A Clockwork Orange / Заводной апельсин. Энтони Бёрджесс
Читать онлайн.| Название | A Clockwork Orange / Заводной апельсин |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Энтони Бёрджесс |
| Жанр | |
| Серия | MovieBook (Анталогия) |
| Издательство | |
| Год выпуска | 2024 |
| isbn | 978-5-6049811-8-4 |
5
What happened, though, was that I woke up late (near seven-thirty by my watch) and, as it turned out, that was not so clever. You can pony that one thing always leads to another. Right right right. My stereo was no longer on, so some veck had stopped it, and that would be either pee or em, both of them now slooshying in the living-room, at their tired meal after the day's rabbiting. The poor starry. I put on my over-gown and looked out to say:
“Hihihi, there. A lot better after the day's rest. Ready now for evening work to earn that little bit.” For that's what they believed I did these days. “Yum, yum, mum. Any of that for me?” It was like some frozen pie that she'd unfroze and then warmed up and it looked not so very appetitish[230], but I had to say what I said. Dad looked at me with a suspicious like look but said nothing, knowing he dared not, and mum gave me a tired like little smeck. I danced to the bathroom and had a real skorry cheest all over, then back to my den for the evening's platties. Then, shining, combed, brushed and gorgeous, I sat to my lomtick of pie. Papapa said:
“Not that I want to pry, son, but where exactly is it you go to work of evenings?”
“Oh,” I chewed, “it's mostly odd things, helping like[231]. Here and there, as it might be.” I gave him a straight dirty glazzy, as to say to mind his own and I'd mind mine[232]. “I never ask for money, do I? Not money for clothes or for pleasures? All right, then, why ask?”
My dad was like humble mumble chumble[233]. “Sorry, son,” he said. “But I get worried sometimes. Sometimes I have dreams. You can laugh if you like, but there's a lot in dreams. Last night I had this dream with you in it and I didn't like it one bit.”
“Oh?” He had gotten me interessovatted[234] now, dreaming of me like that. “Yes?” I said, stopping chewing my pie.
“I saw you lying on the street and you had been beaten by other boys,” said my dad. “These boys were like the boys you used to go around with before you were sent to that last Corrective School.”
“Oh?” I had an in-grin at that[235], papapa believing I had really reformed. And then I remembered my own dream, which was a dream of that morning, of Georgie giving his general's orders and old Dim smecking around toothless as he held the whip. “Never worry about your son, O my father,” I said. “Fear not. He can take care of himself, verily.”
“And,” said my dad, “you were like helpless in your blood and you couldn't fight back.” I had another quiet malenky grin within and then I took all the deng out of my carmans and put it on the table-cloth. I said:
“Here, dad, it's not much. It's what I earned last night. But perhaps for the odd peet of Scotchman somewhere for you and mum.”
“Thanks, son,” he said. “But we don't go out much now. We daren't go out much, the streets being what they are. Young hooligans and so on. Still, thanks.” And he put this ill-gotten pretty into his trouser carmans, mum being at the cheesting of the dishes in the kitchen. And I went out with loving smiles.
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