The Godfather 11 страница

Mulberry Street and so always went home for supper. Evenings he returned to his place

of business, dutifully joining those mourners paying their respects to the dead who lay in

state in his somber parlors.

He always resented the jokes made about his profession, the macabre (мрачный,

ужасный /франц./ [m∂'kα:br]; dance macabre – танец смерти /жанр средневекового

искусства/) technical details which were so unimportant. Of course none of his friends

or family or neighbors would make such jokes. Any profession was worthy of respect to

men who for centuries earned bread by the sweat of their brows.

Now at supper with his wife in their solidly furnished apartment, gilt statues of the

Virgin Mary with their red-glassed candles flickering on the sideboard, Bonasera lit a

Camel cigarette and took a relaxing glass of American whiskey. His wife brought

steaming plates of soup to the table. The two of them were alone now; he had sent his

daughter to live in Boston with her mother's sister, where she could forget her terrible

experience and her injuries at the hands of the two ruffians (хулиган, негодяй ['rΛfj∂n])

Don Corleone had punished.

As they ate their soup his wife asked, "Are you going back to work tonight?"

Amerigo Bonasera nodded. His wife respected his work but did not understand it. She

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

89

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."

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."

This frightened Amerigo Bonasera even more. He stuttered, "The Don himself is

coming to me tonight?"

"Yes," Hagen said.

"Then he's completely recovered from his injuries, thank God," Bonasera said. His

voice made it a question.

There was a pause at the other end of the phone, then Hagen's voice said very quietly,

"Yes." There was a click and the phone went dead.

Bonasera was sweating. He went into the bedroom and changed his shirt and rinsed

his mouth. But he didn't shave or use a fresh tie. He put on the same one he had used

during the day. He called the funeral parlor and told his assistant to stay with the

bereaved family using the front parlor that night. He himself would be busy in the

laboratory working area of the building. When the assistant started asking questions

Bonasera cut him off very curtly and told him to follow orders exactly.

He put on his suit jacket and his wife, still eating, looked up at him in surprise. "I have

work to do," he said and she did not dare question him because of the look on his face.

Bonasera went out of the house and walked the few blocks to his funeral parlor.

This building stood by itself on a large lot with a white picket fence running all around

it. There was a narrow roadway leading from the street to the rear, just wide enough for

ambulances and hearses (hearse [h∂:s] – катафалк, похоронные дроги). Bonasera

unlocked the gate and left it open. Then he walked to the rear of the building and

entered it through the wide door there. As he did so he could see mourners already

entering the front door of the funeral parlor to pay their respects to the current corpse.

Many years ago when Bonasera had bought this building from an undertaker planning

to retire, there had been a stoop of about ten steps that mourners had to mount before

entering the funeral parlor. This had posed a problem. Old and crippled mourners

determined to pay their respects had found the steps almost impossible to mount, so

the former undertaker had used the freight elevator for these people, a small metal

platform, that rose out of the ground beside the building. The elevator was for coffins

and bodies. It would descend underground, then rise into the funeral parlor itself, so that

a crippled mourner would find himself rising through the floor beside the coffin as other

mourners moved their black chairs aside to let the elevator rise through the trapdoor

(люк, опускная дверь; trap – ловушка, капкан; /вентиляционная/ дверь /в шахте/).

Then when the crippled or aged mourner (скорбящий; to mourn – скорбеть,

оплакивать /кого-либо/) had finished paying his respects, the elevator would again

come up through the polished floor to take him down and out again.

Amerigo Bonasera had found this solution to the problem unseemly (неподобающий,

непристойный) and penny-pinching (мелочный, скаредный, экономящий на копейке;

to pinch – щипать; сжимать; скупиться). So he had had the front of the building

remodeled, the stoop done away with and a slightly inclining walk put in its place. But of

course the elevator was still used for coffins and corpses.

