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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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The
signs
on
cards
,
picked
out
with
shining
mica
:
Pies
Like
Mother
Used
to
Make
.
Credit
Makes
Enemies
.
Let
’
s
Be
Friends
.
Ladies
May
Smoke
But
Be
Careful
Where
You
Lay
Your
Butts
.
Eat
Here
and
Keep
Your
Wife
for
a
Pet
.
IITYWY
BAD
?
Down
at
one
end
the
cooking
plates
,
pots
of
stew
,
potatoes
,
pot
roast
,
roast
beef
,
gray
roast
pork
waiting
to
be
sliced
.
Minnie
or
Susy
or
Mae
,
middle
-
aging
behind
the
counter
,
hair
curled
and
rouge
and
powder
on
a
sweating
face
.
Taking
orders
in
a
soft
low
voice
,
calling
them
to
the
cook
with
a
screech
like
a
peacock
.
Mopping
the
counter
with
circular
strokes
,
polishing
the
big
shining
coffee
urns
.
The
cook
is
Joe
or
Carl
or
Al
,
hot
in
a
white
coat
and
apron
,
beady
sweat
on
white
forehead
,
below
the
white
cook
’
s
cap
;
moody
,
rarely
speaking
,
looking
up
for
a
moment
at
each
new
entry
.
Wiping
the
griddle
,
slapping
down
the
hamburger
.
He
repeats
Mae
’
s
orders
gently
,
scrapes
the
griddle
,
wipes
it
down
with
burlap
.
Moody
and
silent
.
Mae
is
the
contact
,
smiling
,
irritated
,
near
to
outbreak
;
smiling
while
her
eyes
look
on
past
—
unless
for
truck
drivers
.
There
’
s
the
backbone
of
the
joint
.
Where
the
trucks
stop
,
that
’
s
where
the
customers
come
.
Can
’
t
fool
truck
drivers
,
they
know
.
They
bring
the
customer
.
They
know
.
Give
’
em
a
stale
cup
a
coffee
an
’
they
’
re
off
the
joint
.
Treat
’
em
right
an
’
they
come
back
.
Mae
really
smiles
with
all
her
might
at
truck
drivers
.
She
bridles
a
little
,
fixes
her
back
hair
so
that
her
breasts
will
lift
with
her
raised
arms
,
passes
the
time
of
day
and
indicates
great
things
,
great
times
,
great
jokes
.
Al
never
speaks
.
He
is
no
contact
.
Sometimes
he
smiles
a
little
at
a
joke
,
but
he
never
laughs
.
Sometimes
he
looks
up
at
the
vivaciousness
in
Mae
’
s
voice
,
and
then
he
scrapes
the
griddle
with
a
spatula
,
scrapes
the
grease
into
an
iron
trough
around
the
plate
.
He
presses
down
a
hissing
hamburger
with
his
spatula
.
He
lays
the
split
buns
on
the
plate
to
toast
and
heat
.
He
gathers
up
stray
onions
from
the
plate
and
heaps
them
on
the
meat
and
presses
them
in
with
the
spatula
.
He
puts
half
the
bun
on
top
of
the
meat
,
paints
the
other
half
with
melted
butter
,
with
thin
pickle
relish
.
Holding
the
bun
on
the
meat
,
he
slips
the
spatula
under
the
thin
pad
of
meat
,
flips
it
over
,
lays
the
buttered
half
on
top
,
and
drops
the
hamburger
on
a
small
plate
.
Quarter
of
a
dill
pickle
,
two
black
olives
beside
the
sandwich
.
Al
skims
the
plate
down
the
counter
like
a
quoit
.
And
he
scrapes
his
griddle
with
the
spatula
and
looks
moodily
at
the
stew
kettle
.
Cars
whisking
by
on
66
.
License
plates
.
Mass
.
,
Tenn
.
,
R
.
I
.
,
N
.
Y
.
,
Vt
.
,
Ohio
.
Going
west
.
Fine
cars
,
cruising
at
sixty
-
five
.
There
goes
one
of
them
Cords
.
Looks
like
a
coffin
on
wheels
.
But
,
Jesus
,
how
they
travel
!
See
that
La
Salle
?
Me
for
that
.
I
ain
’
t
a
hog
.
I
go
for
a
La
Salle
.
