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Английский язык с Крестным ОтцомИлья Михайлович Франк
Илья Франк


Английский язык с Крестным Отцом



(продолжение)



Метод чтения Ильи Франка



Книгу подготовил Илья Франк



Mario Puzo

The Godfather







Book 2



Chapter 12



Johnny Fontane waved a casual dismissal to the manservant and said, "See you in

1

the morning, Billy." The colored butler bowed his way out of the huge dining room-living

room with its view of the Pacific Ocean. It was a friendly-good-bye sort of bow, not a

servant's bow, and given only because Johnny Fontane had company for dinner.

Johnny's company was a girl named Sharon Moore, a New York City Greenwich

Village girl in Hollywood to try for a small part in a movie being produced by an old

flame who had made the big time. She had visited the set while Johnny was acting in

the Woltz movie. Johnny had found her young and fresh and charming and witty, and

had asked her to come to his place for dinner that evening. His invitations to dinner

were always famous and had the force of royalty and of course she said yes.

Sharon Moore obviously expected him to come on very strong because of his

reputation, but Johnny hated the Hollywood "piece of meat" approach. He never slept

with any girl unless there was something about her he really liked. Except, of course,

sometimes when he was very drunk and found himself in bed with a girl he didn't even

remember meeting or seeing before. And now that he was thirty-five years old, divorced

once, estranged (отделен, отдален) from his second wife, with maybe a thousand

pubic scalps dangling from his belt, he simply wasn't that eager. But there, was




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something about Sharon Moore that aroused affection in him and so he had invited her

to dinner.

2

He never ate much but he knew young pretty girls ambitiously starved themselves for

pretty clothes and were usually big eaters on a date so there was plenty of food on the

table. There was also plenty of liquor; champagne in a bucket, scotch, rye (хлебная

водка), brandy and liqueurs on the sideboard. Johnny served the drinks and the plates

of food already prepared. When they had finished eating he led her into the huge living

room with its glass wall that looked out onto the Pacific. He put a stack of Ella Fitzgerald

records on the hi-fi and settled on the couch with Sharon. He made a little small talk

with her, found out about what she had been like as a kid, whether she had been a

tomboy (девчонка-сорванец) or boy crazy, whether she had been homely or pretty,

lonely or gay. He always found these details touching, it always evoked the tenderness

he needed to make love.

They nestled together on the sofa, very friendly, very comfortable. He kissed her on

the lips, a cool friendly kiss, and when she kept it that way he left it that way. Outside

the huge picture window he could see the dark blue sheet of the Pacific lying flat

beneath the moonlight.

"How come you're not playing any of your records?" Sharon asked him. Her voice was

teasing. Johnny smiled at her. He was amused by her teasing him. "I'm not that

Hollywood," he said.

"Play some for me," she said. "Or sing for me. You know, like the movies. I'll bubble

up and melt all over you just like those girls do on the screen."

Johnny laughed outright. When he had been younger, he had done just such things

and the result had always been stagy (неестественный, театральный), the girls trying

to look sexy and melting, making their eyes swim with desire for an imagined fantasy

camera. He would never dream of singing to a girl now; for one thing, he hadn't sung for

months, he didn't trust his voice. For another thing, amateurs didn't realize how much

professionals depended on technical help to sound as good as they did. He could have

played his records but he felt the same shyness about hearing his youthful passionate

voice as an aging, balding man running to fat feels about showing pictures of himself as

a youth in the full bloom of manhood.

"My voice is out of shape," he said. "And honestly, I'm sick of hearing myself sing."

They both sipped their drinks. "I hear you're great in this picture," she said. "Is it true

you did it for nothing?"

"Just a token payment," Johnny said.


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He got up to give her a refill on her brandy glass, gave her a gold-monogrammed

cigarette and flashed his lighter out to hold the light for her. She puffed on the cigarette

and sipped her drink and he sat down beside her again. His glass had considerably

more brandy in it than hers, he needed it to warm himself, to cheer himself, to charge

3

himself up. His situation was the reverse of the lover's usual one. He had to get himself

drunk instead of the girl. The girl was usually too willing where he was not. The last two

years had been hell on his ego, and he used this simple way to restore it, sleeping with

a young fresh girl for one night, taking her to dinner a few times, giving her an

expensive present and then brushing her off in the nicest way possible so that her

feelings wouldn't be hurt. And then they could always say they had had a thing with the

great Johnny Fontane. It wasn't true love, but you couldn't knock it if the girl was

beautiful and genuinely nice. He hated the hard, bitchy ones, the ones who screwed for

him and then rushed off to tell their friends that they'd screwed the great Johnny

Fontane, always adding that they'd had better. What amazed him more than anything

else in his career were the complaisant (обходительный, неконфликтный

[k∂m'pleız∂nt]) husbands who almost told him to his face that they forgave their wives

since it was allowed for even the most virtuous matron to be unfaithful with a great

singing and movie star like Johnny Fontane. That really floored (to floor – валить

наземь, сбивать с ног; смущать, поражать) him.

