Английский язык с Крестным Отцом - Илья Франк

three hundred dollars. We'll have to pay."

Vito was astonished but was careful not to show his astonishment. "Why do we have

to pay him? What can he do to the three of us? We're stronger than him. We have guns.

Why do we have to hand over the money we earned?"

Clemenza explained patiently. "Fanucci has friends, real brutes. He has connections

with the police. He'd like us to tell him our plans because he could set us up for the cops

and earn their gratitude. Then they would owe him a favor. That’s how he operates. And

he has a license from Maranzalla himself to work this neighborhood." Maranzalla was a

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gangster often in the newspapers, reputed to be the leader of a criminal ring

specializing in extortion, gambling and armed robbery.

Clemenza served wine that he had made himself. His wife, after putting a plate of

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salami, olives and a loaf of Italian bread on the table, went down to sit with her women

cronies in front of the building, carrying her chair with her. She was a young Italian girl

only a few years in the country and did not yet understand English.

Vito Corleone sat with his two friends and drank wine. He had never used his

intelligence before as he was using it now. He was surprised at how clearly he could

think. He recalled everything he knew about Fanucci. He remembered the day the man

had had his throat cut and had run down the street holding his fedora under his chin to

catch the dripping blood. He remembered the murder of the man who had wielded the

knife and the other two having their sentences removed by paying an indemnity. And

suddenly he was sure that Fanucci had no great connections, could not possibly have.

Not a man who informed to the police. Not a man who allowed his vengeance to be

bought off. A real Mafioso chief would have had the other two men killed also. No.

Fanucci had got lucky and killed one man but had known he could not kill the other two

after they were alerted. And so he had allowed himself to be paid. It was the personal

brutal force of the man that allowed him to levy tribute (взимать налог: levy [‘levı]) on

the shopkeepers, the gambling games that ran in the tenement apartments. But Vito

Corleone knew of at least one gambling game that had never paid Fanucci tributes and

nothing had ever happened to the man running it.

And so it was Fanucci alone. Or Fanucci with some gunmen hired for special jobs on

a strictly cash basis. Which left Vito Corleone with another decision. The course his own

life must take.

It was from this experience came his oft-repeated belief that every man has but one

destiny. On that night he could have paid Fanucci the tribute and have become again a

grocery clerk with perhaps his own grocery store in the years to come. But destiny had

decided that he was to become a Don and had brought Fanucci to him to set him on his

destined path.

When they finished the bottle of wine, Vito said cautiously to Clemenza and Tessio, "If

you like, why not give me two hundred dollars each to pay to Fanucci? I guarantee he

will accept that amount from me. Then leave everything in my hands. I'll settle this

problem to your satisfaction."

At once Clemenza's eyes gleamed with suspicion. Vito said to him coldly, "I never lie

to people I have accepted as my friends. Speak to Fanucci yourself tomorrow. Let him

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ask you for the money. But don't pay him. And don't in any way quarrel with him. Tell

him you have to get the money and will give it to me to give him. Let him understand

that you are willing to pay what he asks. Don't bargain. I'll quarrel over the price with

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him. There's no point making him angry with us if he's as dangerous a man as you say

he is."

They left it at that. The next day Clemenza spoke with Fanucci to make sure that Vito

was not making up the story. Then Clemenza came to Vito's apartment and gave him

the two hundred dollars. He peered (to peer – вглядываться, всматриваться) at Vito

Corleone and said, "Fanucci told me nothing below three hundred dollars, how will you

make him take less?"

Vito Corleone said reasonably, "Surely that's no concern of yours (не твоя забота).

Just remember that I've done you a service."

Tessio came later. Tessio was more reserved than Clemenza, sharper, more clever

but with less force. He sensed something amiss, something not quite right. He was a

little worried. He said to Vito Corleone, "Watch yourself with that bastard of a Black

Hand, he's tricky as a priest. Do you want me to be here when you hand him the money,

as a witness?"

