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Neil Gaiman "American Gods", CHAPTER TWO (p.1)

CHAPTER TWO (p.1)

CHAPTER TWO

They took her to the cemet'ry

In a big ol' Cadillac They took her to the cemet'ry

But they did not bring her back.

—OLD SONG

I have taken the liberty,” said Mr. Wednesday, washing his hands in the men's room of Jack's Crocodile Bar, “of ordering food for myself, to be delivered to your table. We have much to discuss, after all.”

“I don't think so,” said Shadow. He dried his own hands on a paper towel and crumpled it, and dropped it into the bin.

“You need a job,” said Wednesday. “People don't hire ex-cons. You folk make them uncomfortable.”

“I have a job waiting. A good job.”

“Would that be the job at the Muscle Farm?”

“Maybe,” said Shadow.

“Nope. You don't. Robbie Burton's dead. Without him the Muscle Farm's dead too.”

“You're a liar.”

“Of course. And a good one. The best you will ever meet. But, I'm afraid, I'm not lying to you about this.” He reached into his pocket, produced a newspaper, much folded, and handed it to Shadow. “Page seven,” he said. “Come on back to the bar. You can read it at the table.” Shadow pushed open the door, back into the bar. The air was blue with smoke, and the Dixie Cups were on the jukebox singing “Iko Iko.” Shadow smiled, slightly, in recognition of the old children's song.

The barman pointed to a table in the corner. There was a bowl of chili and a burger at one side of the table, a rare steak and a bowl of fries laid in the place across from it.

Look at my King all dressed in Red,

Iko Iko all day,

I bet you five dollars he'll kill you dead,

Jockamo-feena-nay

Shadow took his seat at the table. He put the newspaper down. “I got out of prison this morning,” he said. “This is my first meal as a free man. You won't object if I wait until after I've eaten to read your page seven?”

“Not in the slightest bit.”

Shadow ate his hamburger. It was better than prison hamburgers. The chili was good but, he decided, after a couple of mouthfuls, not the best in the state.

Laura made a great chili. She used lean-cut meat, dark kidney beans, carrots cut small, a bottle or so of dark beer, and freshly sliced hot peppers. She would let the chili cook for a while, then add red wine, lemon juice, and a pinch of fresh dill, and, finally, measure out and add her chili powders. On more than one occasion Shadow had tried to get her to show him how she made it: he would watch everything she did, from slicing the onions and dropping them into the olive oil at the bottom of the pot on. He had even written down the sequence of events, ingredient by ingredient, and he had once made Laura's chili for himself on a weekend when she had been out of town. It had tasted okay—it was certainly edible, and he ate it, but it had not been Laura's chili.

The news item on page seven was the first account of his wife's death that Shadow had read. It felt strange, as if he were reading about someone in a story: how Laura Moon, whose age was given in the article as twenty-seven, and Robbie Burton, thirty-nine, were in Robbie's car on the interstate, when they swerved into the path of a thirty-two wheeler, which sideswiped them as it tried to change lanes and avoid them. The truck brushed Robbie's car and sent it spinning off the side of the road, where the car had hit a road sign, hard, and stopped spinning.

Rescue crews were on the scene in minutes. They pulled Robbie and Laura from the wreckage. They were both dead by the time they arrived at the hospital.

Shadow folded the newspaper up once more, and slid it back across the table, toward Wednesday, who was gorging himself on a steak so bloody and so blue it might never have been introduced to a kitchen flame.

“Here. Take it back,” said Shadow.

Robbie had been driving. He must have been drunk, although the newspaper account said nothing about this. Shadow found himself imagining Laura's face when she realized that Robbie was too drunk to drive. The scenario unfolded in Shadow's mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it: Laura shouting at Robbie—shouting at him to pull off the road, then the thud of car against truck, and the steering wheel wrenching over…

…the car on the side of the road, broken glass glittering like ice and diamonds in the headlights, blood pooling in rubies on the road beside them. Two bodies, dead or soon-to-die, being carried from the wreck, or laid neatly by the side of the road.

“Well?” asked Mr. Wednesday. He had finished his steak, sliced and devoured it like a starving man. Now he was munching the french fries, spearing them with his fork.

“You're right,” said Shadow. “I don't have a job.”

