mp.godfather-第78部分
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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