He loved Ella Fitzgerald on records. He loved that kind of clean singing, that kind of

clean phrasing. It was the only thing in life he really understood and he knew he

understood it better than anyone else on earth. Now lying back on the couch, the

brandy warming his throat, he felt a desire to sing, not music, but to phrase with the

records, yet it was something impossible to do in front of a stranger. He put his free

hand in Sharon's lap, sipping his drink from his other hand. Without any slyness but with

the sensualness of a child seeking warmth, his hand in her lap pulled up the silk of her

dress to show milky white thigh above the sheer netted gold of her stockings and as

always, despite all the women, all the years, all the familiarity, Johnny felt the fluid sticky

warmness flooding through his body at that sight. The miracle still happened, and what

would he do when that failed him as his voice had?

He was ready now. He put his drink down on the long inlaid (мозаичный,

инкрустированный) cocktail table and turned his body toward her. He was very sure,

very deliberate, and yet tender. There was nothing sly or lecherously lascivious

(похотливый, сладострастный [l∂’sıvıj∂s]) in his caresses. He kissed her on the lips

while his hands rose to her breasts. His hand fell to her warm thighs, the skin so silky to


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his touch. Her returning kiss was warm but not passionate and he preferred it that way

right now. He hated girls who turned on all of a sudden as if their bodies were motors

galvanized into erotic pumpings by the touching of a hairy switch.

Then he did something he always did, something that had never yet failed to arouse

him. Delicately and as lightly as it was possible to do so and still feel something, he

brushed the tip of his middle finger deep down between her thighs. Some girls never

4

even felt that initial move toward lovemaking. Some were distracted by it, not sure it was

a physical touch because at the same time he always kissed them deeply on the mouth.

Still others seemed to suck in his finger or gobble it up (жадно есть, заглатывать) with

a pelvic (тазовый) thrust. And of course before he became famous, some girls had

slapped his face. It was his whole technique and usually it served him well enough.

Sharon's reaction was unusual. She accepted it all, the touch, the kiss, then shifted

her mouth off his, shifted her body ever so slightly back along the couch and picked up

her drink. It was a cool but definite refusal. It happened sometimes. Rarely; but it

happened. Johnny picked up his drink and lit a cigarette.

She was saying something very sweetly, very lightly. "It's not that I don't like you,

Johnny, you're much nicer than I thought you'd be. And it's not because I'm not that kind

of a girl. It's just that I have to be turned on to do it with a guy, you know what I mean?"

Johnny Fontane smiled at her. He still liked her. "And I don't turn you on?"

She was a little embarrassed. "Well, you know, when you were so great singing and

all, I was still a little kid. I sort of just missed you, I was the next generation. Honest, it's

not that I'm goody-goody (паинька). If you were a movie star I grew up on, I'd have my

panties off in a second."

He didn't like her quite so much now. She was sweet, she was witty, she was

intelligent. She hadn't fallen all over herself to screw for him or try to hustle (толкать,

пихать; добиваться чего-либо напористыми, не всегда честными действиями) him

because his connections would help her in show biz. She was really a straight kid. But

there was something else he recognized. It had happened a few times before. The girl

who went on a date with her mind all made up not to go to bed with him, no matter how

much she liked him, just so that she could tell her friends, and even more, herself, that

she had turned down a chance to screw for the great Johnny Fontane. It was something

he understood now that he was older and he wasn't angry. He just didn't like her quite

that much and he had really liked her a lot.

And now that he didn't like her quite so much, he relaxed more. He sipped his drink

and watched the Pacific Ocean. She said, "I hope you're not sore, Johnny. I guess I'm


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being square, I guess in Hollywood a girl's supposed to put out just as casually as

kissing a beau (щеголь; здесь: кавалер [b∂u]) good night. I just haven't been around

long enough."

Johnny smiled at her and patted her cheek. His hand fell down to pull her skirt

5

discreetly over her rounded silken knees. "I'm not sore," he said. "It's nice having an old-

fashioned date." Not telling what he felt: the relief at not having to prove himself a great

lover, not having to live up (быть достойным /чего-либо/, тянуться) to his screened,

godlike image. Not having to listen to the girl trying to react as if he really had lived up to

that image, making more out of a very simple, routine piece of ass than it really was.

They had another drink, shared a few more cool kisses and then she decided to go.

Johnny said politely, "Can I call you for dinner some night?"

She played it frank and honest to the end. "I know you don't want to waste your time

and then get disappointed," she said. "Thanks for a wonderful evening. Someday I'll tell

my children I had supper with the great Johnny Fontane all alone in his apartment."

He smiled at her. "And that you didn't give in (уступить, сдаться)," he said. They both

laughed. "They'll never believe that," she said. And then Johnny, being a little phony

(фальшивый, притворяющийся) in his turn, said, "I'll give it to you in writing, want me

to?" She shook her head. He continued on. "Anybody doubts you, give me a buzz on

the phone, I'll straighten them right out. I'll tell them how I chased you all around the

apartment but you kept your honor. OK?"

He had, finally, been a little too cruel and he felt stricken at the hurt on her young face.

