A Clockwork Orange / Заводной апельсин

“What's on them, I wonder. What would be up there on things like that?”

I nudged him hard, saying: “Come, gloopy[130] bastard as thou art. Think thou not on them. There'll be life like down here most likely, with some getting knifed and others doing the knifing. And now, with the nochy still molodoy, let us be on our way, O my brothers.” The others smecked[131] at this, but poor old Dim looked at me serious, then up again at the stars and the Luna. So we went on our way down the alley, with the worldcast blueing on[132] on either side. What we needed now was an auto, so we turned left coming out of the alley, knowing right away we were in Priestly[133] Place as soon as we viddied the big bronze statue of some starry poet with a pipe stuck in a droopy old rot. Going north we came to the filthy old Filmdrome, visited mostly by malchicks like me and my droogs. The autos parked by the sinny[134] weren't all that horrorshow, crappy starry veshches most of them, but there was a newish Durango 95 that I thought might do[135]. Georgie had one of these polyclefs[136], as they called them, on his keyring, so we were soon aboard – Dim and Pete at the back, puffing away at their cancers – and I turned on the ignition and started her up real horrorshow.

Then we backed out lovely, and nobody viddied us take off. We went round what was called the backtown for a bit, scaring old vecks and cheenas that were crossing the roads. Then we took the road west. There wasn't much traffic about, so I kept pushing the old noga[137] through the floorboards, and the Durango 95 ate up the road like spaghetti. Soon it was winter trees and dark, my brothers, with a country dark, and at one place I ran over something big with a toothy rot in the headlamps, then it screamed under and old Dim at the back near laughed his gulliver off – “Ho ho ho” – at that. Then we saw one young malchick with his sharp, lubbilubbing[138] under a tree, so we stopped and cheered at them, then we bashed into them both with a couple of tolchocks, making them cry, and on we went. What we were after now was the old surprise visit. That was a real kick[139] and good for smecks of the ultra-violent. We came at last to a sort of village, and just outside this village was a small sort of a cottage on its own with a bit of garden. The Luna was well up now, and we could viddy this cottage fine and clear as I put the brake on, the other three giggling like bezoomny, and we could viddy the name on the gate of this cottage veshch was HOME, a funny sort of a name. I got out of the auto, ordering my droogs to stop their giggles and act like serious, and I opened this malenky gate and walked up to the front door. I knocked nice and gentle and nobody came, so I knocked a bit more and this time I could slooshy somebody coming, then a bolt drawn, then the door inched open an inch or so, then I could viddy this one glazz looking out at me and the door was on a chain. “Yes? Who is it?” It was a sharp's goloss, a youngish devotchka by her sound, so I said in a very refined manner of speech, a real gentleman's goloss:

“Pardon, madam, most sorry to disturb you, but my friend and me were out for a walk, and my friend has taken bad all of a sudden with a very troublesome turn, and he is out there on the road dead out and groaning. Would you have the goodness to let me use your telephone to telephone for an ambulance?”

“We haven't a telephone,” said this devotchka. “I'm sorry, but we haven't. You'll have to go somewhere else.” From inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack-clackity-clackclack of some veck typing away, and then the typing stopped and there was this chelloveck's goloss calling: “What is it, dear?”

“Well,” I said, “could you of your goodness please let him have a cup of water? It's like a faint, you see. It seems as though he's passed out in a sort of a fainting fit.” The devotchka sort of hesitated and then said: “Wait.” Then she went off, and my three droogs had got out of the auto quiet, putting their maskies on now, then I put mine on, then it was only a matter of me putting in the old rooker and undoing the chain, me having softened up this devotchka with my gent's goloss, so that she hadn't shut the door like she should have done, us being strangers of the night. The four of us then went roaring in, old Dim playing the shoot[140] as usual with his jumping up and down and singing out dirty slovos, and it was a nice malenky cottage, I'll say that. We all went smecking into the room with a light on, and there was this devotchka sort of hiding, a young pretty bit of sharp with real horrorshow groodies on her, and with her was this chelloveck who was her moodge, youngish too with horn-rimmed otchkies[141]on him, and on a table was a typewriter and all papers scattered everywhere, but there was one little pile of paper like that must have been what he'd already typed, so here was another intelligent type bookman type like that we'd fillied with some hours back, but this one was a writer not a reader. Anyway, he said:

“What is this? Who are you? How dare you enter my house without permission?” And all the time his goloss was trembling and his rookers too.

