A Clockwork Orange / Заводной апельсин

“A rather intolerable pain in the head, sir,” I said in my gentleman's goloss. “I think it should clear by this afternoon.”

“Or certainly by this evening, yes,” said P. R. Deltoid. “The evening is the great time, isn't it, Alex boy? Sit,” he said, “sit, sit,” as though this was his domy[203] and me his guest. And he sat in this starry rocking-chair of my dad's and began rocking, as if that was all he had come for. I said: “A cup of the old chai[204], sir? Tea, I mean.”

“No time,” he said, gloopy. So I put the kettle on. Then I said: “To what do I owe the extreme pleasure?[205] Is anything wrong, sir?”

“Wrong?” he said, very skorry and sly, but still rocking away. Then he caught sight of an advert in the gazetta, which was on the table – a lovely smecking young ptitsa with her groodies hanging out to advertise.

Then he said: “Why should you think in terms of there being anything wrong?[206] Have you been doing something you shouldn't, yes?”

“Just a manner of speech[207],” I said, “sir.”

“Well,” said P. R. Deltoid, “it'sjust a manner of speech from me to you that you watch out, little Alex, because next time, as you very well know, it's not going to be the corrective school any more. Next time it's going to be the barry place[208] and all my work ruined.”

“I've been doing nothing I shouldn't, sir,” I said. “ The millicents have nothing on me, brother, sir I mean.”

“Cut out this clever talk about millicents,” said P. R. Deltoid very weary, but still rocking. “Just because the police have not picked you up lately doesn't, as you very well know, mean you've not been up to some nastiness. There was a bit of a fight last night, wasn't there? There was a bit of shuffling with nozhes and bike-chains and the like. One of a certain fat boy's friends was ambulanced off late from near the Power Plant and hospitalized, cut about very unpleasantly, yes. Your name was mentioned. The word has got through to me by the usual channels. Certain friends of yours were named also. There seems to have been a fair amount of other nastiness last night. Oh, nobody can prove anything about anybody, as usual. But I'm warning you, little Alex, being a good friend to you as always, the one man who wants to save you from yourself.”

“I appreciate all that, sir,” I said, “very sincerely.”

“Yes, you do, don't you?” he sort of sneered. “Just watch it, that's all, yes. We know more than you think, little Alex.” Then he said, still rocking away: “What gets into you all? We study the problem and we've been studying it for damn well near a century, yes, but we get no further with our studies. You've got a good home here, good loving parents, you've got not too bad of a brain. Is it some devil that crawls inside you?”

“Nobody's got anything on me, sir,” I said. “I've been out of the rookers of the millicents for a long time now.”

“That's just what worries me,” sighed P. R. Deltoid. “A bit too long of a time to be healthy. That's why I'm warning you, little Alex, to keep your handsome young nose out of the dirt, yes. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, sir,” I said. “Clear as a sky of deepest summer. You can rely on me, sir.” And I gave him a nice zooby smile.

But when he'd ookadeeted[209] and I was making this very strong pot of chai, I grinned to myself over this veshch that P. R. Deltoid and his droogs worried about. All right, I do bad, what with crasting and tolchocks and carves with the britva and the old in-out-in-out, and if I get loveted[210], well, too bad for me. So if I get loveted and in spite of the great tenderness of my summers[211], brothers, it's the jail itself, well, I say: “Fair, but a pity, my lords, because I just cannot bear to be shut in. I'll just try to not get loveted again.” But, brothers, this worrying over what is the cause of my badness really makes me laugh. They don't go into the cause of goodness, so why the other way? If lewdies are good that's because they like it, and I wouldn't ever interfere with their pleasures, and so of the other way. More, badness is of the self, the one, the you or me on our oddy knockies[212], and that self is made by old Bog or God. But the not-self, the government and the judges and the schools cannot allow the bad because they cannot allow the self. And is not our modern history, my brothers, the story of brave malenky selves fighting these big machines? I am serious with you, brothers, over this. But what I do I do because I like to do. So now, this smiling winter morning, I drink this very strong chai with moloko and spoon after spoon after spoon of sugar, me having a sladky tooth[213], and I dragged out of the oven the breakfast my poor old mum had cooked for me. It was an egg fried, that and no more, but I made toast and ate egg and toast and jam, munching it away while I read the gazetta. The gazetta was the usual about ultra-violence and bank robberies and strikes and footballers making everybody paralytic with fright by threatening to not play next Saturday if they did not get higher wages, naughty malchickiwicks as they were. And there was a bolshy big article on Modern Youth by some very clever bald chelloveck. I read this with care, my brothers, drinking the old chai, cup after chasha[214], crunching my lomticks of black toast dipped in jammiwam and eggiweg[215]. This learned veck said the usual veshches, about no parental discipline, as he called it, and the shortage of real horrorshow teachers. All this was gloopy and made me smeck. Every day there was something about Modern Youth, but the best veshch they ever had in the old gazetta was by some starry pop[216] in a doggy collar[217] who said that in his opinion and he was govoreeting as a man of Bog IT WAS THE DEVIL THAT WAS ABROAD and was like making his way into like young innocent flesh, and it was the adult world that could take the responsibility for this with their wars and bombs and nonsense. So that was all right. So he knew what he talked of, being a Godman. So we young innocent malchicks could take no blame. Right right right. Then I started to get out day platties from my wardrobe, turning the radio on. There was music playing, a very nice malenky string quartet, my brothers, by Claudius Birdman, one that I knew well. I had to have a smeck, though, thinking of what I'd viddied once in one of these like articles on Modern Youth, about how Modern Youth would be better off if A Lively Appreciation Of The Arts could be like encouraged. Great Music, it said, and Great Poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more Civilized. It's nonsense as music always sort of sharpened me up, and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready to make vecks and ptitsas creech away in my ha ha power. And when I'd done dressing I thought here was time to itty off to the disc-bootick[218]to see about this long-promised and long-ordered stereo Beethoven Number Nine[219]. So out I went, brothers.