She understood that he was telling her that he hadn't tried too hard. He had taken the

sweetness of her victory away from her. Now she would feel that it had been her lack of

charm or attractiveness that had made her the victor this night. And being the girl she

was, when she told the story of how she resisted the great Johnny Fontane, she would

always have to add with a wry little smile, "Of course, he didn't try very hard." So now

taking pity on her, he said, "If you ever feel real down, give me a ring. OK? I don't have

to shack up (сожительствовать, переспать) every girl I know."

"I will," she said. She went out the door.

He was left with a long evening before him. He could have used what Jack Woltz

called the "meat factory," the stable of willing starlets, but he wanted human

companionship. He wanted to talk like a human being. He thought of his first wife,

Virginia. Now that the work on the picture was finished he would have more time for the

kids. He wanted to become part of their life again. And he worried about Virginia too.

She wasn't equipped to handle the Hollywood sharpies (sharpy – жулик, мошенник;


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энергичный человек) who might come after her just so that they could brag about

having screwed Johnny Fontane's first wife. As far as he knew, nobody could say that

yet. Everybody could say it about his second wife though, he thought wryly. He picked

up the phone.

6

He recognized her voice immediately and that was not surprising. He had heard it the

first time when he was ten years old and they had been in 4B together. "Hi, Ginny," he

said, "you busy tonight? Can I come over for a little while?"

"All right," she said. "The kids are sleeping though; I don't want to wake them up."

"That's OK," he said. "I just wanted to talk to you."

Her voice hesitated slightly, then carefully controlled not to show any concern, she

asked, "Is it anything serious, anything important?"

"No," Johnny said. "I finished the picture today and I thought maybe I could just see

you and talk to you. Maybe I could take a look at the kids if you're sure they won't wake

up."

"OK," she said. "I'm glad you got that part you wanted."

"Thanks," he said. "I'll see you in about a half hour."

When he got to what had been his home in Beverly Hills, Johnny Fontane sat in the

car for a moment staring at the house. He remembered what his Godfather had said,

that he could make his own life what he wanted. Great chance if you knew what you

wanted. But what did he want?

His first wife was waiting for him at the door. She was pretty, petite (маленького

роста, изящная [p∂'ti:t]) and brunette, a nice Italian girl, the girl next door who would

never fool around with another man and that had been important to him. Did he still

want her, he asked himself, and the answer was no. For one thing, he could no longer

make love to her, their affection had grown too old. And there were some things,

nothing to do with sex, she could never forgive him. But they were no longer enemies.

She made him coffee and served him homemade cookies in the living room. "Stretch

out on the sofa," she said, "you look tired." He took off his jacket and his shoes and

loosened his tie while she sat in the chair opposite him with a grave little smile on her

face. "It's funny," she said.

"What's funny?" he asked her, sipping coffee and spilling some of it on his shirt.

"The great Johnny Fontane stuck (to stick – завязнуть, застрять) without a date," she

said.

"The great Johnny Fontane is lucky if he can even get it up anymore," he said.




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It was unusual for him to be so direct. Ginny asked, "Is there something really the

matter?"

Johnny grinned at her. "I had a date with a girl in my apartment and she brushed me

off. And you know, I was relieved."

To his surprise he saw a look of anger pass over Ginny's face. "Don't worry about

those little tramps," she said. "She must have thought that was the way to get you

interested in her," And Johnny realized with amusement that Ginny was actually angry

with the girl who had turned him down.

"Ah, what the hell," he said. "I'm tired of that stuff. I have to grow up sometime. And

7

now that I can't sing anymore I guess I'll have a tough time with dames. I never got in on

my looks, you know."

She said loyally, "You were always better looking than you photographed."

Johnny shook his head. "I'm getting fat and I'm getting bald. Hell, if this picture doesn't

make me big again I better learn how to bake pizzas. Or maybe we'll put you in the

movies, you look great."

She looked thirty-five, A good thirty-five, but thirty-five. And out here in Hollywood that

might as well be a hundred. The young beautiful girls thronged through the city like

lemmings (лемминг, пеструшка /зоол./), lasting one year, some two, Some of them so

beautiful they could make a man's heart almost stop beating until they opened their

mouths, until the greedy hopes for success clouded the loveliness of their eyes.

Ordinary women could never hope to compete with them on a physical level. And you

could talk all you wanted to about charm, about intelligence, about chic, about poise, the

raw beauty of these girls overpowered everything else. Perhaps if there were not so

many of them there might be a chance for an ordinary, nice-looking woman. And since

Johnny Fontane could have all of them, or nearly all of them, Ginny knew that he was

saying all this just to flatter her. He had always been nice that way. He had always been

polite to women even at the height of his fame, paying them compliments, holding lights

for their cigarettes, opening doors. And since all this was usually done for him, it made it

even more impressive to the girls he went out with. And he did it with all girls, even the

one-night stands, I-don't-know-your-name girls.

She smiled at him, a friendly smile. "You already made me, Johnny, remember? For

twelve years. You don't have to give me your line."

He sighed and stretched out on the sofa. "No kidding, Ginny, you look good. I wish I

looked that good."




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She didn't answer him. She could see he was depressed. "Do you think the picture is

OK? Will it do you some good?" she asked.

