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- Марио Пьюзо
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- Стр. 183/319
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Now
at
supper
with
his
wife
in
their
solidly
furnished
apartment
,
gilt
statues
of
the
Virgin
Mary
with
their
red-glassed
candles
flickering
on
the
sideboard
,
Bonasera
lit
a
Camel
cigarette
and
took
a
relaxing
glass
of
American
whiskey
.
His
wife
brought
steaming
plates
of
soup
to
the
table
.
The
two
of
them
were
alone
now
;
he
had
sent
his
daughter
to
live
in
Boston
with
her
mother
's
sister
,
where
she
could
forget
her
terrible
experience
and
her
injuries
at
the
hands
of
the
two
ruffians
Don
Corleone
had
punished
.
As
they
ate
their
soup
his
wife
asked
,
"
Are
you
going
back
to
work
tonight
?
"
Amerigo
Bonasera
nodded
.
His
wife
respected
his
work
but
did
not
understand
it
.
She
did
not
understand
that
the
technical
part
of
his
profession
was
the
least
important
.
She
thought
,
like
most
other
people
,
that
he
was
paid
for
his
skill
in
making
the
dead
look
so
lifelike
in
their
coffins
.
And
indeed
his
skill
in
this
was
legendary
.
But
even
more
important
,
even
more
necessary
was
his
physical
presence
at
the
wake
.
When
the
bereaved
family
came
at
night
to
receive
their
blood
relatives
and
their
friends
beside
the
coffin
of
their
loved
one
,
they
needed
Amerigo
Bonasera
with
them
.
For
he
was
a
strict
chaperone
to
death
.
His
face
always
grave
,
yet
strong
and
comforting
,
his
voice
unwavering
,
yet
muted
to
a
low
register
,
he
commanded
the
mourning
ritual
.
He
could
quiet
grief
that
was
too
unseemly
,
he
could
rebuke
unruly
children
whose
parents
had
not
the
heart
to
chastise
.
Never
cloying
in
the
tender
of
his
condolences
,
yet
never
was
he
offhand
.
Once
a
family
used
Amerigo
Bonasera
to
speed
a
loved
one
on
,
they
came
back
to
him
again
and
again
.
And
he
never
,
never
,
deserted
one
of
his
clients
on
that
terrible
last
night
above
ground
.
Usually
he
allowed
himself
a
little
nap
after
supper
.
Then
he
washed
and
shaved
afresh
,
talcum
powder
generously
used
to
shroud
the
heavy
black
beard
.
A
mouthwash
always
.
He
respectfully
changed
into
fresh
linen
,
white
gleaming
shirt
,
the
black
tie
,
a
freshly
pressed
dark
suit
,
dull
black
shoes
and
black
socks
.
And
yet
the
effect
was
comforting
instead
of
somber
.
He
also
kept
his
hair
dyed
black
,
an
unheard-of
frivolity
in
an
Italian
male
of
his
generation
;
but
not
out
of
vanity
.
Simply
because
his
hair
had
turned
a
lively
pepper
and
salt
,
a
color
which
struck
him
as
unseemly
for
his
profession
.
After
he
finished
his
soup
,
his
wife
placed
a
small
steak
before
him
with
a
few
forkfuls
of
green
spinach
oozing
yellow
oil
.
He
was
a
light
eater
.
When
he
finished
this
he
drank
a
cup
of
coffee
and
smoked
another
Camel
cigarette
.
Over
his
coffee
he
thought
about
his
poor
daughter
.
She
would
never
be
the
same
.
Her
outward
beauty
had
been
restored
but
there
was
the
look
of
a
frightened
animal
in
her
eyes
that
had
made
him
unable
to
bear
the
sight
of
her
.
And
so
they
had
sent
her
to
live
in
Boston
for
a
time
.
Time
would
heal
her
wounds
.
Pain
and
terror
was
not
so
final
as
death
,
as
he
well
knew
.
His
work
made
him
an
optimist
.
He
had
just
finished
the
coffee
when
his
phone
in
the
living
room
rang
.
His
wife
never
answered
it
when
he
was
home
,
so
he
got
up
and
drained
his
cup
and
stubbed
out
his
cigarette
.
As
he
walked
to
the
phone
he
pulled
off
his
tie
and
started
to
unbutton
his
shirt
,
getting
ready
for
his
little
nap
.
Then
he
picked
up
the
phone
and
said
with
quiet
courtesy
,
"
Hello
.
"
The
voice
on
the
other
end
was
harsh
,
strained
.
"
This
is
Tom
Hagen
,
"
it
said
.
"
I
'm
calling
for
Don
Corleone
,
at
his
request
.
"
