Dandelion Wine. Вино из одуванчиков. Книга для чтения на английском языке. Уровень В1

© Берестова А. И., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2023

© ООО «Издательство «Антология», 2023

JUST THIS SIDE OF BYZANTIUM[1]

An introduction

I must say that this book was a surprise. The nature of such surprises is that you begin your work around any word, or series of words that happens along in your head instead of trying to develop a made up idea. I call it a word-association process.

Thank God, I found this method quite early in my writing career. I would simply get out of bed each morning, walk to my desk, and put down some word. Then associations with that word would show me its meaning in my own life. An hour or two hours later, to my surprise, a new story would be finished and done. The surprise was total and lovely.

So, first I searched my mind for words that could describe my personal nightmares, fears of night from my childhood, and made stories from these.

Then I looked back at the green apple trees and the old house of my parents, and the house next door where my grandparents lived, and all the lawns of my childhood summers, and I began to try words for all that.

So in this book you have a gathering of dandelions from all those years. The wine metaphor which appears again and again in these pages is wonderfully appropriate. I was gathering images and impressions all of my life, and forgetting them. Words (like, for instance, dandelion wine) were catalysts that sent me back and opened the memories out, and helped me see what those memories had to offer.

From the age of twenty-four to thirty-six, it was my nearly every day game: to walk myself across a recollection of my grandparents’ northern Illinois grass in order to see how much I could remember about dandelions themselves or about picking wild grapes with my father and brother, and, perhaps, remember a fragment of a letter written to myself in some young year hoping to contact the older person I became to remind him of his past, his life, his people, his joys, and his sorrows.

I also wanted to see the ravine, especially on those nights when walking home late after seeing The Phantom of the Opera, my brother Skip would run ahead and hide under the ravine-creek bridge like the Lonely One and jump out and seize me, yelling, so that I ran, fell, and ran again, babbling all the way home. That was great stuff.

Through word-association in my game I came upon old and true friendships. I borrowed my friend John Huff from my childhood in Arizona and shipped him East to Green Town so that I could say good-bye to him properly.

In my recollections, I sat me down to breakfasts, lunches, and dinners with the long dead and much loved, for I was a boy who did indeed love his parents and grandparents and his brother, even when that brother “dumped” him.

Or I found myself on the front porch Independence night helping my Uncle Bion fire his home-made brass cannon.

When I learned to go back and back again to those times, I had plenty of memories and impressions to play with, not work with, no, play with. Dandelion Wine is just the boy-hid-in-the-man playing in the fields of the Lord on the emerald-green grass of other Augusts while starting to grow up, grow old, and feel darkness waiting under the trees to spill the blood.

A critical article analyzing Dandelion Wine amused and somewhat surprised me a few years ago. The author wrote about the ugliness of the harbor and how depressing the coal docks and railroad-yards were down below the town of Waukegan (which I named Green Town in my novel), and wondered why I, who had been born and grown up there, hadn’t noticed all that.

Naturally, I had noticed them but, being a genetic magician, I was fascinated by their beauty. Trains and boxcars and the smell of coal and fire are not ugly to children. Counting box-cars is a usual activity of boys. Their elders get annoyed at the train that blocks their way, but boys happily stand and count, and cry the names of the cars as they pass from far places.

As to that so-called ugly railroad-yard, it was where carnivals and circuses arrived with elephants that washed the brick pavements with mighty steaming acid waters at five in the dark morning.

As for the coal from the docks, I went down in my cellar every autumn to wait for the arrival of the truck and its metal chute, which shot down a ton of beautiful meteors that fell out of far space into my cellar and threatened to bury me beneath dark treasures.

In other words, if your boy is a poet, horse manure can only mean flowers to him and that, of course, is what horse manure has always been about.

In a poem of mine I tried to explain about the germination of all the summers of my life into one book.

I started the poem thus:

I mentioned Byzantium from the poem by Yeats because I wanted to show how old myths and legends became interwoven in the child’s imagination with the impressions and feelings of their real life.

