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Korov шевеля mozgoi насчет того куда бы убить вечерподлый такой холодный и сумрачный зимний вечер хотя и сухо

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-- Ну, что же  теперь, а? Компания такая: я, то есть Алекс, и  три моих druga,  то есть Пит, Джорджик  и Тем,  причем  Тем был и в самом деле парень темный, в смысле glupyi, а сидели мы в молочном баре "Korova", шевеля mozgoi насчет того, куда  бы убить вечер--подлый такой, холодный и сумрачный зимний вечер, хотя и сухой.  Молочный  бар "Korova"  --  это  было zavedenije,  где давали "молоко-плюс", хотя вы-то, бллин, небось уже  и запамятовали, что это были за  zavedenija: конечно,   нынче ведь все так скоро меняется, забывается прямо  на глазах,  всем plevatt, даже газет нынче толком никто не  читает. В общем, подавали там "молоко-плюс" -- то  есть молоко плюс кое-какая добавка. Разрешения  на  торговлю спиртным у  них не  было,  но  против  того,  чтобы подмешивать кое-что из новых shtutshek в доброе старое молоко, закона еще не было, и можно было pitt его с велосетом, дренкромом, а то и еще кое с чем из

shtutshek, от которых идет тихий baldiozh, и ты минут пятнадцать чувствуешь, что  сам  Господь Бог  со  всем его  святым воинством сидит  у тебя в  левом ботинке, а сквозь mozg проскакивают искры и  фейерверки. Еще можно было pitt "молоко с ножами",  как это у нас называлось, от него шел tortsh, и хотелось dratsing,  хотелось  gasitt  кого-нибудь  по полной программе, одного  всей kodloi, а в тот вечер, с которого я начал свой рассказ, мы как раз это самое и пили.

Карманы у нас ломились от babok, а стало быть, к тому, чтобы  сделать в

переулке toltshok  какому-нибудь  старому  hanyge, obtriasti его и смотреть, как он  плавает в луже  крови,  пока мы  подсчитываем  добычу и делим  ее на четверых, ничто  нас,  в  общем-то,  особенно  не понуждало,  как  ничто  не понуждало и к тому, чтобы делать krasting в лавке у  какой-нибудь трясущейся старой  ptitsy,  а  потом  rvatt kogti  с  содержимым кассы.  Однако недаром говорится, что деньги это еще не все.

"Скучна-а-а! Хочется выть. Чего бы такого сделать?" Это-- я, Алекс, а вон те три ублюдка-- мои фрэнды*: Пит, Джорджи (он же Джоша) и Кир (Кирилла-дебила). Мы сидим  в молочном баре "Коровяка",дринкинг, и токинг, и  тин-кинг, что бы такое отмочить, чтобы этот прекрасный морозный вечер не пропал даром.

"Коровяка" -- место обычной нашей тусовки --  плейс как плейс, не хуже и  не лучше  любого другого. Как  и  везде,  здесь  серв обалденное  синтетическое молоко,  насыщенное незаметным белым  порошком,  который менты  и разные там умники из контрольно инспекционных комиссий никогда не распознают как дурик, если только  сами  не  попробуют. Но  они  предпочитают  вискарь-водяру  под

одеялом...

Фирменный  коровий напиток  поистине  хорош. После  каждой  дозы  минут пятнадцать  видишь  небо  в алмазах,  на  котором  трахается  Бог  со своими

ангелами, а святые дерутся, решая, кто из них сегодня будет девой Марией...

Я  и  мои фрэнды как раз  заканчиваем по  четвертой поршн. Покеты у нас полны  мани, так  что отпадает  наш  обычный эмьюзмент трахнуть по хэду  или подрезать  какого-нибудь  папика  и  уотч,  как  он  будет  свимать  в  луже собственной блад и юрин, пока мы чистим его карманы. Не надо также пэй визит какой-нибудь старухе еврейке в ее шопе и сажать ее верхом на кассу, выгребая у нее на глазах дневную выручку. Но! Как говорится, мани не главное. Хочется чего-нибудь для души.

1

"What's it going to be then, eh?"

There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim. Dim being  really dim, and we sat in the Korova  Milkbar  making up our rassoodocks  what  to do with the  evening, a  flip  dark  chill  winter bastard though dry. The Korova Milkbar was a milk plus mesto, and you may, O my brothers, have  forgotten what these mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days and  everybody very quick to forget, newspapers  not being

read much neither. Well, what  they sold there was milk plus something else. They had  no licence for selling liquor,  but there was no law  yet  against prodding some  of  the new  veshches  which they  used to put  into  the old moloko, so you could  peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other  veshches which would give you a nice  quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes  admiring Bog  And  All His Holy Angels and Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting  all over your mozg. Or you could peet milk with knives in it, as we used to  say, and this would  sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of  dirty twenty-to-one, and that  was what we were  peeting  this evening I'm starting off the story with.

