mp.godfather-第78节

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about　his　true　nationality。　Still；　they　did　not　know　exactly　who　he　was　except　that　he　was　in　hiding　and　there　could　be　no　babbling　about　him。　Fabrizzio　sometimes　brought　Michael　a　fresh　cheese　still　sweating　the　milk　that　formed　it。
　
　They　walked　along　dusty　country　roads　passing　donkeys　pulling　gaily　painted　carts。　The　land　was　filled　with　pink　flowers；　orange　orchards；　groves　of　almond　and　olive　trees；　all　blooming。　That　had　been　one　of　the　surprises。　Michael　had　expected　a　barren　land　because　of　the　legendary　poverty　of　Sicilians。　And　yet　he　had　found　it　a　land　of　gushing　plenty；　carpeted　with　flowers　scented　by　lemon　blossoms。　It　was　so　beautiful　that　he　wondered　how　its　people　could　bear　to　leave　it。　How　terrible　man　had　been　to　his　fellow　man　could　be　measured　by　the　great　exodus　from　what　seemed　to　be　a　Garden　of　Eden。
　
　He　had　planned　to　walk　to　the　coastal　village　of　Mazara；　and　then　take　a　bus　back　to　Corleone　in　the　evening；　and　so　tire　himself　out　and　be　able　to　sleep。　The　two　shepherds　wore　rucksacks　filled　with　bread　and　cheese　they　could　eat　on　the　way。　They　carried　their　luparas　quite　openly　as　if　out　for　a　day's　hunting。
　
　It　was　a　most　beautiful　morning。　Michael　felt　as　he　had　felt　when　as　a　child　he　had　gone　out　early　on　a　summer　day　to　play　ball。　Then　each　day　had　been　freshly　washed；　freshly　painted。　And　so　it　was　now。　Sicily　was　carpeted　is　gaudy　flowers；　the　scent　of　orange　and　lemon　blossoms　so　heavy　that　even　with　his　facial　injury　which　pressed　on　the　sinuses；　he　could　smell　it。
　
　The　smashing　on　the　left　site　of　his　face　had　pletely　healed　but　the　bone　had　formed　improperly　and　the　pressure　on　his　sinuses　made　his　left　eye　hurt。　It　also　made　his　nose　run　continually；　he　filled　up　handkerchiefs　with　mucus　and　often　blew　his　nose　out　onto　the　ground　as　the　local　peasants　did；　a　habit　that　had　disgusted　him　when　he　was　a　boy　and　had　seen　old　Italians；　disdaining　handkerchiefs　as　English　foppery；　blow　out　their　noses　in　the　asphalt　gutters。
　
　His　face　too　felt　〃heavy。〃　Dr。　Taza　had　told　him　that　this　was　due　to　the　pressure　on　his　sinuses　caused　by　the　badly　healed　fracture。　Dr。　Taza　called　it　an　eggshell　fracture　of　the　zygoma；　that　if　it　had　been　treated　before　the　bones　knitted；　it　could　have　been　easily　remedied　by　a　minor　surgical　procedure　using　an　instrument　like　a　spoon　to　push　out　the　bone　to　its　proper　shape。　Now；　however；　said　the　dootor；　he　would　have　to　check　into　a　Palermo　hospital　and　undergo　a　major　procedure　called　maxillo…facial　surgery　where　the　bone　would　be　broken　again。　That　was　enough　for　Michael。　He　refused。　And　yet　more　than　the　pain；　more　than　the　nose　dripping；　he　was　bothered　by　the　feeling　of　heaviness　in　his　face。
　
