnny let his voice go

and when they finished his vocal chords ached. The musicians had been carried away

by the last song, a rare thing for these calloused (callous ['kжl∂s] – огрубелый:

«мозолистый») veterans. They hammered down their instruments and stamped their

feet in approval as applause. The drummer gave them a ruffle (дробь барабана) of

drums.

With stops and conferences they worked nearly four hours before they quit. Eddie

Neils came over to Johnny and said quietly, "You sounded pretty good, kid. Maybe

you're ready to do a record. I have a new song that's perfect for you."

Johnny shook his head. "Come on, Eddie, don't kid me. Besides in a couple of hours

I'll be too hoarse to even talk. Do you think we'll have to fix up much of the stuff we did

today?"

Eddie said thoughtfully, "Nino will have to come into the studio tomorrow. He made

some mistakes. But he's much better than I thought he would be. As for your stuff, I'll

have the sound engineers fix anything I don't like. OK?"

"OK," Johnny said. "When can I hear the pressing (запись /на пластинку,

граммофонную/)?"

"Tomorrow night," Eddie Neils said. "Your place?"

"Yeah," Johnny said. "Thanks, Eddie. See you tomorrow." He took Nino by the arm

and walked out of the studio. They went to his house instead of Ginny's.

25

By this time it was late afternoon. Nino was still more than half-drunk. Johnny told him

to get under the shower and then take a snooze (короткий сон /днем/). They had to be

at a big party at eleven that night.

When Nino woke up, Johnny briefed him. "This party is a movie star Lonely Hearts

Club," he said. "These broads tonight are dames you've seen in the movies as glamour

(чары; романтический ореол, очарование; эффектный ['glжm∂]) queens millions of

guys would give their right arms to screw. And the only reason they'll be at the party

tonight is to find somebody to shack them up. Do you know why? Because they are

hungry for it, they are just a little old. And just like every dame, they want it with a little

bit of class."

"What's the matter with your voice?" Nino asked.

Johnny had been speaking almost in a whisper. "Every time after I sing a little bit that

happens. I won't be able to sing for a month now. But I'll get over the hoarseness in a

couple of days."

Nino said thoughtfully, "Tough, huh?"

Johnny shrugged. "Listen, Nino, don't get too drunk tonight. You have to show these

Hollywood broads that my paisan buddy ain't weak in the poop (корма). You gotta come

across. Remember, some of these dames are very powerful in movies, they can get you

work. It doesn't hurt to be charming after you knock off a piece (кое-что урвешь)."

Nino was already pouring himself a drink. "I'm always charming," he said. He drained

the glass. Grinning, he asked, "No kidding, can you really get me close to Deanna

Dunn?"

"Don't be so anxious," Johnny said. "It's not going to be like you think."

The Hollywood Movie Star Lonely Hearts Club (so called by the young juvenile leads

whose attendance was mandatory (обязательный, принудительный)) met every

Friday night at the palatial, studio-owned home of Roy McElroy, press agent or rather

public relations counsel for the Woltz International Film Corporation. Actually, though it

was McElroy's open house party, the idea had come from the practical brain of Jack

Woltz himself. Some of his money-making movie stars were getting older now. Without

the help of special lights and genius makeup men they looked their age. They were

having problems. They had also become, to some extent, desensitized (стали

бесчувственны, чувства их атрофировались, притупились) physically and mentally.

They could no longer "fall in love." They could no longer assume the role of hunted

women. They had been made too imperious; by money, by fame, by their former beauty.

Woltz gave his parties so that it would be easier for them to pick up lovers, one-night

stands, who, if they had the stuff (если окажутся способны, если есть в них этот

талант), could graduate into full-time bed partners and so work their way upward. Since

the action sometimes degenerated into brawls (brawl – шумная ссора, скандал) or

sexual excess that led to trouble with the police, Woltz decided to hold the parties in the

house of the public relations counselor, who would be right there to fix things up, pay off

newsmen and police officers and keep everything quiet.

For certain virile young male actors on the studio payroll who had not yet achieved

stardom (положение ‘звезды’) or featured roles (feature – полнометражный фильм),

attendance at the Friday night parties was not always pleasant duty. This was explained

by the fact that a new film yet to be released by the studio would be shown at the party.

In fact that was the excuse for the party itself. People would say, "Let's go over to see

what the new picture so and so made is like." And so it was put in a professional context.

Young female starlets were forbidden to attend the Friday night parties. Or rather

discouraged. Most of them took the hint.

Screenings (screening – демонстрация фильма; screen – ширма; экран) of the new

movies took place at midnight and Johnny and Nino arrived at eleven. Roy McElroy

proved to be, at first sight, an enormously likable man, well-groomed (хорошо

ухоженный /о лошади/; холеный), beautifully dressed. He greeted Johnny Fontane

with a surprised cry of delight. "What the hell are you doing here?" he said with genuine

astonishment.

Johnny shook his hand. "I'm showing my country cousin the sights. Meet Nino."

McElroy shook hands with Nino and gazed at him appraisingly. "They'll eat him up

alive," he said to Johnny. He led them to the rear patio.

The rear patio was really a series of huge rooms whose glass doors had been opened

to a garden and pool. There were almost a hundred people milling around (двигались

кругом, кружили; to mill – молоть; mill – мельница), all with drinks in their hands. The

patio lighting was artfully arranged to flatter feminine faces and skin. These were

women Nino had seen on the darkened movie screens when he had been a teenager.

They had played their part in his erotic dreams of adolescence. But seeing them now in

the flesh was like seeing them in some horrible makeup. Nothing could hide the

tiredness of their spirit and their flesh; time had eroded (to erode – разъедать,

разрушать) their godhead. They posed and moved as charmingly as he remembered

but they were like wax fruit, they could not lubricate his glands («смазать» его железы,

гланды). Nino took two drinks, wandered to a table where he could stand next to a nest

of bottles. Johnny moved with him. They drank together until behind them came the

magic voice of Deanna Dunn.

Nino, like millions of other men, had that voice imprinted on his brain forever. Deanna

Dunn had won two Academy Awards, had been in the biggest movie grosser (фильм,

приносящий огромный доход) made in Hollywood. On the screen she had a feline

(кошачий ['fi:laın]) feminine charm that made her irresistible to all men. But the words

she was saying had never been heard on the silver screen. "Johnny, you bastard, I had

to go to my psychiatrist again because you gave me a one-night stand. How come you

never came back for seconds?"

Johnny kissed her on her proffered (to proffer – предлагать) cheek. "You wore me

out for a month," he said. "I want you to meet my cousin Nino. A nice strong Italian boy.

Maybe he can keep up with you (держаться наравне; составить компанию)."

Deanna Dunn turned to give Nino a cool look. "Does he like to watch previews?"

Johnny laughed. "I don't think he's ever had the chance. Why don't you break him in?"

Nino had to take a big drink when he was alone with Deanna Dunn. He was trying to

be nonchalant (беспечный, беззаботный ['non∫∂l∂nt]) but it was hard. Deanna Dunn

had the upturned nose, the clean-cut classical features of the Anglo-Saxon beauty. And

he knew her so well. He had seen her alone in a bedroom, heart-broken, weeping over

her dead flier husband who had left her with fatherless children. He had seen her angry,

hurt, humiliated, yet with a shining dignity when a caddish (грубый, вульгарный) Clark