I often visited Waukegan since my young years. It’s no more beautiful than any other small midwestern town. Much of it is green. The street in front of my old home is still paved with red bricks. Why then was the town special? Why, I was born there. It was my life. I had to write of it as I saw appropriate:

Waukegan/Green Town/Byzantium.

So, Green Town did exist, and John Huff was the real name of a real boy. But he didn’t go away from me, I went away from him. And he is still alive, forty-two years later, and remembers our love.

There was also a Lonely One, and that was his name. And he moved around at night in my home town when I was six years old and he frightened everyone and was never caught.

And, of course, the big house itself, with Grandpa and Grandma and the boarders and uncles and aunts in it, existed.

The ravine, deep and dark at night, it was, and it is. I took my children there a few years ago. I can tell that the ravine is deeper, darker, and more mysterious than ever. I would not, even now, go home through there after seeing The Phantom of the Opera.

So that’s it. Waukegan was Green Town was Byzantium, with all the happiness that that means, with all the sadness that these names imply.

Here is my glorification, then, of both death and life, dark and light, old and young, bright and stupid combined, pure joy and complete horror written by a boy who once hung upside down in trees, and then fell out of the trees when he was twelve and went and took a notebook, and wrote his first “novel.”

And a final memory – fire balloons.

These days you don’t often see them, but in 1925 Illinois, we still had them. The last hour of a Fourth of July night many years ago is one of the last memories I have of my grandfather.Uncles and aunts and cousins and mothers and fathers were standing on the porch; Grandpa and I lit a small fire on the lawn and filled the pear-shaped red-white-and-blue-striped paper balloon with hot air. Then, very softly, we let that flickering thing go up on the summer air and away among the stars, as fragile, as wonderful, as vulnerable, as lovely as life itself.

I can still see my grandfather there looking up at that flickering drifting light, thinking his own quiet thoughts. And I see me, with eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, and I knew there would never be another night like this.

We all just looked up at the sky and thought the same things, but nobody said anything. Someone finally had to say. And that one is me.

The dandelion wine still stands in the cellars below.

My beloved family still sits on the porch in the dark.

The fire balloon still drifts and burns in the night sky of an as yet unburied summer.

Why and how?

Because I say it is so.

DANDELION WINE

It was still dark, and the town was still sleeping. Summer was felt in the warm early morning air. You had only to get up, go to the window, breath in and know that this indeed was the first real time of freedom and living, this was the first morning of summer.

Douglas Spaulding, twelve years of age, awoke in his third-story cupola bedroom. He let himself idle a little on this first early morning of a long summer ahead. Lying in bed in the grandest tower in town, he felt the tall power it gave him, riding high in the June wind. Now a familiar task awaited him.

One night each week he was allowed to leave his father, his mother, and his younger brother Tom in their small house next door and run here, up the dark spiral stairs to his grandparents’ cupola, and sleep in this magician’s tower with thunders and visions, then wake before the crystal tinkle of milk bottles and perform his ritual magic.

He went to the open window in the dark, deeply breathed in, and exhaled.

At once, the street lights went out. He exhaled again and again, and the stars began to disappear.

Douglas smiled. He started to point a finger in various directions, and yellow house lights began to wink in the darkness.

“Everyone yawn. Everyone up.”

The great house awoke below.

“Grandpa, get your teeth from the water glass!”

He waited some time. “Grandma and Great-grandma, fry hot cakes!”

The warm smell of frying cakes drifted through the house and stirred the boarders, the aunts, the uncles, the visiting cousins, in their rooms.

“Street where all the Old People live, wake up! Miss Helen Loomis, Colonel Freeleigh, Miss Bentley! Cough, get up, take your pills, move around!”

“Mom, Dad, Tom, wake up.”

Clock alarms tinkled faintly. The courthouse clock boomed. Birds flew up from trees like a net thrown by his hand, singing. Douglas, conducting an orchestra, pointed to the eastern sky.

The sun began to rise.