　He　never　reached　the　coast　that　day。　After　going　about　fifteen　miles　he　and　his　shepherds　stopped　in　the　cool　green　watery　shade　of　an　orange　grove　to　eat　lunch　and　drink　their　wine。　Fabrizzio　was　chattering　about　how　he　would　someday　get　to　America。　After　drinking　and　eating　they　lolled　in　the　shade　and　Fabrizzio　unbuttoned　his　shirt　and　contracted　his　stomach　muscles　to　make　the　tattoo　e　alive。　The　naked　couple　on　his　chest　writhed　in　a　lover's　agony　and　the　dagger　thrust　by　the　husband　quivered　in　their　transfixed　flesh。　It　amused　them。　It　was　while　this　was　going　on　that　Michael　was　hit　with　what　the　Sicilians　call　〃the　thunderbolt。〃
　
　Beyond　the　orange　grove　lay　the　green　ribboned　fields　of　a　baronial　estate。　Down　the　road　from　the　grove　was　a　villa　so　Roman　it　looked　as　if　it　had　been　dug　up　from　the　ruins　of　Pompeii。　It　was　a　little　palace　with　a　huge　marble　portico　and　fluted　Grecian　columns　and　through　those　columns　came　a　bevy　of　village　girls　flanked　by　two　stout　matrons　clad　in　black。　They　were　from　the　village　and　had　obviously　fulfilled　their　ancient　duty　to　the　local　baron　by　cleaning　his　villa　and　otherwise　preparing　it　for　his　winter　sojourn。　Now　they　were　going　into　the　fields　to　pick　the　flowers　with　which　they　would　fill　the　rooms。　They　were　gathering　the　pink　sulla；　purple　wisteria；　mixing　them　with　orange　and　lemon　blossoms。　The　girls；　not　seeing　the　men　resting　in　the　orange　grove；　came　closer　and　closer。
　
　They　were　dressed　in　cheap　gaily　printed　frocks　that　clung　to　their　bodies。　They　were　still　in　their　teens　but　with　the　full　womanliness　sun…drenched　flesh　ripened　into　so　quickly。　Three　or　four　of　them　started　chasing　one　girl；　chasing　her　toward　the　grove。　The　girl　being　chased　held　a　bunch　of　huge　purple　grapes　in　her　left　hand　and　with　her　right　hand　was　picking　grapes　off　the　cluster　and　throwing　them　at　her　pursuers。　She　had　a　crown　of　ringleted　hair　as　purple…black　as　the　grapes　and　her　body　seemed　to　be　bursting　out　of　its　skin。
　
　Just　short　of　the　grove　she　poised；　startled；　her　eyes　having　caught　the　alien　color　of　the　men's　shirts。　She　stood　there　up　on　her　toes　poised　like　a　deer　to　run。　She　was　very　close　now；　close　enough　for　the　men　to　see　every　feature　of　her　face。
　
　She　was　all　ovals…　oval…shaped　eyes；　the　bones　of　her　face；　the　contour　of　her　brow。　Her　skin　was　an　exquisite　dark　creaminess　and　her　eyes；　enormous；　dark　violet　or　brown　but　dark　with　long　heavy　lashes　shadowed　her　lovely　face。　Her　mouth　was　rich　without　being　gross；　sweet　without　being　weak　and　dyed　dark　red　with　the　juice　of　the　grapes。　She　was　so　incredibly　lovely　that　Fabrizzio　murmured；　〃Jesus　Christ；　take　my　soul；　I'm　dying；〃　as　a　joke；　but　the　words　came　out　a　little　too　hoarsely。　As　if　she　had　heard　him；　the　girl　came　down　off　her　toes　and　whirled　away　from　them　and。　fled　back　to　her　pursuers。　Her　haunches　moved　like　an　animal's　beneath　the　tight　print　of　her　dress；　as　pagan　and　as　innocently　lustful。　When　she　reached　her　friends　she　whirled　around　again　and　her　face　was　like　a　dark　hollow　against　the　field　of　bright　flowers。　She　extended　an　arm；　the　hand　full　of　grapes　pointed　toward　the　grove。　The　girls　fled　laughing；　with　the　black…clad；　stout　matrons　scolding　them　on。
　