Our pockets were full of deng, so there was no real need from the point of  view of crasting any more pretty polly to  tolchock some old veck  in an alley and viddy him swim in  his  blood  while  we  counted the  takings and divided  by four,  nor to  do  the  ultra-violent on some  shivering  starry grey-haired ptitsa in a shop and  go smecking off with the till's guts. But,

as they say, money isn't everything.

The four  of us were dressed in the height of  fashion,  which in those days was a pair of black very tight  tights with the old jelly mould,  as we called  it, fitting  on the  crotch  underneath  the tights,  this  being to protect  and  also a  sort of a  design  you could viddy clear enough  in  a

certain light, so that I had one in the shape of a spider, Pete had a rooker (a hand, that is), Georgie had a very fancy one of  a  flower, and poor  old Dim  had  a very hound-and-horny one of a clown's litso (face, that is). Dim not ever having much of an idea of  things and being, beyond all shadow of a doubting thomas, the dimmest of we four. Then we wore waisty jackets without lapels  but with these  very big built-up shoulders (`pletchoes'  we  called them) which were  a kind of a mockery of having  real shoulders  like  that.

Then,  my  brothers,  we had  these  off-white  cravats  which  looked  like whipped-up kartoffel or spud with a sort of a design made on it with a fork. We wore our hair not too long and we had flip horrorshow boots for kicking.

    "What's it going to be then, eh?"

    There were three devotchkas sitting  at the  counter  all together, but there were  four of us malchicks and it was usually like one for all and all for  one.  These sharps  were  dressed  in  the heighth of fashion too, with purple and  green and orange wigs on their gullivers, each one  not  costing less than three or  four weeks of  those sharps' wages, I should reckon, and make-up to match (rainbows round the glazzies, that is, and  the rot painted very  wide).  Then they had  long black  very straight  dresses, and  on the groody part of them  they had little  badges of  like silver  with different malchicks' names on them--Joe and Mike and suchlike.  These were supposed to

be the names of the different malchicks they'd spatted with before they were fourteen. They kept  looking our way and I nearly felt like saying the three of  us (out of the corner of my rot, that is) should go off for a bit of pol and  leave  poor old  Dim  behind,  because  it would  be just  a  matter of kupetting  Dim  a  demi-litre  of  white but this  time  with  a  dollop  of synthemesc in it, but that wouldn't really have been playing like  the game.

Dim was very very ugly and like  his  name,  but he  was a horrorshow filthy fighter and very handy with the boot.

    "What's it going to be then, eh?"

    The chelloveck sitting  next to me, there  being this long  big  plushy seat that ran round three walls, was well away with  his glazzies glazed and sort of burbling slovos like  "Aristotle wishy  washy works  outing cyclamen get forficulate  smartish." He was  in the  land  all  right,  well away, in orbit,  and I knew what it was like, having tried it like everybody else had done,  but  at this time  I'd got to thinking it  was  a  cowardly sort of a veshch, O my brothers. You'd lay  there after you'd drunk the old moloko and then you got  the messel that  everything  all  round you was sort of in the

past. You could  viddy it  all  right, all of it,  very  clear--tables,  the stereo, the lights, the  sharps  and  the malchicks--but  it was  like  some veshch that  used to be there but was  not  there not no more.  And you were sort of hypnotized by your boot or shoe or a finger-nail as it might be, and

at the same time you were sort of picked up by the old scruff and shook like you might be a cat. You got shook and shook till there was nothing left. You lost your name and your body and your self and you just didn't care, and you waited until your boot or finger-nail got yellow, then yellower and yellower all the time. Then the lights started cracking like atomics and the boot  or finger-nail or, as it might be, a bit  of dirt on your trouser-bottom turned into a  big big  big mesto, bigger  than the whole world, and you were  just going to get introduced to old  Bog or God when  it  was all over.  You came back to here and now whimpering sort of, with your rot all squaring up for a

boohoohoo. Now that's very nice but very  cowardly. You were not put on this earth just  to  get in touch with God. That sort of thing could sap  all the strength and the goodness out of a chelloveck.

    "What's it going to be then, eh?"

