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wine. The grapes come from my own farm and it's made by my sons themselves. They

mix it with oranges and lemons. It's the best wine in Italy."

They let him bring the wine in a jug and it was even better than he claimed, dark

purple and as powerful as a brandy. Fabrizzio said to the cafй proprietor, "You know all

the girls here, I'll bet. We saw some beauties coming down the road, one in particular

got our friend here hit with the thunderholt." He motioned to Michael.

The cafй owner looked at Michael with new interest. The cracked face had seemed

quite ordinary to him before, not worth a second glance. But a man hit with the

thunderbolt was another matter. "You had better bring a few bottles home with you, my

friend," he said. "You'll need help in getting to sleep tonight."

Michael asked the man, "Do you know a girl with her hair all curly? Very creamy skin,

very big eves, very dark eyes. Do you know a girl like that in the village?"

The cafй owner said curtly, "No. I don't know any girl like that." He vanished from the

terrace into his cafй.

The three men drank their wine slowly, finished off the jug and called for more. The

owner did not reappear. Fabrizzio went into the cafй after him. When Fabrizzio came

out he grimaced and said to Michael, "Just as I thought, it's his daughter we were

talking about and now he's in the back boiling up his blood to do us a mischief. I think

we'd better start walking toward Corleone."

Despite his months on the island Michael still could not get used to the Sicilian

touchiness on matters of sex, and this was extreme even for a Sicilian. But the two

shepherds seemed to take it as a matter of course. They were waiting for him to leave.

Fabrizzio said, "The old bastard mentioned he has two sons, big tough lads that he has

only to whistle up. Let's get going."

Michael gave him a cold stare. Up to now he had been a quiet, gentle young man, a

typical American, except that since he was hiding in Sicily he must have done

something manly. This was the first time the shepherds had seen the Corleone stare.

Don Tommasino, knowing Michael's true identity and deed, had always been wary

(осторожный, настороженный ['wε∂rı]) of him, treating him as a fellow "man of

respect." But these unsophisticated sheep herders had come to their own opinion of

Michael, and not a wise one. The cold look, Michael's rigid white face, his anger that

came off him like cold smoke off ice, sobered their laughter and snuffed out (snuff –

нагар на свече; to snuff out – потушить /свечу/; разрушить, подавить) their familiar

friendliness.

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When he saw he had their proper, respectful attention Michael said to them, "Get that

man out here to me."

They didn't hesitate. They shouldered their luparas and went into the dark coolness of

the cafй. A few seconds later they reappeared with the cafй owner between them. The

stubby man looked in no way frightened but his anger had a certain wariness about it.

Michael leaned back in his chair and studied the man for a moment. Then he said

very quietly, "I understand I've offended you by talking about your daughter. I offer you

my apologies, I'm a stranger in this country, I don't know the customs that well. Let me

say this. I meant no disrespect to you or her." The shepherd bodyguards were

impressed. Michael's voice had never sounded like this before when speaking to them.

There was command and authority in it though he was making an apology. The cafй

owner shrugged, more wary still, knowing he was not dealing with some farmboy. "Who

are you and what do you want from my daughter?"

Without even hesitating Michael said, "I am an American hiding in Sicily, from the

police of my country. My name is Michael. You can inform the police and make your

fortune but then your daughter would lose a father rather than gain a husband. In any

case I want to meet your daughter. With your permission and under the supervision of

your family. With all decorum. With all respect. I'm an honorable man and I don't think of

dishonoring your daughter. I want to meet her, talk to her and then if it hits us both right

we'll marry. If not, you'll never see me again. She may find me unsympathetic after all,

and no I man can remedy that. But when the proper time comes I'll tell you everything

about me that a wife's father should know."

All three men were looking at him with amazement. Fabrizzio whispered in awe, "It's

the real thunderbolt." The cafй owner, for the first time, didn't look so confident, or

contemptuous; his anger was not so sure. Finally he asked, "Are you a friend of the

friends?"

Since the word Mafia could never be uttered aloud by the ordinary Sicilian, this was as

close as the cafй owner could come to asking if Michael was a member of the Mafia. It

was the usual way of asking if someone belonged but it was ordinarily not addressed to

the person directly concerned.

"No," Michael said. "I'm a stranger in this country."

The cafй owner gave him another look, the smashed left side of his face, the long legs

rare in Sicily. He took a look at the two shepherds carrying their luparas quite openly

without fear and remembered how they had come into his cafй and told him their

padrone wanted to talk to him. The cafй owner had snarled (рычать; огрызаться,

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сердито ворчать) that he wanted the son of a bitch out of his terrace and one of the

shepherds had said, "Take my word, it's best you go out and speak to him yourself."

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And something had made him come out. Now something made him realize that it would

be best to show this stranger some courtesy. He said grudgingly, "Come Sunday

afternoon. My name is Vitelli and my house is up there on the hill, above the village. But

come here to the cafй and I'll take you up."

Fabrizzio started to say something but Michael gave him one look and the shepherd's

tongue froze in his mouth. This was not lost on Vitelli. So when Michael stood up and

stretched out his hand, the cafй owner took it and smiled. He would make some

inquiries and if the answers were wrong he could always greet Michael with his two

sons bearing their own shotguns. The cafй owner was not without his contacts among

the "friends of the friends." But something told him this was one of those wild strokes of

good fortune that Sicilians always believed in, something told him that his daughter's

beauty would make her fortune and her family secure. And it was just as well. Some of

the local youths were already beginning to buzz around (виться, увиваться; to buzz –

жужжать, гудеть) and this stranger with his broken face could do the necessary job of

scaring them off. Vitelli, to show his goodwill, sent the strangers off with a bottle of his

best and coldest wine. He noticed that one of the shepherds paid the bill. This

impressed him even more, made it clear that Michael was the superior of the two men

who accompanied him.