Vito Corleone shook his head. He didn't even bother to answer. He merely said to

Tessio, "Tell Fanucci I'll pay him the money here in my house at nine o'clock tonight. I'll

have to give him a glass of wine and talk, reason with him to take the lesser sum. "

Tessio shook his head. "You won't have much luck. Fanucci never retreats."

"I'll reason with him," Vito Corleone said. It was to become a famous phrase in the

years to come. It was to become the warning rattle (предупреждающий треск) before a

deadly strike. When he became a Don and asked opponents to sit down and reason

with him, they understood it was the last chance to resolve an affair without bloodshed

and murder.

Vito Corleone told his wife to take the two children, Sonny and Fredo, down into the

street after supper and on no account to let them come up to the house until he gave

her permission. She was to sit on guard at the tenement door. He had some private

business with Fanucci that could not be interrupted. He saw the look of fear on her face

and was angry. He said to her quietly, "Do you think you've married a fool?" She didn't

answer. She did not answer because she was frightened, not of Fanucci now, but of her

husband. He was changing visibly before her eyes, hour by hour, into a man who

radiated some dangerous force. He had always been quiet, speaking little, but always

gentle, always reasonable, which was extraordinary in a young Sicilian male. What she

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was seeing was the shedding (to shed – ронять, терять, сбрасывать /одежду, кожу/)

of his protective coloration of a harmless nobody now that he was ready to start on his

destiny (судьба). He had started late, he was twenty-five years old, but he was to start

with a flourish.

Vito Corleone had decided to murder Fanucci. By doing so he would have an extra

seven hundred dollars in his bankroll (roll – свиток, сверток; /сленг/ пачка денег). The

three hundred dollars he himself would have to pay the Black Hand terrorist and the two

hundred dollars from Tessio and the two hundred dollars from Clemenza. If he did not

kill Fanucci, he would have to pay the man seven hundred dollars cold cash. Fanucci

alive was not worth seven hundred dollars to him. He would not pay seven hundred

dollars to keep Fanucci alive. If Fanucci needed seven hundred dollars for an operation

to save his life, he would not give Fanucci seven hundred dollars for the surgeon. He

owed Fanucci no personal debt of gratitude, they were not blood relatives, he did not

love Fanucci. Whyfore, then, should he give Fanucci seven hundred dollars?

And it followed inevitably, that since Fanucci wished to take seven hundred dollars

from him by force, why should he not kill Fanucci? Surely the world could do without

such a person.

There were of course some practical reasons. Fanucci might indeed have powerful

friends who would seek vengeance. Fanucci himself was a dangerous man, not so

easily killed. There were the police and the electric chair. But Vito Corleone had lived

under a sentence of death since the murder of his father. As a boy of twelve he had fled

his executioners and crossed the ocean into a strange land, taking a strange name. And

years of quiet observation had convinced him that he had more intelligence and more

courage than other men, though he had never had the opportunity to use that

intelligence and courage.

And yet he hesitated before taking the first step toward his destiny. He even packed

the seven hundred dollars in a single fold of bills and put the money in a convenient side

pocket of his trousers. But he put the money in the left side of his trousers. In the right-

hand pocket he put the gun Clemenza had given him to use in the hijacking of the silk

truck.

Fanucci came promptly at nine in the evening. Vito Corleone set out a jug of

homemade wine that Clemenza had given him.

Fanucci put his white fedora on the table beside the jug of wine. He unloosened his

broad multiflowered tie, its tomato stains camouflaged by the bright patterns. The

summer night was hot, the gaslight feeble (слабый, хилый). It was very quiet in the

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apartment. But Vito Corleone was icy. To show his good faith he handed over the roll of

bills and watched carefully as Fanucci, after counting it, took out a wide leather wallet

and stuffed the money inside. Fanucci sipped his glass of wine and said, "You still owe

me two hundred dollars." His heavy-browed face was expressionless.