Shadow took a quarter from his pocket, tails up. He flicked it up in the air, knocking it against his finger as it left his hand to give it a wobble that made it look as if it were turning, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his hand.

“Call,” he said.

“Why?” asked Wednesday.

“I don't want to work for anyone with worse luck than me. Call.”

“Heads,” said Mr. Wednesday.

“Sorry,” said Shadow, revealing the coin without even bothering to glance at it. “It was tails. I rigged the toss.”

“Rigged games are the easiest ones to beat,” said Wednesday, wagging a square finger at Shadow. “Take another look at the quarter.”

Shadow glanced down at it. The head was face-up.

“I must have fumbled the toss,” he said, puzzled.

“You do yourself a disservice,” said Wednesday, and he grinned. “I'm just a lucky, lucky guy.” Then he looked up. “Well I never. Mad Sweeney. Will you have a drink with us?”

“Southern Comfort and Coke, straight up,” said a voice from behind Shadow.

“I'll go and talk to the barman,” said Wednesday. He stood up, and began to make his way toward the bar.

“Aren't you going to ask what I'm drinking?” called Shadow.

“I already know what you're drinking,” said Wednesday, and then he was standing by the bar. Patsy Cline started to sing “Walkin' after Midnight” on the jukebox again. The man who had ordered Southern Comfort and Coke sat down beside Shadow. He had a short ginger-colored beard. He wore a denim jacket covered with bright sew-on patches, and under the jacket a stained white T-shirt. On the T-shirt was printed:

IF YOU CAN'T EAT IT, DRINK IT, SMOKE IT OR SNORT IT…THEN F*CK IT!

He wore a baseball cap, on which was printed:

THE ONLY WOMAN I HAVE EVER LOVED WAS ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE…MY MOTHER!

He opened a soft pack of Lucky Strikes with a dirty thumbnail, took a cigarette, offered one to Shadow. Shadow was about to take one, automatically—he did not smoke, but a cigarette makes good barter material—when he realized that he was no longer inside. You could buy cigarettes here whenever you wanted. He shook his head.

“You working for our man then?” asked the bearded man. He was not sober, although he was not yet drunk.

“It looks that way,” said Shadow.

The bearded man lit his cigarette. “I'm a leprechaun,” he said.

Shadow did not smile. “Really?” he said. “Shouldn't you be drinking Guinness?”

“Stereotypes. You have to learn to think outside the box,” said the bearded man. “There's a lot more to Ireland than Guinness.”

“You don't have an Irish accent.”

“I've been over here too fucken long.”

“So you are originally from Ireland?”

“I told you. I'm a leprechaun. We don't come from fucken Moscow.”

“I guess not.”

Wednesday returned to the table, three drinks held easily in his paw-like hands. “Southern Comfort and Coke for you, Mad Sweeney, m'man, and a Jack Daniel's for me. And this is for you, Shadow.”

“What is it?”

“Taste it.”


CHAPTER TWO (p.1) CAPÍTULO DOS (p.1) ГЛАВА ДВА (стр. 1)

CHAPTER TWO

They took her to the cemet’ry Они отвезли ее на кладбище

In a big ol' Cadillac В большом старом Кадиллаке They took her to the cemet’ry Они отвезли ее на кладбище

But they did not bring her back. Но обратно ее не вернули.

—OLD SONG -СТАРАЯ ПЕСНЯ

I have taken the liberty,” said Mr. Wednesday, washing his hands in the men’s room of Jack’s Crocodile Bar, “of ordering food for myself, to be delivered to your table. Я взял на себя смелость, — сказал мистер Среда, умывая руки в мужском туалете «Крокодил-бара Джека», — заказать еду для себя с доставкой к вашему столу. We have much to discuss, after all.”

“I don’t think so,” said Shadow. He dried his own hands on a paper towel and crumpled it, and dropped it into the bin.

“You need a job,” said Wednesday. “People don’t hire ex-cons. «Люди не нанимают бывших заключенных. You folk make them uncomfortable.” Вы, народ, заставляете их чувствовать себя некомфортно.

“I have a job waiting. A good job.”

“Would that be the job at the Muscle Farm?”

“Maybe,” said Shadow.