In the rear of the building, cut off from the funeral parlor and reception rooms by a

massive soundproof (звуконепроницаемый) door, was the business office, the

embalming (to embalm [ım'bα:m] – бальзамировать; balm – бальзам) room, a

storeroom for coffins, and a carefully locked closet holding chemicals and the awful

tools of his trade. Bonasera went to the office, sat at his desk and lit up a Camel, one of

the few times he had ever smoked in this building. Then he waited for Don Corleone.

He waited with a feeling of the utmost despair. For he had no doubt as to what

services he would be called upon to perform. For the last year the Corleone Family had

waged war against the five great Mafia Families of New York and the carnage had filled

the newspapers. Many men on both sides had been killed. Now the Corleone Family

had killed somebody so important that they wished to hide his body, make it disappear,

and what better way than to have it officially buried by a registered undertaker? And

Amerigo Bonasera had no illusions about the act he was to commit. He would be an

accessory to murder. If it came out, he would spend years in jail. His daughter and wife

would be disgraced, his good name, the respected name of Amerigo Bonasera,

dragged through the bloody mud of the Mafia war.

He indulged himself (позволил себе) by smoking another Camel. And then he

thought of something even more terrifying. When the other Mafia Families found out that

he had aided the Corleones they would treat him as an enemy. They would murder him.

And now he cursed the day he had gone to the Godfather and begged for his

vengeance. He cursed the day his wife and the wife of Don Corleone had become

friends. He cursed his daughter and America and his own success. And then his

optimism returned. It could all go well. Don Corleone was a clever man. Certainly

everything had been arranged to keep the secret. He had only to keep his nerve. For of

course the one thing more fatal than any other was to earn the Don's displeasure.

He heard tires on gravel. His practiced ear told him a car was coming through the

narrow driveway and parking in the back yard. He opened the rear door to let them in.

The huge fat man, Clemenza, entered, followed by two very rough-looking young

fellows. They searched the rooms without saying a word to Bonasera, then Clemenza

went out. The two young men remained with the undertaker.

A few moments later Bonasera recognized the sound of a heavy ambulance coming

through the narrow driveway. Then Clemenza appeared in the doorway followed by two

men carrying a stretcher (носилки; to stretch – растягивать/ся/, вытягивать/ся/). And

Amerigo Bonasera's worst fears were realized. On the stretcher was a corpse swaddled

(to swaddle – пеленать, свивать /младенца/) in a gray blanket but with bare yellow

feet sticking out the end.

Clemenza motioned the stretcher-bearers into the embalming room. And then from

the blackness of the yard another man stepped into the lighted office room. It was Don

Corleone.

The Don had lost weight during his illness and moved with a curious stiffness. He was

holding his hat in his hands and his hair seemed thin over his massive skull. He looked

older, more shrunken than when Bonasera had seen him at the wedding, but he still

radiated power. Holding his hat against his chest, he said to Bonasera, "Well, old friend,

are you ready to do me this service?"

Bonasera nodded. The Don followed the stretcher into the embalming room and

Bonasera trailed after him. The corpse was on one of the guttered (gutter –

водосточный желоб, сточная канавка) tables. Don Corleone made a tiny gesture with

his hat and the other men left the room.

Bonasera whispered, "What do you wish me to do?"

Don Corleone was staring at the table. "I want you to use all your powers, all your skill,

as you love me," he said. "I do not wish his mother to see him as he is." He went to the

table and drew down the gray blanket. Amerigo Bonasera against all his will, against all

his years of training and experience, let out a gasp of horror. On the embalming table

was the bullet-smashed face of Sonny Corleone. The left eye drowned in blood had a

star fracture (трещина, излом, разрыв) in its lens (линза; хрусталик глаза). The

bridge of his nose and left cheekbone were hammered into pulp.

For one fraction of a second the Don put out his hand to support himself against

Bonasera's body. "See how they have massacred my son," he said.