He smiled a magician’s smile. Yes, sir, he thought, everyone jumps, everyone runs when I order. It’ll be a fine season. He gave the town a last snap of his fingers.

Doors opened; people stepped out.

Summer 1928 began.

Douglas Spaulding felt that this day was going to be different. His father’s words, as he was driving Douglas and his ten-year-old brother Tom out of town toward the country, also meant that the day would be different. His father said that some days were just a mixture of smells, nothing but the world blowing in one nostril and out the other. Other days, he went on, were days of hearing every sound and trill of the universe. Some days were good for tasting and some for touching. And there were days that were good for all the senses at once. This day now, he said, smelled as if a great orchard had grown up overnight beyond the hills and filled the whole land with its warm freshness. The air felt like rain, but there were no clouds. In a moment, a stranger might laugh in the woods, but there was silence…

Douglas watched the land along the road. He smelled no orchards and sensed no rain, for he knew that without apple trees or clouds they could not exist. And as for that stranger laughing in the woods…?

But nevertheless, Douglas knew – this, without reason, was a special day.

The car stopped at the very center of the quiet forest, and they got out.

“Look for bees,” said Father. “Bees hang around grapes like boys around kitchens.”

They walked through the forest, and soon, Father pointed and said that there was where the big summer- quiet winds lived and passed in the green depths, like ghost whales, unseen.

Douglas looked quickly, saw nothing, and felt tricked by his father who, like Grandpa, lived on riddles. But… But, still… Douglas paused and listened.

Yes, something’s going to happen, he thought, I know it! We’re surrounded! he thought. It’ll happen! Come out, wherever you are, whatever you are! he cried silently.

Tom and Dad walked on ahead.

Now, thought Douglas, here it comes! Running! I don’t see it! Running! Almost on me!

“Fox grapes!” said Father. “We’re in luck, look here!”

Don’t! Douglas gasped.

But Tom and Dad started to pick up wild berries. The spell was broken. Douglas didn’t feel the magic running force any more. He dropped to his knees and started to pick up wild grapes.

“Lunch time, boys!”

With buckets half full with fox grapes and wild strawberries, they went to sit on a log followed by bees. Father said the bees were the world humming under its breath.They sat on the log, eating sandwiches and trying to listen to the forest the same way Father did.

“Sandwich outdoors isn’t a sandwich anymore,” Father said, “tastes different than indoors, notice? Got more spice. Tastes like mint and pinesap. Does wonders for the appetite.”

Douglas chewed and didn’t feel any difference, it was just a sandwich.

Tom chewed and nodded. “I know just what you mean, Dad!”

Douglas thought about that strange feeling that something was running on him. Where is it now? Behind that bush! No, behind me! No here… almost here… He touched his stomach secretly.

He decided to wait; he knew it would come back. He also knew somehow that it wouldn’t hurt him. But what was it?

“You know how many baseball games we played this year, last year, year before?” asked Tom without any reason. Douglas watched Tom’s quickly moving lips.

“I wrote it down! One thousand five hundred sixty-eight games! How many times I brushed my teeth in ten years? Six thousand! Washing my hands: fifteen thousand. Ate six hundred peaches, eight hundred apples. Pears: two hundred. I don’t like pears very much. I’ve got statistics for everything! When I add up all things I’ve done in ten years, it will be billion millions.”

Douglas felt that unknown something coming close again. Why? Tom talking? But why Tom? Tom continued his statistics, enumerating books and matinees he had read and seen.

“During that time I think I’ve eaten four hundred lollipops, three hundred Tootsie Rolls, seven hundred icecreams…

Dad asked, “How many berries you’ve picked so far, Tom?”

“Two hundred fifty-six!” said Tom instantly.

Dad laughed and lunch was over and they started to pick up fox grapes and wild strawberries again. And again Douglas felt something was going to happen. He thought yes, it’s near again! Breathing on my neck, almost! Don’t look! Just work, fill up the bucket. If you look you’ll scare it off. Don’t lose it this time! But how do you bring it around here where you can see it, stare it right in the eye?