“Nope. You don’t. Robbie Burton’s dead. Without him the Muscle Farm’s dead too.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Of course. And a good one. И хороший. The best you will ever meet. But, I’m afraid, I’m not lying to you about this.” He reached into his pocket, produced a newspaper, much folded, and handed it to Shadow. Но, боюсь, я не лгу вам на этот счет. Он полез в карман, достал сильно сложенную газету и протянул ее Тени. “Page seven,” he said. — Страница семь, — сказал он. “Come on back to the bar. — Возвращайся в бар. You can read it at the table.” Shadow pushed open the door, back into the bar. Вы можете прочитать его за столом. Тень толкнул дверь обратно в бар. The air was blue with smoke, and the Dixie Cups were on the jukebox singing “Iko Iko.” Shadow smiled, slightly, in recognition of the old children’s song. Воздух был синеват от дыма, а в музыкальном автомате стояли чашки Дикси и пели «Ико-ико». Тень слегка улыбнулся, узнав старую детскую песенку.

The barman pointed to a table in the corner. There was a bowl of chili and a burger at one side of the table, a rare steak and a bowl of fries laid in the place across from it. С одной стороны стола стояла тарелка с чили и гамбургер, напротив него лежали бифштекс с кровью и тарелка с картофелем фри.

Look at my King all dressed in Red, Посмотри на моего короля, одетого в красное,

Iko Iko all day, Ико Ико весь день,

I bet you five dollars he’ll kill you dead, Держу пари на пять долларов, он убьет тебя заживо,

Jockamo-feena-nay Джокамо-фина-нет

Shadow took his seat at the table. Тень сел за стол. He put the newspaper down. “I got out of prison this morning,” he said. “This is my first meal as a free man. You won’t object if I wait until after I’ve eaten to read your page seven?” Вы не будете возражать, если я подожду, пока поем, чтобы прочитать вашу седьмую страницу?

“Not in the slightest bit.” «Ни в малейшей степени».

Shadow ate his hamburger. It was better than prison hamburgers. The chili was good but, he decided, after a couple of mouthfuls, not the best in the state. Чили был хорош, но, решил он после пары глотков, не лучший в штате.

Laura made a great chili. She used lean-cut meat, dark kidney beans, carrots cut small, a bottle or so of dark beer, and freshly sliced hot peppers. Она использовала нежирное мясо, темную фасоль, мелко нарезанную морковь, бутылку или около того темного пива и свеженарезанный острый перец. She would let the chili cook for a while, then add red wine, lemon juice, and a pinch of fresh dill, and, finally, measure out and add her chili powders. Она позволяла чили готовиться некоторое время, затем добавляла красное вино, лимонный сок и щепотку свежего укропа и, наконец, отмеряла и добавляла свой порошок чили. On more than one occasion Shadow had tried to get her to show him how she made it: he would watch everything she did, from slicing the onions and dropping them into the olive oil at the bottom of the pot on. Не раз Тень пытался уговорить ее показать ему, как она это делает: он наблюдал за всем, что она делала, от нарезания лука до опускания его в оливковое масло на дне кастрюли. He had even written down the sequence of events, ingredient by ingredient, and he had once made Laura’s chili for himself on a weekend when she had been out of town. Он даже записал последовательность событий, ингредиент за ингредиентом, и однажды приготовил Лоре чили для себя на выходных, когда ее не было в городе. It had tasted okay—it was certainly edible, and he ate it, but it had not been Laura’s chili. На вкус он был неплох — он был определенно съедобен, и он ел его, но это был не перец чили Лауры.

The news item on page seven was the first account of his wife’s death that Shadow had read. Сообщение на седьмой странице было первым сообщением о смерти его жены, которое Тень прочитал. It felt strange, as if he were reading about someone in a story: how Laura Moon, whose age was given in the article as twenty-seven, and Robbie Burton, thirty-nine, were in Robbie’s car on the interstate, when they swerved into the path of a thirty-two wheeler, which sideswiped them as it tried to change lanes and avoid them. Это было странно, как будто он читал о ком-то в рассказе: как Лора Мун, возраст которой в статье был указан как двадцать семь, и Робби Бертон, тридцати девяти лет, находились в машине Робби на шоссе, когда они свернули в сторону. на путь тридцатидвухколесного автомобиля, который снес их боком, пытаясь сменить полосу движения и объехать их. The truck brushed Robbie’s car and sent it spinning off the side of the road, where the car had hit a road sign, hard, and stopped spinning. Грузовик задел машину Робби и отправил ее на обочину, где машина сильно ударилась о дорожный знак и перестала вращаться.