Then Georgie and Pete went out to find the kitchen, while old Dim waited for orders, standing next to me with his rot wide open. “What is this, then?” I said, picking up the pile like of typing from off of the table, and the horn-rimmed moodge said, trembling:

“That's just what I want to know. What is this? What do you want? Get out at once before I throw you out.” So poor old Dim, masked like Peebee Shelley, had a good loud smeck[142] at that. “It's a book,” I said. “It's a book what you are writing.” I made the old goloss very coarse. “I have always had the strongest admiration for them as can write books.” Then I looked at its top sheet, and there was the name – A C L O C K W O R K O R A N G E – and I said: “That's a fair gloopy title. Who ever heard of a clockwork orange?” Then I started to tear up the sheets and scatter the bits over the floor, and this writer moodge went sort of bezoomny and made for me with his zoobies clenched and his nails ready for me like claws. So that was old Dim's turn and he went grinning and going for this veck's trembling rot, crack crack[143], first left fistie then right, so that our dear old droog the red started to pour and spot the nice clean carpet and the bits of this book that I was still ripping away at. All this time this devotchka, his loving and faithful wife,just stood like froze by the fireplace, and then she started letting out little malenky creeches, like in time to the like music of old Dim's fisty work. Then Georgie and Pete came in from the kitchen, both munching away, though with their maskies on. Georgie with like a cold leg of something in one rooker and half a loaf of kleb[144]with a big dollop of maslo on it in the other, and Pete with a bottle of beer and a horrorshow rookerful of like plum cake. They went haw haw haw[145], viddying old Dim dancing round and fisting the writer veck so that the writer veck started to platch[146] like his life's work was ruined, going boo hoo hoo[147] with a very bloody rot. I didn't like that, so I said: “Drop that mounch. I gave no permission. Grab hold of this veck here so he can viddy all and not get away.” So they put down their fatty pishcha[148] on the table among all the flying paper and they held the writer veck whose horn-rimmed otchkies were cracked but still hanging on, with old Dim still dancing round while he Allied with the author of 'A Clockwork Orange', making his litso all purple and dripping away like some very special sort of a juicy fruit. “All right, Dim,” I said. “Now for the other veshch, Bog help us all.” So he did the strong-man on the devotchka, who was still creech creech creeching away, locking her rookers from the back, while I ripped away at this and that and the other, the others going haw haw haw still, and real good horrorshow groodies[149] they were, O my brothers, while I got ready for the plunge. Plunging, I could slooshy cries of agony and this writer bleeding veck howling bezoomny with the filthiest of slovos that I already knew and others he was making up. Then after me it was right old Dim should have his turn, which he did in a beasty sort of a way with his Peebee Shelley maskie on, while I held on to her. Then there was a changeover, Dim and me grabbing the slobbering writer veck who was past struggling really, and Pete and Georgie had theirs. Then there was like quiet and we were full of like hate, so smashed what was left to be smashed – typewriter, lamp, chairs – and Dim, it was typical of old Dim, watered the fire out[150] and was going to dung on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said no. “Out out out out,” I howled. The writer veck and his zheena[151] were not really there, bloody and torn and making noises. But they'd live.

So we got into the waiting auto and I left it to Georgie to take the wheel, me feeling that malenky bit shagged, and we went back to town, running over odd squealing things on the way.

3

We yeckated[152] back townwards, but just outside, not far from the Industrial Canal, we viddied the fuel needle[153]had like collapsed, and the auto was coughing kashl[154]kashl kashl. The point was whether to leave the auto to be sobiratted[155] by the rozzes or to give it a fair tolchock into the starry waters for a nice heavy loud plesk[156]. This latter we decided on, so we got out and, the brakes off[157], all four tolchocked it to the edge of the filthy water, then one good horrorshow tolchock and in she went. We had to dash back for fear of the filth splashing on our platties, but splussshhhh she went, down and lovely. “Farewell, old droog,” called Georgie, and Dim gave a clowny great guff[158] – “Huh huh huh huh.” Then we made for the station to ride the one stop to Center, as the middle of the town was called. We paid our fares nice and polite and waited gentlemanly and quiet on the platform, old Dim fillying with the slot machines, his carmans being full of small malenky coin, and ready if need be[159] to distribute chocbars[160] to the poor and hungry, though there was none such about, and then the old espresso rapido came noisy in and we climbed aboard, the train looking to be near empty. To pass the three-minute ride we fillied about with what they called the upholstery, doing some nice horrorshow tearing-out of the seats' guts and old Dim chaining the okno[161] till the glass cracked, but we were all feeling that bit shagged and fagged, it having been an evening of some small energy expenditure, my brothers, only Dim, like the clowny animal he was, full of the joys, but looking all dirtied over and too much von of sweat on him, which was one thing I had against old Dim. We got out at Center and walked slow back to the Korova Milkbar, when we got into it we found it fuller than when we'd left earlier on.

