Гарри Грей – Once Upon a Time in America (The Hoods) / Однажды в Америке (Бандиты) (страница 7)

I put a quarter in the gas meter and went into my windowless bedroom. I lit the gaslight, undressed, pushed my snoring kid brother over to his side of the narrow iron bed and opened the book, Boswell’s Life of Johnson. I turned to the first page. It was an introduction, about the guy who wrote the book. I skipped it. Who the hell was interested in the author? I wanted to know all about the champ, his fights and if it was true he ran around with plenty of women and was married to a white woman. I started to read. What the hell is this crap, I said to myself. It’s about a guy named Samuel Johnson, a doctor.

I put it down in disgust and reached for Alger’s From Rags to Riches[89]. Then I remembered how Professor had practically laughed at me when he saw the book I had chosen. I wouldn’t understand it, he said. Me, Noodles, wouldn’t understand what any lousy book is about? It was a challenge. I began to read it.

I had to go to the kitchen shelf to get my dictionary. Boy, was it a load of dry crap. All this guy Johnson did was bullshit about this and that; no action. I forced myself to read. I fell asleep with the gaslight on.

Chapter 3

I woke up with a start; the gaslight was still on. I wondered what time it was. My kid brother was lying on his back, snoring.

I felt my way in the dark to the kitchen where I lit the gaslight.

It was still early. The old alarm clock showed 3:30. As usual, I felt hungry. I opened the window and looked into the tin box fastened to the window sill which served as an ice box.

With my knife I cut a piece of bread, took a slice of fish, and ate. I wondered what my old man was going to do about the rent, what he was going to do about getting himself a job before we were thrown out in the street. I was wondering how many months we were behind, two or three? I thought of our lousy landlord, how he comes around all dressed up and yelling for his rent. I was thinking, the bastard’s always got a white flower in his lapel, he must be a pansy or something.

My silly old man, why can’t he get a job and make some dough? Yeh, I guess because he don’t feel so good; maybe he’s always sick. Why the hell does he go to schul so much? Two hours every morning, and two hours at night, too. Saturday he stays in that joint all day long, all them old clucks with their beards and shawls, shaking back and forth in their prayers, mumbling all kinds of crap in their beards. What the hell is it all about? My old man would be better off looking for work instead of wasting his time with that crap. None of that for me! I’m smart. When I grow up, all I’m going out for is plenty of do-re-mi[90].

I washed the dishes I had used, and drank a glass of water. I took the forty cents out of my pocket and put it on the table. I laughed, thinking, Momma and the old man will cover the dough with a piece of paper and leave it there until sun-down – Orthodox Jews don’t touch money on the Sabbath – some clucks!

Show me where there’s money, and I’ll handle it all right, any day in the week, beginning Friday and all the way through the Sabbath. Boy, oh boy, even a million bucks! I looked at the clock; it was twenty after four. I closed the door and crept quietly down the dark stairs. On the first floor I stopped. I heard a noise underneath the staircase. I put my hand in my pocket; the knife reassured me. I fingered the button and listened. I heard a rhythmic shuflif ng noise and labored breathing for a few minutes. Then a sharp male gasp.

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