Rescue crews were on the scene in minutes. Спасатели прибыли на место за считанные минуты. They pulled Robbie and Laura from the wreckage. They were both dead by the time they arrived at the hospital. Они оба были мертвы, когда прибыли в больницу.

Shadow folded the newspaper up once more, and slid it back across the table, toward Wednesday, who was gorging himself on a steak so bloody and so blue it might never have been introduced to a kitchen flame. Тень снова сложил газету и двинул ее обратно через стол к Среде, который наелся стейка, такого окровавленного и такого синего, что его, возможно, никогда не подносили к кухонному огню.

“Here. "Здесь. Take it back,” said Shadow. Возьми его обратно, — сказал Тень.

Robbie had been driving. Робби был за рулем. He must have been drunk, although the newspaper account said nothing about this. Должно быть, он был пьян, хотя в газете об этом ничего не говорилось. Shadow found himself imagining Laura’s face when she realized that Robbie was too drunk to drive. The scenario unfolded in Shadow’s mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it: Laura shouting at Robbie—shouting at him to pull off the road, then the thud of car against truck, and the steering wheel wrenching over… Сценарий развернулся в сознании Шэдоу, и он ничего не мог сделать, чтобы остановить его: Лора кричала на Робби — кричала ему, чтобы он съехал с дороги, затем стук машины о грузовик, и руль выворачивался…

…the car on the side of the road, broken glass glittering like ice and diamonds in the headlights, blood pooling in rubies on the road beside them. …машина на обочине, битое стекло сверкает, как лед, и бриллианты в фарах, кровь рубинами на дороге рядом с ними. Two bodies, dead or soon-to-die, being carried from the wreck, or laid neatly by the side of the road. Два тела, мертвые или близкие к смерти, выносят из-под обломков или аккуратно кладут на обочину.

“Well?” asked Mr. Wednesday. "Хорошо?" — спросил мистер Среда. He had finished his steak, sliced and devoured it like a starving man. Он доел бифштекс, нарезал его и проглотил, как голодный. Now he was munching the french fries, spearing them with his fork. Теперь он жевал картошку фри, протыкая ее вилкой.

“You’re right,” said Shadow. “I don’t have a job.”

Shadow took a quarter from his pocket, tails up. Тень достал из кармана четвертак решкой вверх. He flicked it up in the air, knocking it against his finger as it left his hand to give it a wobble that made it look as if it were turning, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his hand. Он подбросил его в воздух, стукнув им о палец, когда он выходил из его руки, чтобы он качнулся так, как будто он крутился, поймал его, шлепнул по тыльной стороне ладони.

“Call,” he said. — Позвони, — сказал он.

“Why?” asked Wednesday.

“I don’t want to work for anyone with worse luck than me. «Я не хочу работать на кого-то, кому повезло меньше, чем мне. Call.”

“Heads,” said Mr. Wednesday. — Головы, — сказал мистер Среда.

“Sorry,” said Shadow, revealing the coin without even bothering to glance at it. — Извини, — сказал Тень, показывая монету, даже не взглянув на нее. “It was tails. «Это были решки. I rigged the toss.” Я сфальсифицировал бросок.

“Rigged games are the easiest ones to beat,” said Wednesday, wagging a square finger at Shadow. «Сфальсифицированные игры легче всего победить», — сказал Среда, грозя Шэдоу квадратным пальцем. “Take another look at the quarter.” «Взгляните еще раз на квартал».

Shadow glanced down at it. Тень взглянул на него. The head was face-up. Голова была обращена вверх.

“I must have fumbled the toss,” he said, puzzled. «Должно быть, я нащупал бросок», — сказал он, озадаченный.

“You do yourself a disservice,” said Wednesday, and he grinned. — Вы оказываете себе медвежью услугу, — сказал Среда и усмехнулся. “I’m just a lucky, lucky guy.” Then he looked up. «Я просто счастливчик, счастливчик». Затем он посмотрел вверх. “Well I never. "Ну я никогда. Mad Sweeney. Безумный Суини. Will you have a drink with us?” Выпьешь с нами?»