But the chelloveck that had been burbling away on some senseless things was still on at it. It was probably his third or fourth lot that evening, for he had that pale inhuman look, like he'd become a 'thing'. Really, if he wanted to spend so long in the land, he should have gone into one of the private cubies[162] at the back and not stayed in the big mesto, because here some of the malchickies[163] would filly about with him a malenky bit, though not too much because there were powerful bruiseboys[164] hidden away in the old Korova who could stop any riot. Anyway, Dim squeezed in next to this veck and he stabbed this veck's foot with his own large filthy sabog[165]. But the veck, my brothers, heard nought, being now all above the body. It was nadsats[166] milking and coking and fillying around, but there were a few of the more starry ones, vecks and cheenas alike (but not of the bourgeois, never them) laughing and govoreeting[167] at the bar. You could tell them from their clothes that they'd been on rehearsals at the TV studios around the corner. The devotchkas among them had these very lively litsos and wide big rots, very red, showing a lot of teeth, and smecking away and not caring about the wicked world. And then the disc on the stereo ended, and in the like interval, the short silence before the next one came on, one of these devotchkas – very fair and with a big smiling red rot and in her late thirties I'd say – suddenly came with singing, only a bar and a half and as though she was like giving an example of something they'd all been govoreeting about, and it was like for a moment, O my brothers, some great bird had flown into the milkbar, and I felt all the little malenky hairs on my plott standing endwise[168]. Because I knew what she sang. It was from an opera by Friedrich Gitterfenster called 'Das Bettzeug'[169], and it was the bit where she's singing it with her throat cut, and the slovos are 'Better like this maybe'. Anyway, I shivered.

But old Dim, as soon as he'd slooshied this dollop of song, let off one of his vulgarities followed by a clowny guffaw. I felt myself all of a fever and slooshying and viddying Dim's vulgarity I said: “Bastard. Filthy drooling mannerless bastard[170].” Then I leaned across Georgie, who was between me and horrible Dim, and fisted Dim skorry on the rot. Dim looked very surprised, his rot open, wiping the krovvy off of his goober with his rook. “What for did you do that for?” he said in his ignorant way. Not many viddied what I'd done, and those that viddied cared not. The stereo was on again and was playing a very sick electronic guitar veshch. I said:

“For b eing a bastard with no manners, O my brother. ”

Dim put on a look of evil, saying: “I don't like you should do what you done then. And I'm not your brother no more and wouldn't want to be.” He'd taken a big snotty tashtook from his pocket and was mopping the red flow puzzled, keeping on looking at it frowning as if he thought that blood was for other vecks and not for him. I said:

“If you don't like this and you wouldn't want that, then you know what to do, little brother.” Georgie said, in a sharp way that made me look: “All right. Let's not be starting.”

“Dim can't go on all his jeezny[171] being as a little child,” I said and looked sharp at Georgie. Dim said, and the red krovvy was easing its flow now: “What natural right does he have to think he can give the orders and tolchock me whenever he likes? Yarbles is what I say to him, and I'd chain his glazzies out as soon as look.”

“Watch that,” I said, as quiet as I could. “Do watch that, O Dim, if to continue to be on live thou dost wish[172].”

“Yarbles,” said Dim, sneering, “What you done then you had no right. I'll meet you with chain or nozh or britva any time.”

Pete said: “Oh now, don't, both of you malchicks. Droogs, aren't we? It isn't right droogs should behave thiswise.”

“Dim,” I said, “has got to learn his place. Right?”

“Wait,” said Georgie. “What is all this about place? This is the first I ever hear about lewdies learning their place.” Pete said: “If the truth is known, Alex, you shouldn't have given old Dim that tolchock. I'llsayit onceandnomore. I say it with all respect, but if it had been me you'd given it to you'd have to answer. I say no more.” And he lowered his litso in his milk-glass.