Michael was no longer interested in his hike. They found a garage and hired a car and

driver to take them back to Corleone, and some time before supper, Dr. Taza must have

been informed by the shepherds of what had happened. That evening, sitting in the

garden, Dr. Taza said to Don Tommasino, "Our friend got hit by the thunderbolt today."

Don Tommasino did not seem surprised. He grunted. "I wish some of those young

fellows in Palermo would get a thunderbolt, maybe I could get some peace." He was

talking about the new-style Mafia chiefs rising in the big cities of Palermo and

challenging the power of old-regime stalwarts like himself.

Michael said to Tommasino, "I want you to tell those two sheep herders to leave me

alone Sunday. I'm going to go to this girl's family for dinner and I don't want them

hanging around."

Don Tommasino shook his head. "I'm responsible to your father for you, don't ask me

that. Another thing, I hear you've even talked marriage. I can't allow that until I've sent

somebody to speak to your father."

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Michael Corleone was very careful, this was after all a man of respect. "Don

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Tommasino, you know my father. He's a man who goes deaf when somebody says the

word no to him. And he doesn't get his hearing back until they answer him with a yes.

Well, he has heard my no many times. I understand about the two guards, I don't want

to cause you trouble, they can come with me Sunday, but if I want to marry I'll marry.

Surely if I don't permit my own father to interfere with my personal life it would be an

insult to him to allow you to do so."

The capo-mafioso sighed. "Well, then, marriage it will have to be. I know your

thunderbolt. She's a good girl from a respectable family. You can't dishonor them

without the father trying to kill you, and then you'll have to shed blood. Besides, I know

the family well, I can't allow it to happen."

Michael said, "She may not be able to stand the sight of me, and she's a very young

girl, she'll think me old." He saw the two men smiling at him. "I'll need some money for

presents and I think I'll need a car."

The Don nodded. "Fabrizzio will take care of everything, he's a clever boy, they taught

him mechanics in the navy. I'll give you some money in the morning and I'll let your

father know what's happening. That I must do."

Michael said to Dr. Taza, "Have you got anything that can dry up this damn snot

(сопли /груб./) always coming out of my nose? I can't have that girl seeing me wiping it

all the time."

Dr. Taza said, "I'll coat (покрывать) it with a drug before you have to see her. It

makes your flesh a little numb (онемелый [nΛm]) but, don't worry, you won't be kissing

her for a while yet." Both doctor and Don smiled at this witticism.

By Sunday, Michael had an Alfa Romeo, battered (to batter – сильно бить, колотить;

плющить /металл/) but serviceable. He had also made a bus trip to Palermo to buy

presents for the girl and her family. He had learned that the girl's name was Apollonia

and every night he thought of her lovely face and her lovely name. He had to drink a

good deal of wine to get some sleep and orders were given to the old women servants

in the house to leave a chilled bottle at his bedside. He drank it empty every night.

On Sunday, to the tolling of church bells that covered all of Sicily, he drove the Alfa

Romeo to the village and parked it just outside the cafй. Calo and Fabrizzio were in the

back seat with their luparas and Michael told them they were to wait in the cafй, they

were not to come to the house. The cafй was closed but Vitelli was there waiting for

them, leaning against the railing of his empty terrace.

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They shook hands all around and Michael took the three packages, the presents, and

trudged (идти с трудом, устало тащиться) up the hill with Vitelli to his home. This

proved to be larger than the usual village hut, the Vitellis were not poverty-stricken.

Inside the house was familiar with statues of the Madonna entombed in glass, votive

(исполненный по обету; ['v∂utıv]) lights flickering redly at their feet. The two sons were

waiting, also dressed in their Sunday black. They were two sturdy young men just out of

their teens but looking older because of their hard work on the farm. The mother was a

vigorous woman, as stout as her husband. There was no sign of the girl.

After the introductions, which Michael did not even hear, they sat in the room that

might possibly have been a living room or just as easily the formal dining room. It was

cluttered with all kinds of furniture and not very large but for Sicily it was middle-class

splendor.

Michael gave Signor Vitelli and Signora Vitelli their presents. For the father it was a

gold cigar-cutter, for the mother a bolt (кусок, рулон /холста, шелковой материи/) of

the finest cloth purchasable in Palermo. He still had one package for the girl. His

presents were received with reserved thanks. The gifts were a little too premature, he

should not have given anything until his second visit.

The father said to him, in man-to-man country fashion, "Don't think we're so of no

account to welcome strangers into our house so easily. But Don Tommasino vouched

for you personally and nobody in this province would ever doubt the word of that good

man. And so we make you welcome. But I must tell you that if your intentions are

serious about my daughter, we will have to know a little more about you and your family.

You can understand, your family is from this country."

Michael nodded and said politely, "I will tell you anything you wish to know anytime."

Signor Vitelli held up a hand. "I'm not a nosy (носатый; любопытный) man. Let's see

if it's necessary first. Right now you're welcome in my house as a friend of Don

Tommasino."

Despite the drug painted inside his nose, Michael actually smelled the girl's presence

in the room. He turned and she was standing in the arched doorway that led to the back

of the house. The smell was of fresh flowers and lemon blossoms but she wore nothing

in her hair of jet black curls, nothing on her plain severe black dress, obviously her

Sunday best. She gave him a quick glance and a tiny smile before she cast her eyes

down demurely and sat down next to her mother.

Again Michael felt that shortness of breath, that flooding through his body of

something that was not so much desire as an insane possessiveness. He understood

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for the first time the classical jealousy of the Italian male. He was at that moment ready