Vito Corleone said in his cool reasonable voice, "I'm a little short, I've been out of work.

Let me owe you the money for a few weeks."

This was a permissible (позволительный) gambit. Fanucci had the bulk (объем;

большие размеры; основная масса) of the money and would wait. He might even be

persuaded to take nothing more or to wait a little longer. He chuckled over his wine and

said, "Ah, you're a sharp young fellow. How is it I've never noticed you before? You're

too quiet a chap for your own interest. I could find some work for you to do that would

be very profitable."

Vito Corleone showed his interest with a polite nod and filled up the man's glass from

the purple jug. But Fanucci thought better of what he was going to say and rose from his

chair and shook Vito's hand. "Good night, young fellow," he said. "No hard feelings (без

обиды), eh? If I can ever do you a service let me know. You've done a good job for

yourself tonight."

Vito let Fanucci go down the stairs and out the building. The street was thronged with

witnesses to show that he had left the Corleone home safely. Vito watched from the

window. He saw Fanucci turn the comer toward 11th Avenue and knew he was headed

toward his apartment, probably to put away his loot before coming out on the streets

again. Perhaps to put away his gun. Vito Corleone left his apartment and ran up the

stairs to the roof. He traveled over the square block of roofs and descended down the

steps of an empty loft (чердак; верхний этаж /торгового помещения, склада/)

building fire escape that left him in the back yard. He kicked the back door open and

went through the front door. Across the street was Fanucci's tenement apartment house.

The village of tenements extended only as far west as Tenth Avenue. Eleventh

Avenue was mostly warehouses and lofts rented by firms who shipped by New York

Central Railroad and wanted access to the freight (фрахт, груз) yards (that

honeycombed (honeycomb – медовые соты; to honeycomb – изрешетить,

продырявить) the area from Eleventh Avenue to the Hudson River. Fanucci's

apartment house was one of the few left standing in this wilderness and was occupied

mostly by bachelor trainmen, yard workers, and the cheapest prostitutes. These people

did not sit in the street and gossip like honest Italians, they sat in beer taverns guzzling

(to guzzle – жадно глотать; пропивать) their pay. So Vito Corleone found it an easy

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matter to slip across the deserted Eleventh Avenue and into the vestibule of Fanucci's

apartment house. There he drew the gun he had never fired and waited for Fanucci.

He watched through the glass door of the vestibule, knowing Fanucci would come

down from Tenth Avenue. Clemenza had showed him the safety on the gun and he had

triggered it empty. But as a young boy in Sicily at the early age of nine, he had often

gone hunting with his father, had often fired the heavy shotgun called the lupara. It was

his skill with the lupara even as a small boy that had brought the sentence of death

upon him by his father's murderers.

Now waiting in the darkened hallway, he saw the white blob (капля; маленький

шарик /земли, глины/) of Fanucci crossing the street toward the doorway. Vito stepped

back, shoulders pressed against the inner door that led to the stairs. He held his gun out

to fire. His extended hand was only two paces from the outside door. The door swung in.

Fanucci, white, broad, smelly, filled the square of light. Vito Corleone fired.

The opened door let some of the sound escape into the street, the rest of the gun's

explosion shook the building. Fanucci was holding on to the sides of the door, trying to

stand erect, trying to reach for his gun. The force of his struggle had torn the buttons off

his jacket and made it swing loose. His gun was exposed but so was a spidery vein

(вена; жилка [veın]) of red on the white shirtfront of his stomach. Very carefully, as if he

were plunging a needle into a vein, Vito Corleone fired his second bullet into that red

web.

Fanucci fell to his knees, propping the door open. He let out a terrible groan. the

groan of a man in great physical distress that was almost comical. He kept giving these

groans; Vito remembered hearing at least three of them before he put the gun against

Fanucci's sweaty, suety (сальный; suet [sjuıt] – почечное или нутряное сало) cheek

and fired into his brain. No more than five seconds had passed when Fanucci slumped