　As　for　Michael　Corleone；　he　found　himself　standing；　his　heart　pounding　in　his　chest；　he　felt　a　little　dizzy。　The　blood　was　surging　through　his　body；　through　all　its　extremities　and　pounding　against　the　tips　of　his　fingers；　the　tips　of　his　toes。　All　the　perfumes　of　the　island　came　rushing　in　on　the　wind；　orange；　lemon　blossoms；　grapes；　flowers。　It　seemed　as　if　his　body　had　sprung　away　from　him　out　of　himself。　And　then　he　heard　the　two　shepherds　laughing。
　
　〃You　got　hit　by　the　thunderbolt；　eh？〃　Fabrizzio　said；　clapping　him　on　the　shoulder。　Even　Calo　became　friendly；　patting　him　on　the　arm　and　saying；　〃Easy；　man；　easy；〃　but　with　affection。　As　if　Michael　had　been　hit　by　a　car。　Fabrizzio　handed　him　a　wine　bottle　and　Michael　took　a　long　slug。　It　cleared　his　head。
　
　〃What　the　hell　are　you　damn　sheep　lovers　talking　about？〃　he　said。
　
　Both　men　laughed。　Calo；　his　honest　face　filled　with　the　utmost　seriousness；　said；　〃You　can't　hide　the　thunderbolt。　When　it　hits　you；　everybody　can　see　it。　Christ；　man；　don't　be　ashamed　of　it；　some　men　pray　for　the　thunderbolt。　You're　a　lucky　fellow。〃
　
　Michael　wasn't　too　pleased　about　his　emotions　being　so　easily　read。　But　this　was　the　first　time　in　his　life　such　a　thing　had　happened　to　him。　It　was　nothing　like　his　adolescent　crushes；　it　was　nothing　like　the　love　he'd　had　for　Kay；　a　love　based　as　much　on　her　sweetness；　her　intelligence　and　the　polarity　of　the　fair　and　dark。　This　was　an　overwhelming　desire　for　possession；　this　was　an　unerasable　printing　of　the　girl's　face　on　his　brain　and　he　knew　she　would　haunt　his　memory　every　day　of　his　life　if　he　did　not　possess　her。　His　life　had　bee　simplified；　focused　on　one　point；　everything　else　was　unworthy　of　even　a　moment's　attention。　During　his　exile　he　had　always　thought　of　Kay；　though　he　felt　they　could　never　again　be　lovers　or　even　friends。　He　was；　after　all　was　said；　a　murderer；　a　Mafioso　who　had　〃made　his　bones。〃　But　now　Kay　was　wiped　pletely　out　of　his　consciousness。
　
　Fabrizzio　said　briskly；　〃I'll　go　to　the　village；　we'll　find　out　about　her。　Who　knows；　she　may　be　more　available　than　we　think。　There's　only　one　cure　for　the　thunderbolt；　eh；　Calo？〃
　
　The　other　shepherd　nodded　his　head　gravely。　Michael　didn't　say　anything。　He　followed　the　two　shepherds　as　they　started　down　tie　road　to　the　nearby　village　into　which　the　flock　of　girls　had　disappeared。
　
　The　village　was　grouped　around　the　usual　central　square　with　its　fountain。　But　it　was　on　a　main　route　so　there　were　some　stores；　wine　shops　and　one　little　café　with　three　tables　out　on　a　small　terrace。　The　shepherds　sat　at　one　of　the　tables　and　Michael　joined　them。　There　was　no　sign　of　the　girls；　not　a　trace。　The　village　seemed　deserted　except　for　small　boys　and　a　meandering　donkey。
　
　The　proprietor　of　the　café　came　to　serve　them。　He　was　a　short；　burly　man；　almost　dwarfish　but　he　greeted　them　cheerfully　and　set　a　dish　of　chickpeas　at　their　table。　〃You're　strangers　here；〃　he　said；　〃so　let　me　advise　you。　Try　my　wine。　The　grapes　e　from　my　own　farm　and　it's　made　by　my　sons　themselves。　They　mix　it　with　oranges　and　lemons。　It's　the　best　wine　in　Italy。〃
　
　They　let　him　bring　the　wine　in　a　jug　and　it　was　even　better　than　he　claimed；　dark　purple　and　as　powerful　as　a　brandy。　Fabrizzo　s