    The stereo  was on and you  got the  idea that the singer's  goloss was moving from  one  part of the bar to  another, flying up to the  ceiling and then swooping  down again and whizzing from wall to wall. It was Berti Laski rasping a real starry oldie called `You Blister My Paint.'  One of the three

ptitsas at the counter, the one with the green wig, kept  pushing  her belly out and pulling it in  in time to what they called the music.  I could  feel the knives in the  old  moloko starting to  prick, and now I was ready for a bit  of twenty-to-one. So  I yelped:  "Out out out out!" like  a doggie, and

then  I cracked  this  veck who was  sitting  next to me  and well  away and burbling a horrorshow crack  on the ooko  or earhole,  but he didn't feel it and  went on with  his "Telephonic  hardware and when the  farfarculule gets rubadubdub." He'd feel it all right when he came to, out of the land.

    "Where out?" said Georgie.

    "Oh, just to keep  walking," I  said,  "and  viddy what turns up,  O my little brothers."

    So we scatted out into the big winter nochy and walked down  Marghanita Boulevard and then  turned into Boothby Avenue, and there  we found what  we were pretty well looking for,  a malenky jest to start off the evening with.

There was  a doddery starry schoolmaster type  veck, glasses on  and his rot open to the cold nochy air. He had books under his arm and a crappy umbrella and  was  coming round the corner from the  Public  Biblio,  which  not many lewdies used these  days. You never really saw many of the  older  bourgeois type out after nightfall those days, what with the shortage of police and we

fine young malchickiwicks  about, and this prof type chelloveck was the only one walking  in the  whole  of  the  street.  So we goolied up  to him, very polite, and I said: "Pardon me, brother."

    He  looked a  malenky bit  poogly  when he viddied the  four of us like that, coming up so quiet and polite and smiling, but he said: "Yes? What  is it?" in  a very loud teacher-type goloss,  as if he was trying to show us he wasn't poogly. I said:

    "I see  you have  books  under your arm, brother. It  is indeed  a rare pleasure these days to come across somebody that still reads, brother."

    "Oh," he said, all  shaky. "Is it? Oh, I see." And he kept looking from one to the other of we  four, finding  himself now  like in  the middle of a very smiling and polite square.

    "Yes," I said. "It  would interest  me greatly, brother,  if you  would kindly allow me to see  what books those are that you have under your arm. I like nothing better in this world than a good clean book, brother."

    "Clean," he said. "Clean, eh?" And then Pete skvatted these three books from him and handed them round real skorry. Being three, we all had one each to viddy at except for Dim. The  one I

had was  called `Elementary Crystallography,'  so I opened  it  up and said:

"Excellent, really first-class," keeping turning the pages. Then I said in a very shocked type goloss: "But what is this here? What is this filthy slovo? I blush to look at this word. You disappoint me, brother, you do really."

    "But," he tried, "but, but."

    "Now," said Georgie, "here is what I should call real dirt. There's one slovo beginning with an f  and another  with a c." He had a book called `The Miracle of the Snowflake.'

    "Oh," said poor old Dim, smotting  over Pete's shoulder and  going  too far, like he always did, "it says here  what he done to  her,  and there's a picture  and  all. Why,"  he  said,  "you're nothing but a filthy-minded old skitebird."

    "An old man of your  age, brother," I said, and I started to rip up the book I'd  got, and the  others did  the same with the ones they had. Dim and Pete doing a tug-of-war with `The Rhombohedral System.' The starry prof type began to creech: "But those  are not  mine,  those  are the property  of the municipality,  this  is  sheer wantonness and  vandal  work,"  or some  such slovos. And he tried to  sort of wrest the books back off  of us,  which was like pathetic. "You deserve  to be taught  a lesson, brother," I said, "that you do." This crystal book  I had was very tough-bound and hard to razrez to bits, being real starry and made in days when things were made to last like, but  I managed  to rip the  pages up  and chuck  them  in  handfuls  of like snowflakes,  though  big,  all over  this creeching old veck, and  then the others did the same  with theirs, old Dim  just dancing about like the clown he  was. "There you are,"  said Pete. "There's the mackerel of the cornflake

for you, you dirty reader of filth and nastiness."

