Читать «Английский язык с Крестным Отцом» онлайн - страница 5

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;

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.