The day was very different from the night. The night belonged to me and my droogs and all the rest of the nadsats, and the starry bourgeois stayed indoors drinking in the gloopy worldcasts, but the day was for the starry ones, and there always seemed to be more rozzes or millicents about during the day, too. I got the autobus from the corner and rode to Center, and then I walked back to Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick I favoured. It had the gloopy name of MELODIA, but it was a real horrorshow mesto and skorry, most times, at getting the new recordings. I walked in and the only other customers were two young ptitsas sucking away at ice-sticks. These two ptitsas couldn't have been more than ten, and they too, like me, it seemed, evidently, had decided to take the morning off from the old skolliwoll. They saw themselves, you could see, as real grown-up devotchkas already, what with the old hip-swing when they saw your Faithful Narrator[220], and padded groodies and red all put on their goobers. I went up to the counter, smiling at old Andy behind it. Hesaid:

“Aha. I know what you want, I think. Good news, good news. It has arrived.” And he went to get it. The two young ptitsas started giggling, as they will at that age, and I gave them a like cold glazzy. Andy was back real skorry, waving the great shiny Ninth, which had on it, brothers, the frowning litso of Ludwig van himself. “Here,” said Andy. “Shall we give it the trial spin?[221]” But I wanted it back home on my stereo to slooshy on my oddy knocky. I fumbled out the deng to pay and one of the little ptitsas said:

“Who you getten, bratty[222]? What biggy, what only?” These young devotchkas had their own like way of govoreeting. And both giggled. Then an idea hit me and made me near fall over with the ecstasy of it, so I could not breathe for near ten seconds. I recovered and made with my new-clean zoobies and said: “What you got back home, little sisters, to play your new discs on? Come with uncle,” I said, “and hear all proper. You are invited.” And I like bowed. They giggled again and one said: “Oh, but we're so hungry. Oh, but we could so eat.” The other said: “Yah, she can say that.” So I said: “Eat with uncle. Name your place.”

Then they viddied themselves as real sophistoes[223], which was like pathetic, and started talking in big-lady golosses about the Ritz and the Bristol and the Hilton. But I stopped that with “Follow uncle,” and I led them to the Pasta Parlour just round the corner and let them fill their innocent young litsos on spaghetti and sausages and cream-puffs and banana-splits and hot choc-sauce, till I near sicked with the sight of it, I, brothers, lunching a cold ham-slice and a dollop of chilli. These two young ptitsas were much alike, though not sisters. They had the same ideas, and the same colour hair. Well, they would grow up real today. Today I would make a day of it. No school this afterlunch, but education certain, Alex as teacher. Their names, they said, were Marty and Sonietta, bezoomny enough and in the height of their childish fashion, so I said:

“Righty right, Marty and Sonietta. Time for the big spin. Come.” When we were outside on the cold street they thought they would not go by autobus, oh no, but by taxi, so I called a taxi from the rank near Center. The driver, a starry veck in very stained platties, said: “No tearing up, now. No nonsense with them seats. Just re-upholstered they are.” I quieted his gloopy fears and off we went to Municipal Flatblock 18A, these two bold little ptitsas giggling and whispering. So, to cut all short, we arrived, and I led the way up to 10-8, and they panted and smecked away the way up, and then they were thirsty, they said, so I unlocked the treasure-chest in my room and gave these ten-year-young devotchkas a real horrorshow Scotchman apiece, though well filled with soda. They sat on my bed, smecking and peeting their highballs, while I spun their like pathetic malenky discs through my stereo. While I spun this cal for them I encouraged them to drink and have another, and they didn't mind. So by the time their pathetic pop-discs had been twice spun each they were getting near the pitch of like young ptitsa's hysterics, what with jumping all over my bed and me in the room with them.