    "You naughty  old veck, you," I said, and then  we began to filly about with him. Pete held his rookers and Georgie sort of hooked his rot wide open for him and Dim yanked  out his  false  zoobies, upper  and lower. He  threw these down  on  the pavement and then I  treated them to the old boot-crush, though  they  were hard bastards  like, being  made  of some new  horrorshow plastic stuff. The old veck began to make sort of chumbling shooms--"wuf waf wof"--so Georgie let go of holding his  goobers  apart and just let him have one  in the toothless rot  with his ringy fist, and  that made the old  veck start moaning  a lot then, then  out  comes  the  blood, my  brothers,  real beautiful. So all we did then was  to pull his outer platties off, stripping him down to his vest and long  underpants (very starry; Dim smecked his head off near), and then Pete kicks him lovely in his pot,  and we let him go. He went  sort  of staggering off, it not  having  been  too  hard of a tolchock really, going "Oh oh oh," not knowing where or  what was what really, and we had a snigger at him and then riffled through his pockets, Dim dancing round with his crappy umbrella meanwhile, but there wasn't much in them.

    There were a few starry letters, some of them dating right back to 1960 with "My dearest dearest" in them and all that chepooka, and a keyring and a starry leaky pen.  Old Dim gave  up his  umbrella dance and of course had to start reading one of the letters out loud, like  to show the empty street he could read. "My darling one," he recited, in this  very high type goloss, "I shall be thinking of you  while you  are away and hope you will  remember to wrap up  warm  when you go  out at night." Then he  let  out a  very shoomny smeck--"Ho ho  ho"--pretending to  start  wiping  his  yahma  with it.  "All right,"  I said. "Let it go, O  my brothers." In the trousers of this starry

veck there was only  a malenky bit of cutter (money, that is)--not more than three gollies--so we  gave  all his messy little coin the scatter treatment, it being  hen-korm to the amount of pretty polly we had on  us already. Then we  smashed  the  umbrella and  razrezzed  his platties and gave them to the blowing  winds, my brothers, and then we'd finished  with the starry teacher type veck. We hadn't done much, I know, but that was only like  the start of the evening and I make no appy polly loggies to thee  or thine for that. The knives in the milk plus were stabbing away nice and horrorshow now.

    The next  thing was  to do the  sammy act, which  was one way to unload some of  our  cutter  so  we'd  have  more of an  incentive  like  for  some shop-crasting, as well as it being a  way of buying an alibi  in advance, so we went into the Duke of New York on Amis Avenue and sure enough in the snug there  were three or four old baboochkas peeting their black  and suds on SA (State Aid).  Now we  were the very good malchicks, smiling good evensong to one and all, though these  wrinkled old lighters started  to get all  shook, their  veiny  old  rookers all trembling round their glasses, and making the suds spill on the table. "Leave us be, lads," said one of them, her face all

mappy with being a  thousand years old, "we're only poor old  women." But we just made with the zoobies, flash flash flash, sat down, rang the bell,  and waited  for  the boy  to  come.  When he  came, all nervous  and rubbing his rookers  on his grazzy apron,  we ordered us  four veterans--a veteran being rum and cherry brandy mixed, which was popular just then, some liking a dash

of lime in it, that being the Canadian variation. Then I said to the boy: "Give these  poor  old baboochkas  over  there  a nourishing something. Large Scotchmen  all  round  and something to  take  away." And  I poured my pocket  of  deng  all over the table, and the other three did likewise, O my brothers. So double firegolds were bought in for the scared starry lighters, and they knew not what to do or say. One of them got out "Thanks, lads," but you could see they  thought there  was something dirty like  coming. Anyway, they were each given a bottle of Yank General, cognac that is, to take away, and I gave  money for them to be delivered  each  a  dozen of black and suds

that following morning,  they to leave their stinking old cheenas' addresses at the counter. Then with the cutter that was  left over we did purchase, my brothers, all the meat pies, pretzels, cheese-snacks, crisps and chocbars in that mesto, and those too were for the old sharps.  Then we said: "Back in a minoota," and the old ptitsas were  still saying:  "Thanks, lads,"  and "God bless you, boys," and  we were  going out without one cent of cutter  in our carmans.

    "Makes you feel real dobby, that does," said Pete. You could viddy that poor old  Dim the dim didn't quite  pony all  that, but  he said nothing for fear of being called gloopy and a domeless wonderboy.  Well, we went off now round  the  corner to Attlee Avenue, and  there was  this sweets and cancers shop still open. We'd left them alone near three  months  now and  the whole district had been very quiet  on the whole,  so the armed millicents or rozz patrols weren't round there much, being more north of the river  these days. We put our  maskies on--new  jobs  these  were, real horrorshow, wonderfully done really; they were like faces of historical personalities (they gave you the names when you  bought)  and I had Disraeli,  Pete  had  Elvis  Presley, Georgie had  Henry VIII and  poor  old Dim  had  a poet veck  called  Peebee Shelley;  they  were a real like disguise, hair and all, and they were  some very special plastic veshch so you could roll  it up when you'd done with it and hide it in your boot--then three of us went in.