Johnny nodded. "Yeah. It could bring me all the way back. If I get the Academy thing

8

and play my cards right, I can make it big again even without the singing. Then maybe I

can give you and the kids more dough (тесто; деньги /сленг/ [d∂u])."

"We have more than enough," Ginny said.

"I wanta see more of the kids too," Johnny said. "I want to settle down a little bit. Why

can't I come every Friday night for dinner here? I swear I'll never miss one Friday, I don't

care how far away I am or how busy I am. And then whenever I can I'll spend weekends

or maybe the kids can spend some part of their vacations with me."

Ginny put an ashtray on his chest. "It's OK with me," she said. "I never got married

because I wanted you to keep being their father." She said this without any kind of

emotion, but Johnny Fontane, staring up at the ceiling, knew she said it as an

atonement (компенсация, возмещение) for those other things, the cruel things she had

once said to him when their marriage had broken up, when his career had started going

down the drain (дренажная канава, водосток, канализация).

"By the way, guess who called me," she said.

Johnny wouldn't play that game, he never did. "Who?" he asked.

Ginny said, "You could take at least one lousy guess." Johnny didn't answer. "Your

Godfather," she said.

Johnny was really surprised. "He never talks to anybody on the phone. What did he

say to you?"

"He told me to help you," Ginny said. "He said you could be as big as you ever were,

that you were on your way back, but that you needed people to believe in you. I asked

him why should I? And he said because you're the father of my children. He's such a

sweet old guy and they tell such horrible stories about him."

Virginia hated phones and she had had all the extensions (удлинение, расширение;

удлинитель, добавочный телефон) taken out except for the one in her bedroom and

one in the kitchen. Now they could hear the kitchen phone ringing. She went to answer

it. When she came back into the living room there was a look of surprise on her face.

"It's for you, Johnny," she said. "It's Tom Hagen. He says it's important."

Johnny went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Yeah, Tom," he said.

Tom Hagen's voice was cool. "Johnny, the Godfather wants me to come out and see

you and set some things up that can help you out now that the picture is finished. He

wants me to catch the morning plane. Can you meet it in Los Angeles? I have to fly


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back to New York the same night so you won't have to worry about keeping your night

free for me."

"Sure, Tom," Johnny said. "And don't worry about me losing a night. Stay over and

relax a bit. I'll throw a party and you can meet some movie people." He always made

9

that offer, he didn't want the folks from his old neighborhood to think he was ashamed of

them.

"Thanks," Hagen said, "but I really have to catch the early morning plane back. OK,

you'll meet the eleven-thirty A.M. out of New York?"

"Sure," Johnny said.

"Stay in your car," Hagen said. "Send one of your people to meet me when I get off

the plane and bring me to you."

"Right," Johnny said.

He went back to the living room and Ginny looked at him inquiringly. "My Godfather

has some plan for me, to help me out," Johnny said. "He got me the part in the movie, I

don't know how. But I wish he'd stay out of the rest of it."

He went back onto the sofa. He felt very tired. Ginny said, "Why don't you sleep in the

guest bedroom tonight instead of going home? You can have breakfast with the kids

and you won't have to drive home so late. I hate to think of you all alone in that house of

yours anyway. Don't you get lonely?"

"I don't stay home much," Johnny said.

She laughed and said, "Then you haven't changed much." She paused and then said,

"Shall I fix up the other bedroom?"

Johnny said, "Why can't I sleep in your bedroom?"

She flushed. "No," she said. She smiled at him and he smiled back. They were still

friends.

When Johnny woke up the next morning it was late, he could tell by the sun coming in

through the drawn blinds. It never came in that way unless it was in the afternoon. He

yelled, "Hey, Ginny, do I still rate (заслуживать, удоставиваться) breakfast?" And far

away he heard her voice call, "Just a second."

And it was just a second. She must have had everything ready, hot in the oven, the tray

waiting to be loaded, because as Johnny lit his first cigarette of the day, the door of the

bedroom opened and his two small daughters came in wheeling the breakfast cart

(тележка, тачка; здесь: поднос на колесиках).

They were so beautiful it broke his heart. Their faces were shining and clear, their

eyes alive with curiosity and the eager desire to run to him. They wore their hair braided


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old-fashioned in long pigtails and they wore old-fashioned frocks and white patent-

leather (лакированный) shoes. They stood by the breakfast cart watching him as he

stubbed out his cigarette and waited for him to call and hold his arms wide. Then they

10

came running to him. He pressed his face between their two fresh fragrant cheeks and

scraped them with his beard so that they shrieked. Ginny appeared in the bedroom door

and wheeled the breakfast cart the rest of the way so that he could eat in bed. She sat

beside him on the edge of the bed, pouring his coffee, buttering his toast. The two

young daughters sat on the bedroom couch watching him. They were too old now for

pillow fights or to be tossed (to toss – бросать, кидать, подбрасывать) around. They

were already smoothing their mussed (to muss – приводить в беспорядок, путать)

hair. Oh, Christ, he thought, pretty soon they'll be all grown up, Hollywood punks will be

out after them.

