Сердце тьмы / Heart of darkness (адаптированный английский B1). Джозеф Конрад

she hugged me, told me to wear warm clothes and write often, and I left. In the street, I felt like a fraud. It's strange, because I'd always been ready to go anywhere at a moment's notice, but now, facing this ordinary task, I hesitated for a moment. I felt like I was going to the center of the earth, not just to the center of a continent.

      I sailed on a French ship, and it stopped at every single port along the way. It seemed the only reason was to drop off soldiers and customs officials. I watched the coast line. Watching a coast go by is like trying to solve a mystery. It's beautiful, ugly, inviting, impressive, or scary – and always silent, as if saying, "Come and find out." This coast was almost without features, like it was still being formed, with a constant, dark look. A huge, dark green jungle, almost black, bordered by white waves, stretched far away along a blue sea. The sun was strong, and the land looked hot. Here and there, you could see small, grey and white spots near the waves, with flags maybe. Villages, hundreds of years old, yet tiny compared to the not touched land around them.

      We sailed, stopped, landed soldiers; sailed again, landed customs officials to collect taxes in what looked like an empty place, just a small metal building and a flag. More soldiers were landed – to protect the customs officials, I guess. I heard some drowned in the waves, but no one seemed to care. They were just sent there, and we moved on. Every day the coast looked the same, but we passed places – trading posts – with names like Gran' Bassam, Little Popo; names that sounded like a silly play in a dark setting. Being a passenger, feeling alone among all these men I didn't know, the calm sea, and the unchanging coast, made me feel disconnected from reality, lost in a sad, senseless fantasy. The sound of the waves was a welcome change, like a friend's voice. It was natural, with a reason, a meaning. Sometimes a boat from the shore would bring me back to reality. Black people worked there. You could see the white of their eyes from far away. They shouted, sang; sweat poured from their bodies; their faces were like strange masks – but they were strong, full of life, and moved with energy, as natural as the waves. They didn't need a reason to be there. It was good to see them. For a while, I felt I was back in a world of simple facts; but it wouldn't last. Something would always happen to change that.

      Once, we saw a warship at sea. There wasn't even a building there, and it was firing into the jungle. It turned out the French were fighting a war there. Its flag hung motionless; the cannons stuck out; the waves gently rocked the ship. In the vast space of the earth, sky, and water, it was there, shooting at the continent. A cannon fired; a small flame, a bit of smoke, a tiny shell – and nothing happened. Nothing could happen. It felt crazy, strangely funny; and it didn't help when someone told me there was a hidden enemy camp nearby.

      We gave them the letters (I heard the men on that lonely ship were dying of fever, three a day) and continued. We stopped at several places with funny names, where death and trade mixed strangely, like a hot grave. The coast line was rough and dangerous, as if nature was trying to keep people away; we went up and down rivers, the thick water reaching into the twisted trees that seemed to struggle desperately. We didn't stay anywhere long enough to get a good look, but I felt a growing sense of mystery and anxiety. It felt like a long, tiring journey through scenes from a nightmare.

      It was over thirty days before I saw the big river. We stood near the government offices, but my work was two hundred miles farther away. So, I left as soon as possible for a place thirty miles up the river.

      I travelled on a small ship. The captain knew I was a sailor and invited me to the bridge. He was young, thin, and pale, with long hair and a awkward walk. As we left the shore, he shook his head at the shore. "Lived there?" he asked. I said yes. "Great government workers, aren't they?" he said, speaking very clear English with anger. "It's amazing what some people will do for a little money. I wonder what happens to them?" I said I'd soon find out. "Oh really?" he said. He looked around carefully. "Don't be too sure," he added. "I picked up a man the other day who'd hanged himself on the road." "Hanged himself? Why?" I asked. He kept watching. "Who knows? Maybe the sun, or maybe the country itself."