“Got a snowflake in a matchbox,” said Tom, smiling at his hand, red with berries juice.

Douglas wanted to yell at him, to stop him talking, but he thought the yell would scare the Thing away.

Then he noticed that the more Tom talked, the closer the great Thing came, it wasn’t scared of Tom. Tom attracted it with his breath, he was part of it!

Tom continued to explain how in February during a snowstorm he had let one snowflake fall in a matchbox and put the matchbox in the icebox.

The thing was close, very close. Douglas stared at Tom’s moving lips. He wanted to jump around, for he felt a huge wave lift up behind the forest. In an instant it would fall down, crush them forever…

“Yes, sir,” Tom said, picking grapes, “I’m the only guy in all Illinois who’s got a snowflake in summer. Precious as diamonds. Tomorrow I’ll open it. Doug, you can look, too…”

Any other time Douglas might have laughed and denied it all. But now, when the great Thing was running near, falling down in the clear air above him, he could only nod, with his eyes shut.

As Tom didn’t get any reaction from his brother, he stopped picking berries and turned to him. Douglas, hunched over, was an ideal target. Tom jumped on him, yelling. They fell and rolled.

At first Douglas was afraid that the great Thing would be scared off, but no… it was all right! Their falling tumble had not scared off the tidal wave that crashed now, rolling them along the grass. Knuckles struck his mouth. He tasted warm blood, clutched Tom, held him tight, and so in silence they lay, breathing hard. Then, slowly, afraid he would find nothing, Douglas opened one eye.

And everything, absolutely everything, was there.

The world, like a gigantic eye, which has also just opened and stretched out to embrace everything, stared back at him.

And suddenly he understood what had jumped on him and it would not run away now.

I’m alive, he thought.

He let go of Tom and lay on his back holding his hand up and looking at his fingers through which the sun rays streamed making them look like a red flag.

The grass whispered under his body. The wind sighed over his ears. Ten thousand individual hairs grew a millionth of an inch on his head. He heard the twin hearts beating in each ear, the third heart beating in his throat, the two hearts pulsating in his wrists, the real heart throbbing in his chest. The million pores on his body opened.

I’m really alive! he thought. I never knew it before, or if I did I don’t remember!

He yelled it loudly but silently, a dozen times! Twelve years old and only now discovering this rare timepiece, this gold-bright clock and guaranteed to run three-score and ten, left under a tree and found while wrestling.

“Doug, you okay?” asked Tom.

Douglas yelled, grabbed Tom, and rolled.

They rolled downhill, laughing till they cried.

“Doug, you’re not mad?”

“No, no!”Douglas said excitedly and then asked quietly, “Tom… does everyone in the world… know he’s alive?”

“Sure. Heck, yes!”

“I hope they do,” whispered Douglas. “Oh, I sure hope they know.”

Douglas looked at his father, who was standing high above him there in the green-leaved sky, laughing. Their eyes met. Douglas understood. Dad knows, he thought. It was all planned. He brought us here on purpose, so this could happen to me! He knows it all. And now he knows that I know.

Dad helped him to his feet. He swayed a little, still puzzled and awed. Then he looked at Dad and Tom.

“I’ll carry all the buckets,” he said. “This once, let me haul everything.”

They handed over their buckets with quizzical smiles.

He stood swaying slightly under the heavy weight of the buckets full ofjuicy forest riches. I want to feel all there is to feel, he thought. Let me feel tired, now. I mustn’t forget, I’m alive, I know I’m alive, I mustn’t forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.

The bees followed and the smell of fox grapes and yellow summer followed as he walked through the forest toward that incredible highway which would take them back to the town. His brother and his quiet father followed behind.

Later in the day there was another harvest.

Grandfather stood on the wide front porch questioning the wind and the high sky and the lawn on which stood Douglas and Tom to question only him.

“Grandpa, are they ready? Now?”

Grandfather pinched his chin. “Five hundred, a thousand, two thousand easily. Yes, yes, a good supply. Pick ’em easy, pick ’em all. A dime for every sack delivered to the press!”