He shared his toast and bacon with them as he ate, gave them sips of coffee. It was a

habit left over from when he had been singing with the band and rarely ate with them so

they liked to share his food when he had his odd-hour meals like afternoon breakfasts

or morning suppers. The change-around in food delighted them – to eat steak and

french fries (картофель фри, чипсы) at seven in the morning, bacon and eggs in the

afternoon.

Only Ginny and a few of his close friends knew how much he idolized his daughters.

That had been the worst thing about the divorce and leaving home. The one thing he

had fought about, and for, was his position as a father to them. In a very sly way he had

made Ginny understand he would not be pleased by her remarrying, not because he

was jealous of her, but because he was jealous of his position as a father. He had

arranged the money to be paid to her so it would be enormously to her advantage

financially not to remarry. It was understood that she could have lovers as long as they

were not introduced into her home life. But on this score he had absolute faith in her.

She had always been amazingly shy and old-fashioned in sex. The Hollywood gigolos

had batted zero (выбивали ноль = ничего не могли добиться; bat – бита /в

бейсболе/) when they started swarming around her, sniffing for the financial settlement

and the favors they could get from her famous husband.

He had no fear that she expected a reconciliation because he had wanted to sleep

with her the night before. Neither one of them wanted to renew their old marriage. She

understood his hunger for beauty, his irresistible impulse toward young women far more

beautiful than she. It was known that he always slept with his movie co-stars at least

once. His boyish charm was irresistible to them, as their beauty was to him.


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"You'll have to start getting dressed pretty soon," Ginny said. "Tom's plane will be

getting in." She shooed the daughters out of the room.

"Yeah," Johnny said. "By the way, Ginny, you know I'm getting divorced? I'm gonna

be a free man again."

She watched him getting dressed. He always kept fresh clothes at her house ever

since they had come to their new arrangement after the wedding of Don Corleone's

daughter. "Christmas is only two weeks away," she said. "Shall I plan on you being

here?"

It was the first time he had even thought about the holidays. When his voice was in

11

shape, holidays were lucrative singing dates but even then Christmas was sacred. If he

missed this one, it would be the second one. Last year he had been courting his second

wife in Spain, trying to get her to marry him.

"Yeah," he said. "Christmas Eve and Christmas." He didn't mention New Year's Eve.

That would be one of the wild nights he needed every once in a while, to get drunk with

his friends, and he didn't want a wife along then. He didn't feel guilty about it.

She helped him put on his jacket and brushed it off. He was always fastidiously

(fastidious [f∂s’tıdıj∂s] – привередливо, разборчиво, изощренно) neat. She could see

him frowning because the shirt he had put on was not laundered (to launder ['lo:nd∂] –

стирать и гладить /белье/) to his taste, the cuff links (запонки; cuff – манжета), a pair

he had not worn for some time, were a little too loud for the way he liked to dress now.

She laughed softly and said, "Tom won't notice the difference."

The three women of the family walked him to the door and out on the driveway to his

car. The two little girls held his hands, one on each side. His wife walked a little behind

him. She was getting pleasure out of how happy he looked. When he reached his car he

turned around and swung each girl in turn high up in the air and kissed her on the way

down. Then he kissed his wife and got into the car. He never liked drawn-out good-byes.



Arrangements had been made by his PR (public relations – связь с

общественностью) man and aide. At his house a chauffeured car was waiting, a rented

car. In it were the PR man and another member of his entourage. Johnny parked his car

and hopped in and they were on their way to the airport. He waited inside the car while

the PR man went out to meet Tom Hagen's plane. When Tom got into the car they

shook hands and drove back to his house.

Finally he and Tom were alone in the living room. There was a coolness between

them. Johnny had never forgiven Hagen for acting as a barrier to his getting in touch


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with the Don when the Don was angry with him, in those bad days before Connie's

12

wedding. Hagen never made excuses for his actions. He could not. It was part of his job

to act as a lightning rod for resentments which people were too awed to feel toward the

Don himself though he had earned them.

"Your Godfather sent me out here to give you a hand (помочь) on some things,"

Hagen said. "I wanted to get it out of the way before Christmas."

Johnny Fontane shrugged. "The picture is finished. The director was a square guy

and treated me right. My scenes are too important to be left on the cutting-room floor

just for Woltz to pay me off. He can't ruin a ten-million-dollar picture. So now everything

depends on how good people think I am in the movie."

Hagen said cautiously, "Is winning this Academy Award so terribly important to an

actor's career, or is it just the usual publicity crap that really doesn't mean anything one

way or the other?" He paused and added hastily, "Except of course the glory, everybody

likes glory."

Johnny Fontane grinned at him. "Except my Godfather. And you. No, Tom, it's not a

lot of crap. An Academy Award can make an actor for ten years. He can get his pick

(выбор; лучшая, отборная часть /чего-либо/) of roles. The public goes to see him. It's

not everything, but for an actor it's the most important thing in the business. I'm counting

on winning it. Not because I'm such a great actor but because I'm known primarily as a

singer and the part is foolproof («защищенный от дурака» = элементарный в

обращении; надежный /без риска неудачи/). And I'm pretty good too, no kidding."