What was actually done that afternoon there is no need to describe, brothers, as you may easily guess all. Those two were unplattied and smecking in no time at all, and they thought it the bolshiest fun[224] to viddy old Uncle Alex standing there all nagoy and pan-handled[225]. Then I pulled the lovely Ninth out of its sleeve, so that Ludwig van was now nagoy too, and I set the needle to the last movement, which was all bliss. There it was then, the bass strings like govoreeting away from under my bed at the rest of the orchestra, and then the male human goloss coming in and telling them all to be joyful, and then the lovely blissful tune all about Joy being a glorious spark like of heaven, and then I felt the old tigers leap in me and then I leapt on these two young ptitsas. This time they thought nothing fun and had to submit to the strange and weird desires of Alexander the Large which, what with the Ninth, were choodessny[226]and zammechat[227] and very demanding, O my brothers. But they were both very very drunken and could hardly feel very much. When the last movement had gone round for the second time, then these two young ptitsas were not acting the big lady sophisto no more. They were like waking up to what was being done to their malenky persons and saying that they wanted to go home and like I was a wild beast. They looked like they had been in some big bitva[228], as indeed they had. Well, if they would not go to school they must still have their education. And education they had had. They were creeching and going ow ow ow as they put their platties on, and they were like punchipunching[229] me with their small fists as I lay there dirty and nagoy and fair shagged and fagged on the bed. This young Sonietta was creeching: “Beast and hateful animal. Filthy horror.” So I let them get their things together and get out, which they did, talking about how the rozzes should be got on to me and all that cal. Then they were going down the stairs and I dropped off to sleep, still with the old Joy Joy Joy of the last movement sounding in my ear.

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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Примечания

1

Ну, и что дальше?

2

дружки

3

рассудок

4

место, заведение

5

вещи (зд. алкоголь или наркотики)

6

молоко

7

пить

8

хороший

9

бог

10

мозг

11

наркотики

12

разбойничье нападение, изнасилование

13

деньги

14

красть, грабить, воровать

15

деньги, бабки, бабло

16

бить, пинать

17

человек

18

видеть

19

подсчитывали выручку

20

старая

21

женщина, курица

22

смеяться, хохотать, ржать

23

содержимое / потроха кассы

24

плечи, плечики

25

картофель

26

девушки, девчонки

27

мальчики, парни

28

девицы, женщины

29

на голове

30

глаза

31

рот

32

на груди

33

спали

34

секс

35

купить

36

пол-литра белого

37

это будет нечестная игра

38

человек, мужчина

39

слова

40

мысль

41

тебя взяли за шиворот/кирку

42

расщепляться, как атомы

43

связаться, войти в контакт

44

голос

45

ухо

46

ночь

47

маленький

48

публичной библиотеки

49

людей

50

по причине

51

мальчишечки/разбойнички

52

подошли; гуляли

53

испуганный

54

схватил

55

скоро, быстро

56

смотря, глядя

57

заходя, как обычно, слишком далеко

58

засранец

59

кричать

60

Тебя надо проучить

61

разрезать, разорвать

62

дурачиться

63

руки

64

зубы

65

невнятный, бормочущий

66

шум, звуки

67

отпустил его губы

68

и врезал ему

69

платье, одежда

70

похихикали над ним

71

пошарили по карманам

72

чепуха

73

громкий

74

смех

75

задница

76

Ну всё, хватит

77

деньги, бабки

78

то есть

79

извинения

80

щедрый

81

бабушки, старухи

82

женщины

83

Не трогайте нас, ребята

84

грязный

85

крепкие напитки

86

женщины, тётки

87

минута

88

карманы

89

добрый, хороший

90

сигареты

91

полицейские

92

полицейский

93

маски

94

Бенджамин Дизраэли (1804–1881), британский государственный деятель.

95

Перси Биши Шелли (1792–1822), английский писатель и поэт (зд. вместо P.B. Shelley).

96

Пит стоял на стрёме снаружи

97

пушка, пистолет

98

слышать

99

кричать караул

100

дикий

101

весовая гиря

102

обчистили кассу

103

носовые платки

104

чистить, стереть

105

звонок

106

шлемы

107

шары, ягодицы

108

пьяница

109

мужчина, мужик

110

кал, испражнения

111

выжившие из ума

112

you

113

мы его попинали

114

лицо

115

вонь, запах

116

нож

117

узы, цепь

118

бритва

119

козёл

120

are you

121

масло для жарки картофеля

122

получи по яйцам

123

при всей своей тупости

124

дрались

125

плоть, тело

126

обозлённый, раздражённый

127

навредить

128

Не бойся, скоро доберусь до тебя, козёл вонючий

129

жилые дома

130

глупый, дурной

131

смеялись

132

на голубом экране

133

Джон Бойтон Пристли (1894–1984), английский романист.

134

кинотеатр/кино

135

мог сгодиться/подойти

136

отмычки

137

нога

138