The boys smiled and started to pick the golden flowers. The flowers that flooded the world, dripped off lawns onto brick streets, tapped softly at crystal cellar windows and agitated themselves so that on all sides lay the dazzle and glitter of molten sun.

“Every year,” said Grandfather. “They run amok; I let them. Pride of lions in the yard. A common flower, a weed that no one sees, yes. But for us, a noble thing, the dandelion.”

So, the dandelions in sacks were carried into the cellar, and its darkness glowed with their arrival. Grandfather operated the wine-press, and the golden tide, the essence of this fine fair month ranfrom the spout below. Then it was to be bottled in clean ketchup shakers and put in sparkling rows in cellar gloom.

Dandelion wine.

The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and sealed. Douglas was glad that now when he really knew he was alive, some of his new knowledge, some of this special vintage day would be sealed away and could be opened on a January day. The snow would be falling fast and there would be no sun for weeks, or months, and perhaps some of the miracle would be by then forgotten and in need of renewal. Since this was going to be a summer of unexpected wonders, he wanted it all saved and labeled so that any time he wished, he might go to the cellar, and there the rows of the dandelion wine would stand, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a light layer of dust on the bottles. Look through it at the wintryday – the snow melted to grass, the trees were in green leaf and blossoms again, and the sky turned from iron to blue.

Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in.

Even Grandma, one cold windy day in February, would vanish to the cellar.

Above, in the vast house, there would be coughings, sneezings, and groans, childish fevers, sore throats, red noses, the stealthy microbe everywhere.

Then, rising from the cellar like a June goddess, Grandma would come, something hidden but obvious under her shawl. This, carried to every miserable room, would be poured into neat glasses and swigged neatly. The medicines of another time, the balm of sun and idle August afternoons, the sounds of ice wagons passing on brick avenues, and of lawn mowers moving through ant countries, all these, all these in a glass.

Dandelion wine. Dandelion wine. Dandelion wine.

These fine and golden words would be repeated every winter for all the white winters in time. Saying them over and over on the lips, like a smile, like a sudden patch of sunlight in the dark.

The boys of summer were running. The grass sprang up again behind them. They passed like cloud shadows downhill.

Douglas, left behind, stopped at the edge of the ravine. This ravine divided the town in halves. Here civilization ceased. Here was only growing earth, and here were the paths, made or yet unmade, that told of the need of boys traveling, always traveling, to be men.

Douglas turned. This winding path led to the icehouse where winter lived on the yellow days. This path ran to the hot sands of the lake shore in July. This to trees where boys might grow like sour and still-green crab apples, hidden among leaves. This to peach orchard, grape arbor, watermelons lying like tortoise-shell cats sleeping in the sun. That path, now deserted, to school! This, straight as an arrow, to Saturday cowboy matinees. And this, by the creek waters, to wilderness beyond town…

Who could say where town or wilderness began? There was always and forever some indefinable place where the two struggled for possession of a certain avenue, a tree, a bush. Each night the wilderness, the meadows, the far country flowed down-creek through ravine and flowed up in town with a smell of grass and water, and the town was gone back to earth. And each morning a little more of the ravine inched up into town, threatening to sink garages like leaking rowboats, swallow ancient cars which had been left to the mercies of rain and therefore rust.

“Hey! Hey!” John Huff and Charlie Woodman ran through the mystery of ravine and town and time. “Hey!”

Douglas went slowly down the path. The ravine was indeed the place where you came to look at the two things of life, the ways of man and the ways of the natural world. The town was, after all, only a large ship filled with constantly moving survivors, cutting the grass, chipping away the rust. Now and again a lifeboat, a shanty, related to the mother ship, lost out to the quiet storm of seasons, sank down in silent waves of termite and ant into swallowing ravine, and finally, in avalanche of shingle and tar, collapse into a bonfire, which thunderstorms ignited with blue lightning, while flash-photographing the triumph of the wilderness.