Tom Hagen shrugged and said, "Your Godfather tells me that the way things stand

now, you don't have a chance of winning the award."

Johnny Fontane was angry. "What the hell are you talking about? The picture hasn't

even been cut yet, much less shown. And the Don isn't even in the movie business.

Why the hell did you fly the three thousand miles just to tell me that shit?" He was so

shaken he was almost in tears.

Hagen said worriedly, "Johnny, I don't know a damn thing about all this movie stuff.

Remember, I'm just a messenger boy for the Don. But we have discussed this whole

business of yours many times. He worries about you, about your future. He feels you

still need his help and he wants to settle your problem once and for all. That's why I'm

here now, to get things rolling. But you have to start growing up, Johnny. You have to

stop thinking about yourself as a singer or an actor. You've got to start thinking about

yourself as a prime mover (первичный двигатель; буксир, тягач), as a guy with

muscle."


Мультиязыковой проект Ильи Франка www.franklang.ru




Johnny Fontane laughed and filled his glass. "If I don't win that Oscar I'll have as

13

much muscle as one of my daughters. My voice is gone; if I had that back I could make

some moves. Oh, hell. How does my Godfather know I won't win it? OK, I believe he

knows. He's never been wrong."

Hagen lit a thin cigar. "We got the word that Jack Woltz won't spend studio money to

support your candidacy. In fact he's sent the word out to everybody who votes that he

does not want you to win. But holding back the money for ads (ad – сокр. от

advertisment – реклама) and all that may do it. He's also arranging to have one other

guy get as much of the opposition votes as he can swing. He's using all sorts of bribes-

jobs, money, broads, everything. And he's trying to do it without hurting the picture or

hurting it as little as possible."

Johnny Fontane shrugged. He filled his glass with whiskey and downed it. "Then I'm

dead."

Hagen was watching him with his mouth curled up with distaste. "Drinking won't help

your voice," he said.

"Fuck you," Johnny said.

Hagen's face suddenly became smoothly impassive. Then he said, "OK, I'll keep this

purely business."

Johnny Fontane put his drink down and went over to stand in front of Hagen. "I'm

sorry I said that, Tom," he said. "Christ, I'm sorry. I'm taking it out on you because I

wanta kill that bastard Jack Woltz and I'm afraid to tell off (отчитывать, бранить,

разносить) my Godfather. So I get sore at you." There were tears in his eyes. He threw

the empty whiskey glass against the wall but so weakly that the heavy shot glass did not

even shatter and rolled along the floor back to him so that he looked down at it in baffled

(озадаченный, сбитый с толку) fury. Then he laughed. "Jesus Christ," he said.

He walked over to the other side of the room and sat opposite Hagen. "You know, I had

everything my own way for a long time. Then I divorced Ginny and everything started

going sour. I lost my voice. My records stopped selling. I didn't get any more movie work.

And then my Godfather got sore at me and wouldn't talk to me on the phone or see me

when I came into New York. You were always the guy barring the path and I blamed

you, but I knew you wouldn't do it without orders from the Don. But you can't get sore at

him. It's like getting sore at God. So I curse you. But you've been right all along the line.

And to show you I mean my apology I'm taking your advice. No more booze until I get

my voice back. OK?"




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The apology was sincere. Hagen forgot his anger. There must be something to this

thirty-five-year-old boy or the Don would not be so fond of him. He said, "Forget it,

14

Johnny." He was embarrassed at the depth of Johnny's feeling and embarrassed by the

suspicion that it might have been inspired by fear, fear that he might turn the Don

against him. And of course the Don could never be turned by anyone for any reason.

His affection was mutable only by himself.

"Things aren't so bad," he told Johnny. "The Don says he can cancel out everything

Woltz does against you. That you will almost certainly win the Award. But he feels that

won't solve your problem. He wants to know if you have the brains and balls to become

a producer on your own, make your own movies from top to bottom."

"How the hell is he going to get me the Award?" Johnny asked incredulously.

Hagen said sharply, "How do you find it so easy to believe that Woltz can finagle

(добиваться чего-либо нечестными или обходными путями, жульничать [fı'neıgl]) it

and your Godfather can't? Now since it's necessary to get your faith for the other part of

our deal I must tell you this. Just keep it to yourself. Your Godfather is a much more

powerful man than Jack Woltz. And he is much more powerful in areas far more critical.

How can he swing the Award? He controls, or controls the people who control, all the

labor unions in the industry, all the people or nearly all the people who vote. Of course

you have to be good, you have to be in contention (конкуренция; спор) on your own

merits. And your Godfather has more brains than Jack Woltz. He doesn't go up to these

people and put a gun to their heads and say, 'Vote for Johnny Fontane or you are out of

a job.' He doesn't strong-man where strong-arm doesn't work or leaves too many hard

feelings. He'll make those people vote for you because they want to. But they won't

want to unless he takes an interest. Now just take my word for it that he can get you the

Award. And that if he doesn't do it, you won't get it."

"OK," Johnny said. "I believe you. And I have the balls and brains to be a producer but

I don't have the money. No bank would finance me. It takes millions to support a movie."