I could feel myself getting all razdraz inside, but I tried to cover it, saying calm: “There has to be a leader. Discipline there has to be. Right?” N one of them skazatted a word or nodded even. I got more razdraz inside, calmer out. “I,” I said, “have been in charge long now. We are all droogs, but somebody has to be in charge. Right? Right?” They all like nodded. Dim was osooshing[173] the last of the krovvy off. It was Dim who said now:

“Right, right. A bit tired, maybe, everybody is. Best not to say more.” I was surprised and just that malenky bit poogly to sloosh Dim govoreeting that wise. Dim said: “Bedways is rightways now, so best we go homeways[174]. Right?” I was very surprised. The other two nodded, going right right right. I said:

“You understand about that tolchock on the rot, Dim. It was the music, see. I get all bezoomny when any veck interferes with a ptitsa singing. Like that then[175].”

“Best we go off homeways and get a bit of spatchka[176],” said Dim. “A long night for growing malchicks. Right?” Right right nodded the other two. I said:

“I think it best we go home now. Dim has made a real horrorshow suggestion. Well then, O my brothers, same time same place tomorrow?”

“Oh yes,” said Georgie. “I think that can be arranged.” “I might,” said Dim, “be just that malenky bit late. But same place and near same time tomorrow surely.” He was still wiping at his goober, though no krovvy flowed any longer now. “And,” he said, “it is to be hoped there won't be no more of them singing ptitsas in here.” Then he gave his old Dim guff, a clowny big hohohohoho. It seemed like he was too dim to take much offence[177].

So off we went our several ways, me belching on the cold coke I'd peeted. I had my cut-throat britva handy in case any of Billyboy's droogs should be around near the flat-block waiting, or for that matter any of the other bandas or gruppas or shaikas[178] that from time to time were at war with one. Where I lived was with my dadda and mum in the flats of Municipal Flatblock 18A, between Kingsley Avenue and Wilsonsway. I got to the big main door with no trouble, though I did pass one young malchick creeching and moaning in the gutter, all cut about lovely, and saw in the lamplight also streaks of blood here and there like signatures, my brothers, of the night's Allying[179]. In the hallway was the good old municipal painting on the walls – vecks and ptitsas very well developed[180], at workbench and machine with no platties on their well-developed plotts. But of course some of the malchicks living in 18A had, as was to be expected, decorated the said big painting with handy pencil and ballpoint, adding hair and stiff rods and dirty ballooning slovos out of the rots of these nagoy[181] (bare, that is) cheenas and vecks. I went to the lift, but there was no need to press the electric knopka[182] to see if it was working or not, because it had been tolchocked real horrorshow this night, the metal doors all broken, so I had to walk the ten floors up. I cursed and panted climbing, being tired in plott if not so much in brain. I wanted music very bad this evening, that singing devotchka in the Korova having perhaps started me off. I opened the door of 10-8 with my own little klootch[183], and inside our malenky quarters all was quiet, the pee and em[184] both being in sleepland, and mum had laid out on the table on malenky bit of supper – a couple of lomticks of tinned meat[185] with kleb[186]and butter, a glass of the old cold moloko. Hohoho, the old moloko, with no knives or synthemesc or drencrom in it. How wicked, my brothers, innocent milk must always seem to me now. Still I drank and ate growling, being more hungry than I thought at first, and I got fruit-pie from the larder and tore chunks off it to stuff into my greedy rot. Then I went into my own little room or den, taking off my platties as I did so. Here was my bed and my stereo, pride of myjeezny, and my discs in their cupboard, and banners and flags on the wall, these being like remembrances of my corrective school life[187] since I was eleven. The little speakers of my stereo were all arranged round the room, on ceiling, walls, floor, so, lying on my bed slooshying the music, I was like plunged in the orchestra. Now what I fancied first tonight was this new violin concerto by the American Geoffrey Plautus, so I switched it on and waited. Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness, it was wonder of wonders. And then came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk around my bed. Then flute and oboe bored their way. I was in such bliss, my brothers. Pee and em in their bedroom next door had learnt now not to knock on the wall with complaints of what they called noise. I had taught them. Now they would take sleep-pills. Perhaps, knowing the joy I had in my night music, they had already taken them. As I slooshied, my glazzies tight shut to shut in the bliss that was better than any synthemesc Bog or God, I knew such lovely pictures. There were vecks and ptitsas, both young and starry, lying on the ground screaming for mercy, and I was smecking all over my rot and grinding my boot in their litsos. And there were devotchkas ripped and creeching against walls and I plunging like a shlaga[188] into them, and indeed when the music rose to the top of its big highest tower, then, lying there on my bed with glazzies tight shut and rookers behind my gulliver, I broke and spattered and cried aaaaaaah with the bliss of it. And so the lovely music came to its glowing close. After that I had lovely Mozart, the Jupiter, and there were new pictures of different litsos to be ground and splashed, and it was after this that I thought I would have just one last disc, and I wanted something starry and strong and very firm, so it was J. S. Bach I had, the Brandenburg Concerto[189] just for strings. And, slooshying with different bliss than before, I viddied again this name on the paper I'd razrezzed that night, a long time ago it seemed, in that cottage called HOME. The name was about a clockwork orange. Listening to the J. S. Bach, I began to pony[190] better what that meant now, and I thought, slooshying away to the gorgeousness of the starry German master, that I would like to have tolchocked them both harder and ripped them to ribbons[191] on their own floor.