Chapter 19

Perhaps it was the stalemate that made Sonny Corleone embark on the bloody

course of attrition (трение, изнашивание от трения; истощение, изнурение) that

ended in his own death. Perhaps it was his dark violent nature given full rein. In any

case, that spring and summer he mounted senseless raids on enemy auxiliaries

(auxiliary [o:g’zılj∂rı] – вспомогательный; помощник). Tattaglia Family pimps (pimp –

сводник, сутенер) were shot to death in Harlem, dock goons (goon – головорез,

наемный бандит) were massacred. Union officials who owed allegiance to the Five

Families were warned to stay neutral, and when the Corleone bookmakers and shylocks

were still barred from the docks, Sonny sent Clemenza and his regime to wreak (давать

выход, волю чувству [ri:k], to wreak vengeance upon one’s enemy – отомстить врагу)

havoc (опустошение, разрушение ['hжv∂k]) upon the long shore.

This slaughter was senseless because it could not affect the outcome of the war.

Sonny was a brilliant tactician and won his brilliant victories. But what was needed was

the strategical genius of Don Corleone. The whole thing degenerated into such a deadly

guerrilla war that both sides found themselves losing a great deal of revenue and lives

to no purpose. The Corleone Family was finally forced to close down some of its most

profitable bookmaking stations, including the book given to son-in-law Carlo Rizzi for his

living. Carlo took to drink and running with chorus girls and giving his wife Connie a hard

time. Since his beating at the hands of Sonny he had not dared to hit his wife again but

he had not slept with her. Connie had thrown herself at his feet and he had spurned her,

as he thought, like a Roman, with exquisite patrician pleasure. He had sneered at her,

"Go call your brother and tell him I won't screw you, maybe he'll beat me up until I get a

hard on (эрекция)."

But he was in deadly fear of Sonny though they treated each other with cold

politeness. Carlo had the sense to realize that Sonny would kill him, that Sonny was a

man who could, with the naturalness of an animal, kill another man, while he himself

would have to call up all his courage, aIl his will, to commit murder. It never occurred to

Carlo that because of this he was a better man than Sonny Corleone, if such terms

could be used; he envied Sonny his awesome savagery, a savagery which was now

becoming a legend.

Tom Hagen, as the Consigliori, disapproved of Sonny's tactics and yet decided not to

protest to the Don simply because the tactics, to some extent, worked. The Five

Families seemed to be cowed (to cow – запугивать, усмирять), finally, as the attrition

went on, and their counterblows weakened and finally ceased altogether. Hagen at first

distrusted this seeming pacification of the enemy but Sonny was jubilant (ликующий,

торжествующий ['dGu:bıl∂nt]). "I'll pour it on," he told Hagen, "and then those bastards

will come begging for a deal."

Sonny was worried about other things. His wife was giving him a hard time because

the rumors had gotten to her that Lucy Mancini had bewitched her husband. And though

she joked publicly about her Sonny's equipment and technique, he had stayed away

from her too long and she missed him in her bed, and she was making life miserable for

him with her nagging.

In addition to this Sonny was under the enormous strain of being a marked man. He

had to be extraordinarily careful in all his movements and he knew that his visits to Lucy

Mancini had been charted by the enemy. But here he took elaborate precautions since

this was the traditional vulnerable spot. He was safe there. Though Lucy had not the

slightest suspicion, she was watched twenty-four hours a day by men of the Santino

regime and when an apartment became vacant on her floor it was immediately rented

by one of the most reliable men of that regime.

The Don was recovering and would soon be able to resume command. At that time

the tide of battle must swing to the Corleone Family. This Sonny was sure of.

Meanwhile he would guard his Family's empire, earn the respect of his father, and,

since the position was not hereditary to an absolute degree, cement his claim as heir to

the Corleone Empire.

But the enemy was making its plans. They too had analyzed the situation and had

come to the conclusion that the only way to stave off (предотвратить, отсрочить

/бедствие/; stave – палка, шест) complete defeat was to kill Sonny Corleone. They

understood the situation better now and felt it was possible to negotiate with the Don,

known for his logical reasonableness. They had come to hate Sonny for his

bloodthirstiness, which they considered barbaric. Also not good business sense.