Hagen said dryly, "When you get the Award, start making plans to produce three of

your own movies. Hire the best people in the business, the best technicians, the best

stars, whoever you need. Plan on three to five movies."

"You're crazy," Johnny said. "That many movies could mean twenty million bucks."

"When you need the money," Hagen said, "get in touch with me. I'll give you the name

of the bank out here in California to ask for financing. Don't worry, they finance movies

all the time. Just ask them for the money in the ordinary way, with the proper




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justifications, like a regular business deal. They will approve. But first you have to see

me and tell me the figures and the plans. OK?"

Johnny was silent for a long time. Then he said quietly, "Is there anything else?"

15

Hagen smiled. "You mean, do you have to do any favors in return for a loan of twenty

million dollars? Sure you will." He waited for Johnny to say something. "Nothing you

wouldn't do anyway if the Don asked you to do it for him."

Johnny said, "The Don has to ask me himself if it's something serious, you know what

I mean? I won't take your word or Sonny's for it."

Hagen was surprised by this good sense. Fontane had some brains after all. He had

sense to know that the Don was too fond of him, and too smart, to ask him to do

something foolishly dangerous, whereas Sonny might. He said to Johnny, "Let me

reassure you on one thing. Your Godfather has given me and Sonny strict instructions

not to involve you in any way in anything that might get you bad publicity through our

fault. And he will never do that himself. I guarantee you that any favor he asks of you,

you will offer to do before he requests it. OK?"

Johnny smiled. "OK," he said.

Hagen said, "Also he has faith in you. He thinks you have brains and so he figures the

bank will make money on the investment, which means he will make money on it. So it's

really a business deal, never forget that. Don't go screwing around with the money. You

may be his favorite godson but twenty million bucks is a lot of dough. He has to stick his

neck out to make sure you get it."

"Tell him not to worry," Johnny said. "If a guy like Jack Woltz can be a big movie

genius, anybody can."

"That's what your Godfather figures," Hagen said. "Can you have me driven back to

the airport? I've said all I have to say. When you do start signing contracts for

everything, hire your own lawyers, I won't be in on it. But I'd like to see everything

before you sign, if that's OK with you. Also, you'll never have any labor troubles. That

will cut costs on your pictures to some extent, so when the accountants lump (lump –

глыба, кусок; to lump – смешивать, валить в одну кучу) some of that in, disregard

those figures."

Johnny said cautiously, "Do I have to get your OK on anything else, scripts, stars, any

of that?"

Hagen shook his head. "No," he said. "It may happen that the Don would object to

something but he'll object to you direct if he does. But I can't imagine what that would be.




Мультиязыковой проект Ильи Франка www.franklang.ru


16

Movies don't affect him at all, in any way, so he has no interest. And he doesn't believe

in meddling, that I can tell you from experience."

"Good," Johnny said. "I'll drive you to the airport myself. And thank the Godfather for

me. I'd call him up and thank him but he never comes to the phone. Why is that, by the

way?"

Hagen shrugged. "He hardly ever talks on the phone. He doesn't want his voice

recorded, even saying something perfectly innocent. He's afraid that they can splice

(соединять внахлест, сращивать /концы чего-либо/ /строит./; склеивать встык

/ленту, пленку/) the words together so that it sounds as if he says something else. I

think that's what it is. Anyway his only worry is that someday he'll be framed (to frame –

фабриковать, подставлять, ложно обвинять) by the authorities. So he doesn't want to

give them an edge (дать им себя подцепить, дать им карты в руки; edge – кромка,

край)."

They got into Johnny's car and drove to the airport. Hagen was thinking that Johnny

was a better guy than he figured. He'd already learned something, just his driving him

personally to the airport proved that. The personal courtesy, something the Don himself

always believed in. And the apology. That had been sincere. He had known Johnny a

long time and he knew the apology would never be made out of fear. Johnny had

always had guts. That's why he had always been in trouble, with his movie bosses and

with his women. He was also one of the few people who was not afraid of the Don.

Fontane and Michael were maybe the only two men Hagen knew of whom this could be

said. So the apology was sincere, he would accept it as such. He and Johnny would

have to see a lot of each other in the next few years. And Johnny would have to pass

the next test, which would prove how smart he was. He would have to do something for

the Don that the Don would never ask him to do or insist that he do as part of the

agreement. Hagen wondered if Johnny Fontane was smart enough to figure out that

part of the bargain.



After Johnny dropped Hagen off at the airport (Hagen insisted that Johnny not hang

around for his plane with him) he drove back to Ginny's house. She was surprised to

see him. But he wanted to stay at her place so that he would have time to think things

out, to make his plans. He knew that what Hagen had told him was extremely important,

that his whole life was being changed. He had once been a big star but now at the

young age of thirty-five he was washed up. He didn't kid himself about that. Even if he

won the Award as best actor, what the hell could it mean at the most? Nothing, if his


Мультиязыковой проект Ильи Франка www.franklang.ru

17

voice didn't come back. He'd be just second-rate, with no real power, no real juice. Even

that girl turning him down, she had been nice and smart and acting sort of hip (также

hep – знающий толк в чем-то, секущий; классный, стильный /сленг/), but would she

have been so cool if he had really been at the top? Now with the Don backing him with

dough he could be as big as anybody in Hollywood. He could be a king. Johnny smiled.