“Southern Comfort and Coke, straight up,” said a voice from behind Shadow. — «Южный комфорт» и кока-кола, прямо наверх, — раздался голос из-за спины Тени.

“I’ll go and talk to the barman,” said Wednesday. — Я пойду и поговорю с барменом, — сказал Среда. He stood up, and began to make his way toward the bar. Он встал и начал пробираться к бару.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m drinking?” called Shadow. — Ты не собираешься спросить, что я пью? по имени Тень.

“I already know what you’re drinking,” said Wednesday, and then he was standing by the bar. Patsy Cline started to sing “Walkin' after Midnight” on the jukebox again. Пэтси Клайн снова начала петь «Walkin' after Midnight» из музыкального автомата. The man who had ordered Southern Comfort and Coke sat down beside Shadow. Человек, заказавший «Южный комфорт» и кока-колу, сел рядом с Тенью. He had a short ginger-colored beard. У него была короткая рыжеватая борода. He wore a denim jacket covered with bright sew-on patches, and under the jacket a stained white T-shirt. На нем была джинсовая куртка, покрытая яркими нашивками, а под курткой белая футболка с пятнами. On the T-shirt was printed: На футболке было напечатано:

IF YOU CAN’T EAT IT, DRINK IT, SMOKE IT OR SNORT IT…THEN F*CK IT! ЕСЛИ ВЫ НЕ МОЖЕТЕ ЭТО СЪЕСТЬ, ПЬЯТЬ, КУРИТЬ ИЛИ НЮХАТЬ… ТОГДА ПОХУЙ!

He wore a baseball cap, on which was printed:

THE ONLY WOMAN I HAVE EVER LOVED WAS ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE…MY MOTHER! ЕДИНСТВЕННАЯ ЖЕНЩИНА, КОТОРУЮ Я КОГДА-ЛИБО ЛЮБИЛ, БЫЛА ЖЕНОЙ ЧУЖОГО МУЖЧИНЫ… МОЯ МАТЬ!

He opened a soft pack of Lucky Strikes with a dirty thumbnail, took a cigarette, offered one to Shadow. Грязным ногтем большого пальца он открыл мягкую пачку «Лаки страйк», взял сигарету и предложил одну Шэдоу. Shadow was about to take one, automatically—he did not smoke, but a cigarette makes good barter material—when he realized that he was no longer inside. Тень уже собирался взять одну, машинально — он не курил, но сигарета — хороший материал для обмена, — когда понял, что его больше нет внутри. You could buy cigarettes here whenever you wanted. Здесь можно было купить сигареты в любое время. He shook his head. Он покачал головой.

“You working for our man then?” asked the bearded man. — Значит, ты работаешь на нашего человека? — спросил бородатый мужчина. He was not sober, although he was not yet drunk. Он был не трезв, хотя еще не был пьян.

“It looks that way,” said Shadow. — Похоже на то, — сказал Тень.

The bearded man lit his cigarette. Бородач закурил сигарету. “I’m a leprechaun,” he said. — Я лепрекон, — сказал он.

Shadow did not smile. “Really?” he said. “Shouldn’t you be drinking Guinness?” — Разве ты не должен пить Гиннесс?

“Stereotypes. You have to learn to think outside the box,” said the bearded man. Ты должен научиться мыслить нестандартно, — сказал бородач. “There’s a lot more to Ireland than Guinness.” «Ирландия — это гораздо больше, чем Гиннесс».

“You don’t have an Irish accent.” — У тебя нет ирландского акцента.

“I’ve been over here too fucken long.” — Я слишком долго здесь пробыл.

“So you are originally from Ireland?” — Так вы родом из Ирландии?

“I told you. I’m a leprechaun. Я лепрекон. We don’t come from fucken Moscow.” Мы приехали не из гребаной Москвы.

“I guess not.”

Wednesday returned to the table, three drinks held easily in his paw-like hands. Среда вернулся к столу, легко удерживая три стакана в своих лапообразных руках. “Southern Comfort and Coke for you, Mad Sweeney, m’man, and a Jack Daniel’s for me. — «Южный комфорт» и кока-кола для вас, Безумный Суини, мил человек, и «Джек Дэниелс» для меня. And this is for you, Shadow.” А это для тебя, Тень.

“What is it?”

“Taste it.”