4

The next morning I woke up at eight hours, my brothers, and as I still felt shagged and fagged and my glazzies were stuck together real horrorshow with sleepglue, I thought I would not go to school. I thought how I would have a malenky bit longer in the bed, an hour or two say, and then get dressed nice and easy, perhaps even having a splosh[192] about in the bath, make toast for myself and slooshy the radio or read the gazetta, all on my oddyknocky.[193] And then in the afterlunch I might perhaps, if I still felt like it, itty[194] off to the old skolliwoll[195] and see what was vareeting[196] in the gloopy useless learning, O my brothers. I heard my papapa grumbling and trampling and then ittying off to the dyeworks where he rabbited[197], and then my mum called in in a very respectful goloss as she did now I was growing up big and strong:

“It's gone eight, son. You don't want to be late again.” So I called back: “A bit of pain in my gulliver. Leave us be and I'll try to sleep it off and then I'll be right for this after.” I slooshied her give a sort of a sigh and she said: “I'll put your breakfast in the oven then, son. I've got to be off myself now.” Which was true, there being this law for everybody not a child nor with child[198] nor ill to go out rabbiting. My mum worked at one of the Statemarts, as they called them, filling up the shelves with tinned soup and beans and all that cal. So I slooshied her clank a plate in the gas-oven like and then she was putting her shoes on and then getting her coat from behind the door and then sighing again, then she said: “I'm off now, son.” But I was back in sleepland and then I did doze off real horrorshow, and I had a queer and very real like sneety[199], dreaming for some reason of my droog Georgie. In this sneety he'd got like very much older and was govoreeting about discipline and obedience and how all the malchicks under his control had to jump hard at it and throw up the old salute[200] like being in the army, and there was me in line like the rest saying yes sir and no sir, and the I viddied clear that Georgie had these stars on his pletchoes and he was like a general. And then he brought in old Dim with a whip, and Dim was a lot more starry and grey and had a few zoobies missing as you could see when he let out a smeck, viddying me, and then my droog Georgie said, pointing like at me: “That man has filth and cal all over his platties,” and it was true. Then I creeched: “Don't hit, please don't, brothers,” and started to run. And I was running in like circles and Dim was after me, smecking his gulliver off, cracking with the old whip, and each time I got a real horrorshow tolchock with this whip there was like a very loud electric bell ringringring, and this bell was like a sort of a pain too.

Then I woke up real skorry, my heart going bap bap bap, and of course there was really a bell going brrrrr, and it was our front-door bell. I let on that nobody was at home, but this brrrrr still ittied on[201], and then I heard a goloss shouting through the door: “Come on then, get out of it, I know you're in bed.” I recognized the goloss right away. It was the goloss of P. R. Deltoid, what they called my Post-Corrective Adviser. I shouted right right right, in a goloss of like pain, and I got out of bed and dressed myself. When I opened up he came shambling in looking shagged, a battered old shlapa[202] on his gulliver, his raincoat filthy. “Ah, Alex boy,” he said to me. “I met your mother, yes. She said something about a pain somewhere. Hence not at school, yes.”