    Pete keeping chasso without, not that there was anything to worry about out there. As soon as we launched on the shop we went for Slouse who ran it, a big portwine jelly  of a veck who viddied at once what was coming and made straight for the  inside where the telephone was and perhaps his  well-oiled pooshka,  complete with six dirty rounds.  Dim was round that counter skorry as a bird, sending packets of snoutie flying and cracking over a big cut-out showing a sharp  with  all  her zoobies going flash at the customers and her groodies  near hanging  out to advertise some new brand of cancers. What you could viddy then  was a sort of a big ball rolling into the  inside  of  the

shop behind the curtain,  this being old  Dim and Slouse sort of locked in a death  struggle. Then  you  could slooshy panting  and  snoring  and kicking behind the curtain and veshches  falling  over  and swearing and then  glass going  smash smash smash. Mother Slouse, the wife,  was sort of froze behind the counter.  We could tell she would creech  murder given  one chance, so I was round that counter  very skorry and had a hold of  her, and a horrorshow big  lump she was  too, all  nuking  of scent  and with flipflop big bobbing groodies  on her. I'd got my  rooker round  her rot  to stop her belting out death and destruction to the four winds of heaven, but this lady doggie gave me a large foul  big bite on it and it  was me that did  the  creeching, and then she opened up beautiful with a flip yell for the millicents. Well, then she had to be tolchocked proper with one of the weights for the  scales, and then a fair tap with a crowbar they had for opening cases, and  that brought

the red out like an old friend. So we had her down on the floor and a rip of her platties for fun  and a gentle bit of the boot to stop her moaning. And, viddying  her lying there with her groodies on show, I  wondered should I or not, but that was for later on in the evening. Then we cleaned the till, and there was flip  horrorshow takings that nochy, and we had a few packs of the very best top cancers apiece, then off we went, my brothers.

    "A real big heavy great bastard he was," Dim kept saying. I didn't like the  look of Dim:  he looked dirty and  untidy,  like a veck who'd been in a fight, which he had been, of course, but you should never look as though you have been. His  cravat was like someone had trampled  on it,  his maskie had been pulled off and he  had  floor-dirt on his litso, so we got  him  in  an alleyway and tidied him up a malenky bit, soaking  our tashtooks in spit  to cheest the dirt off. The things we did for old Dim. We were back in the Duke of New York very skorry and I reckoned by my watch we  hadn't been more than ten  minutes away. The starry old baboochkas  were still there on  the black

and suds and Scotchmen we'd bought them, and we said: "Hallo there, girlies, what's it going to be?" They started on the old "Very kind,  lads, God bless you, boys," and so we rang  the collocol and brought a different  waiter  in this time and we ordered beers with rum in, being sore athirst, my brothers, and whatever the old ptitsas wanted. Then I said to the  old baboochkas: "We haven't been out of here, have we? Been here all the time, haven't we?" They all caught on real skorry and said:

    "That's right, lads. Not been out of our  sight, you haven't. God bless you, boys," drinking.

    Not that it mattered  much, really. About half  an hour went  by before there was  any sign of  life among  the millicents, and then it was only two very  young  rozzes  that  came  in,  very  pink under  their  big  copper's shlemmies. One said: "You lot  know  anything about  the  happenings at Slouse's  shop  thisnight?"

    "Us?" I said, innocent. "Why, what happened?"

    "Stealing  and roughing.  Two hospitalizations. Where've you  lot  been this evening?"

    "I don't go for that nasty tone," I said. "I don't care  much for these nasty insinuations. A very suspicious nature all this  betokeneth, my little brothers."

    "They've been in  here  all night, lads,"  the  old  sharps  started to creech out. "God  bless  them,  there's  no  better lot  of boys  living for kindness  and generosity.  Been here  all the time they have. Not  seen them move we haven't."

    "We're only asking," said the other young millicent. "We've got our job to do like anyone else." But they gave us the nasty warning look before they went  out. As  they  were  going out  we  handed them  a  bit of  lip-music: brrrrzzzzrrrr.  But, myself,  I couldn't help  a  bit of  disappointment  atthings  as they were those days. Nothing to fight against really. Everything

as easy as kiss-my-sharries. Still, the night was still very young.

PAGE   \* MERGEFORMAT7




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