Hell. He could even be a Don.

It would be nice living with Ginny again for a few weeks, maybe longer. He'd take the

kids out every day, maybe have a few friends over. He'd stop drinking and smoking,

really take care of himself. Maybe his voice would get strong again. If that happened

and with the Don's money, he'd be unbeatable. He'd really be as close to an oldtime

king or emperor as it was possible to be in America. And it wouldn't depend on his voice

holding up or how long the public cared about him as an actor. It would be an empire

rooted in money and the most special, the most coveted kind of power.

Ginny had the guest bedroom made up for him. It was understood that he would not

share her room, that they would not live as man and wife. They could never have that

relationship again. And though the outside world of gossip columnists (корреспондент,

обозреватель /ведущий постоянную рубрику/) and movie fans gave the blame for the

failure of their marriage solely to him, yet in a curious way, between the two of them,

they both knew that she was even more to blame for their divorce.

When Johnny Fontane became the most popular singer and movie musical comedy

star in motion pictures, it had never occurred to him to desert his wife and children. He

was too Italian, still too old-style. Naturally he had been unfaithful. That had been

impossible to avoid in his business and the temptations to which he was continually

exposed. And despite being a skinny, delicate-looking guy, he had the wiry horniness

(horny – сексуально возбужденный, сексульно озабоченный) of many small-boned

Latin types. And women delighted him in their surprises. He loved going out with a

demure (спокойный, сдержанный, трезвый, рассудительный, притворно

застенчивый [dı'mju∂]) sweet-faced virginal-looking girl and then uncapping her breasts

to find them so unexpectedly slopingly (sloping – косой, покатый) full and rich, lewdly

(lewd – похотливый; распутный) heavy in contrast to the cameo face. He loved to find

sexual shyness and timidity in the sexy-looking girls who were all fake (поддельный,

фальшивый) motion like a shifty basketball player, vamping (to vamp – завлекать,

соблазнять) as if they had slept with a hundred guys, and then when he got them alone

having to battle for hours to get in and do the job and finding out they were virgins.




Мультиязыковой проект Ильи Франка www.franklang.ru

18

And all these Hollywood guys laughed at his fondness for virgins. They called it an old

guinea taste, square, and look how long it took to make a virgin give you a blow job

(феллация) with all the aggravation and then they usually turned out to be a lousy

piece of ass. But Johnny knew that it was how you handled a young girl. You had to

come on to her the right way and then what could be greater than a girl who was tasting

her first dick and loving it? Ab, it was so great breaking them in. It was so great having

them wrap their legs around you. Their thighs were all different shapes, their asses

were different, their skins were all different colors and shades of white and brown and

tan and when he had slept with that young colored girl in Detroit, a good girl, not a

hustler, the young daughter of a jazz singer on the same nightclub bill with him, she had

been one of the sweetest things he had ever had. Her lips had really tasted like warm

honey with pepper mixed in it, her dark brown skin was rich, creamy, and she had been

as sweet as God had ever made any woman and she had been a virgin.

And the other guys were always talking about blow jobs, this and other variations, and

he really didn't enjoy that stuff so much. He never liked a girl that much after they tried it

that way, it just didn't satisfy him right. He and his second wife had finally not got along,

because she preferred the old sixty-nine too much to a point where she didn't want

anything else and he had to fight to stick it in. She began making fun of him and calling

him a square and the word got around that he made love like a kid. Maybe that was why

that girl last night had turned him down. Well, the hell with it, she wouldn't be too great

in the sack (гамак; койка) anyway. You could tell (можно различить, распознать) a girl

who really liked to fuck and they were always the best. Especially the ones who hadn't

been at it too long. What he really hated were the ones who had started screwing at

twelve and were all fucked out by the time they were twenty and just going through the

motions and some of them were the prettiest of all and could fake you out.

Ginny brought coffee and cake into his bedroom and put it on the long table in the

sitting room part. He told her simply that Hagen was helping him put together the money

credit for a producing package and she was excited about that. He would be important

again. But she had no idea of how powerful Don Corleone really was so she didn't

understand the significance of Hagen coming from New York. He told her Hagen was

also helping with legal details.

When they had finished the coffee he told her he was going to work that night, and

make phone calls and plans for the future. "Half of all this will be in the kids' names," he

told her. She gave him a grateful smile and kissed him good night before she left his

room.


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There was a glass dish full of his favorite monogrammed cigarettes, a humidor

19

(коробка для хранения сигар с увлажнителем) with pencil-thin black Cuban cigars on

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.




Мультиязыковой проект Ильи Франка www.franklang.ru




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

20

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


Мультиязыковой проект Ильи Франка www.franklang.ru




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,

21

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


Мультиязыковой проект Ильи Франка www.franklang.ru




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

22

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.


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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.

23

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


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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

24

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.


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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. ...




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