      Finally, we reached a bend in the river. We saw a rock cliff, piles of earth near the shore, houses on a hill, some with metal roofs, and lots of digging. The sound of fast-flowing water was loud. Many people, mostly black and naked, moved around like insects. Sometimes, the bright sun made everything very hard to see. "That's your company's office," the captain said, pointing to three wooden buildings on the slope. "I'll send your boxes up. Four, you said? Goodbye."

      I found a boiler in the grass, then a path up the hill. It went around rocks and an old railway cart lying on its side, one wheel missing. It looked completely broken. I saw more old equipment and railway tracks. To the left, some trees made a shadow where something seemed to move. The path was steep. A horn blew to my right, and the black people ran. There was a loud explosion, smoke came from the cliff, and that was it. Nothing changed on the cliff face. They were building a railway. The cliff wasn't in the way, but they were exploding rock for no clear reason.

      A slight noise behind me made me turn. Six Black men were walking up the path in a line, carrying small baskets of earth on their heads. The noise matched their steps. They wore fabrics around their waists, and the short ends swung like tails. I could see their ribs. Each man had an iron ring around his neck, and they were all chained together. The chain made noise as they walked. A loud sound from the cliff reminded me of a warship I'd seen firing on a land. It was a similar scary sound; but these men weren't enemies. They were prisoners, and the law, like the cannon fire, had caught them – a strange thing. They were all breathing hard, and their eyes stared ahead. They walked past me very close, without looking, like unhappy people.

      Behind them walked a guard, carrying a rifle. He wore a uniform jacket with a missing button. Seeing a white man, he quickly raised his rifle. It was a security measure; white people look similar from a distance. He quickly relaxed, smiled, and seemed to include me in his responsibility. After all, I was also part of this.

      Instead of going up the hill, I went down. I wanted the prisoners to be out of sight before I continued. I'm not especially kind; I've had to fight and defend myself many times. I've had to fight back – that's just part of life. I've seen abuse, and greed; powerful, angry things that control people. But here, I sensed a different kind of evil: a mean, weak kind of violence. How bad it was, I only realized much later. For a moment, I felt a warning. Then I went down the hill towards the trees.

      I avoided a large hole someone had dug. I couldn't understand why. It wasn't a mine, just a hole. Maybe it was to give the prisoners work. I don't know. Then I almost fell into a small pit where broken pipes were thrown. It looked like someone had broken them on purpose. Finally, I reached the trees. I wanted some shade, but it felt like I'd entered a dark place. The river was nearby, and the sound of rushing water filled the quiet forest. It sounded like the earth itself was moving.

      Dark figures lay, and sat among the trees, leaning against the trunks, close to the ground, partly hidden in the faint light. They looked as if they were in pain, abandoned, and desperate. Another explosion at the mine on the cliff shook the ground slightly. The work continued. This was where some of the workers had come to die.

      They were dying slowly – it was obvious. They weren't enemies or criminals; they were just shadows of illness and hunger, lying in the low light. Brought from all over the coast under work contracts, they were lost and unhappy in this strange place, eating strange food. They got sick, couldn’t work, and were left to die. These dying figures were free, but very weak. I noticed their eyes shining under the trees. Then, I saw a face near my hand. A man lay with his shoulder against a tree. His eyes slowly opened, and looked up at me – large and empty, a brief flash of white in the darkness. He seemed young, almost a boy, but it's hard to tell with them. I gave him a bread I had. He slowly took it and held it; he didn't move or look at me again. He had a piece of white wool around his neck. Why? Where did he get it? Was it a decoration, a good luck charm, or something else? It looked strange against his dark skin.

      Near the same tree, two more thin figures sat with their legs pulled up. One stared ahead, and the other rested his forehead as if tired. Others lay around them in various painful positions, like a scene from a terrible accident or an epidemic. While I watched, scared, one of them crawled to the river to drink. He drank from his hand, then sat in the sun, and finally rested his head on his chest.

      I didn't want