Nobody wanted the old days back again with all its turmoil (суматоха, беспорядок

['t∂:moıl]) and trouble.

One evening Connie Corleone received an anonymous phone call, a girl's voice,

asking for Carlo. "Who is this?" Connie asked.

The girl on the other end giggled and said, "I'm a friend of Carlo's. I just wanted to tell

him I can't see him tonight. I have to go out of town."

"You lousy bitch," Connie Corleone said. She screamed it again into the phone. "You

lousy tramp bitch." There was a click on the other end.

Carlo had gone to the track for that afternoon and when he came home in the late

evening he was sore at losing and half drunk from the bottle he always carried. As soon

as he stepped into the door, Connie started screaming curses at him. He ignored her

and went in to take a shower. When he came out he dried his naked body in front of her

and started dolling up (to doll up – наряжать/ся/; doll – кукла) to go out.

Connie stood with hands on hips, her face pointy (заостренный) and white with rage.

"You're not going any place," she said. "Your girl friend called and said she can't make it

tonight. You lousy bastard, you have the nerve to give your whores my phone number.

I'll kill you, you bastard." She rushed at him, kicking and scratching.

He held her off with one muscular forearm. "You're crazy," he said coldly. But she

could see he was worried, as if he knew the crazy girl he was screwing would actually

pull such a stunt (удачное, эффектное выступление; штука, трюк, фокус). "She was

kidding around, some nut," Carlo said.

Connie ducked (to duck – нырять, увертываться; duck – утка) around his arm and

clawed (to claw – царапать; claw – коготь) at his face. She got a little bit of his cheek

under her fingernails. With surprising patience he pushed her away. She noticed he was

96

careful because of her pregnancy and that gave her the courage to feed her rage. She

was also excited. Pretty soon she wouldn't be able to do anything, the doctor had said

no sex for the last two months and she wanted it, before the last two months started.

Yet her wish to inflict a physical injury on Carlo was very real too. She followed him into

the bedroom.

She could see he was scared and that filled her with contemptuous delight. "You're

staying home," she said, "you're not going out."

"OK, OK," he said. He was still undressed, only wearing his shorts. He liked to go

around the house like that, he was proud of his V-shaped body, the golden skin. Connie

looked at him hungrily. He tried to laugh. "You gonna give me something to eat at

least?"

That mollified (to mollify – смягчить) her, his calling on her duties, one of them at

least. She was a good cook, she had learned that from her mother. She sauteed (to

sautй – потушить, приготовить что-либо быстро в небольшом количестве масла

или жира) veal and peppers, preparing a mixed salad while the pan simmered (to

simmer – закипать; кипеть на медленном огне). Meanwhile Carlo stretched out on his

bed to read the next day's racing form. He had a water glass full of whiskey beside him

which he kept sipping at.

Connie came into the bedroom. She stood in the doorway as if she could not come

close to the bed without being invited. "The food is on the table," she said.

"I'm not hungry yet," he said, still reading the racing form.

"It's on the table," Connie said stubbornly.

"Stick it up your ass," Carlo said. He drank off the rest of the whiskey in the water

glass, tilted the bottle to fill it again. He paid no more attention to her.

Connie went into the kitchen, picked up the plates filled with food and smashed them

against the sink. The loud crashes brought Carlo in from the bedroom. He looked at the

greasy veal and peppers splattered all over the kitchen walls and his finicky

(разборчивый, мелочно требовательный) neatness was outraged. "You filthy guinea

spoiled brat," he said venomously. "Clean that up right now or I'll kick the shit out of

you."

"Like hell I will," Connie said. She held her hands like claws ready to scratch his bare

chest to ribbons.

Carlo went back into the bedroom and when he came out he was holding his belt

doubled in his hand. "Clean it up," he said and there was no mistaking the menace in

his voice. She stood there not moving and he swung the belt against her heavily padded

97

hips, the leather stinging but not really hurting. Connie retreated to the kitchen cabinets