Энтони Бёрджесс
A Clockwork Orange / Заводной апельсин

© Шитова Л. Ф., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2024

© ООО «ИД «Антология», 2024

Part One

1

“What's it going to be then, eh?[1]”

There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs[2], that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim. Dim was really dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks[3]what to do with the evening. The Korova Milkbar was a mesto[4], where they sold milk plus something else. They had no license for selling liquor, but there was no law yet against putting some of the new veshches[5] into the old moloko[6], so you could peet[7] it and it would give you a nice horrorshow[8] fifteen minutes admiring Bog[9] And All His Holy Angels in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg[10]. Or you could peet milk with knives[11] in it, as we used to say, and this would make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one[12], and that was what we were peeting this evening as I'm starting the story with.

Our pockets were full of deng[13], so there was no real need to crast[14] any more pretty polly[15] to tolchock[16] some old veck[17] in an alley and viddy[18] him swim in his blood while we counted the takings[19] and divided by four, nor to do the ultra-violent on some starry[20] grey-haired ptitsa[21] in a shop and go smecking[22] off with the till's guts[23]. But, as they say, money isn't everything. The four of us were dressed in the height of fashion, which in those days was a pair of black very tight tights. Then we wore waisty jackets without lapels but with these very big built-up shoulders ('pletchoes[24]' we called them). Then, we had these white cravats which looked like whipped-up kartoffel[25] or spud with a sort of a design made on it with a fork.

We wore our hair not too long and we had horrorshow boots for kicking. “What's it going to be then, eh?” There were three devotchkas[26] sitting at the counter all together, but there were four of us malchicks[27] and it was usually like one for all and all for one. These sharps[28] were dressed in the height of fashion too, with purple and green and orange wigs on their gullivers[29], each one not costing less than three or four weeks of those sharps' wages, I should think, and make-up to match (rainbows round the glazzies[30], that is, and the rot[31] painted very wide). Then they had long black very straight dresses, and on the groody[32] part of them they had little badges of like silver with different malchicks' names on them – Joe and Mike and suchlike. These were supposed to be the names of the different malchicks they'd spatted[33] with before they were fourteen. They kept looking our way and I nearly felt like saying the three of us should go off for a bit of pol[34] and leave poor old Dim behind, because it would be just a matter of kupetting[35]Dim a demi-litre of white[36] but this time with a dollop of drug in it, but that wouldn't really have been playing like the game fair[37]. Dim was very ugly and like his name, but he was a horrorshow fighter.

“What's it going to be then, eh?”

The chelloveck[38] sitting next to me was well away with his glazzies glazed and sort of burbling some senseless slovos[39]. He was in the land all right, well away, in orbit, and I knew what it was like, having tried it like everybody else had done, but at this time I'd got to thinking it was a cowardly sort of a veshch. You'd lay there after you'd drunk the old moloko and then you got the messel[40] that everything all round you was sort of in the past. You could viddy it all right, all of it, very clear – tables, the stereo, the lights, the sharps and the malchicks – but it was like some veshch that used to be there but was not there not no more. And you were sort of hypnotized by your boot or shoe or a finger-nail as it might be, and at the same time you were sort of picked up by the scruff[41]and shook like you might be a cat. You got shook and shook till there was nothing left. You lost your name and your body and your self and you just didn't care, and you waited until your boot or finger-nail got yellow, then yellower and yellower all the time. Then the lights started cracking like atomics[42] and the boot or finger-nailor, as it might be, a bit of dirt on your trouser-bottom turned into a big mesto, bigger than the whole world, and you were just going to get introduced to old Bog or God when it was all over.

You came back to here and now started sort of whimpering. Now that's very nice but very cowardly. You were not put on this earth just to get in touch[43] with God. That sort of thing could sap all the strength and the goodness out of a chelloveck. “What's it going to be then, eh?”

The stereo was on and you got the idea that the singer's goloss[44] was moving from one part of the bar to another, flying up to the ceiling and then falling down again and again. One of the three ptitsas at the counter, the one with the green wig, kept pushing her belly out and pulling it in in time to what they called the music. I could feel the knives in the old moloko starting to work, and now I was ready for a bit of twenty-to-one. So I said: “Out out out out!”, and then I gave this veck who was sitting next to me a horrorshow crack on the ooko[45] or earhole, but he didn't feel it and went on with his senseless slovos. He'd feel it all right when he came to. “Where out?” said Georgie.

“Oh, just to keep walking,” I said, “and viddy what turns up.”

So we ran out into the big winter nochy[46] and walked down Marghanita Boulevard and then turned into Boothby Avenue, and there we found what we were pretty well looking for, a malenky[47] jest to start off the evening with. There was a starry schoolmaster type veck, glasses on and his rot open to the cold nochy air. He had books under his arm and a crappy umbrella and was coming round the corner from the Public Biblio[48], which not many lewdies[49] used these days. You never really saw many of the older bourgeois type out after nightfall those days, what with[50] the shortage of police and we fine young malchickiwicks[51] about, and this prof type chelloveck was the only one walking in the whole of the street. So we goolied[52] up to him, very polite, and I said: “Pardon me, brother.”

He looked a malenky bit poogly[53] when he viddied the four of us like that, coming up so quiet and polite and smiling, but he said: “Yes? What is it?” in a very loud teacher-type goloss, as if he was trying to show us he wasn't poogly. I said: “I see you have books under your arm, brother. It is indeed a rare pleasure these days to come across somebody that still reads, brother.”

“Oh,” he said, all shaky. “Is it? Oh, I see.” And he kept looking from one to the other of we four, finding himself now like in the middle of a very smiling and polite square.

“Yes,” Isaid. “It would interest me greatly, brother, if you would kindly allow me to see what books those are that you have under your arm. I like nothing better in this world than a good clean book, brother.”

“Clean,” he said. “Clean, eh?” And then Pete skvatted[54]these three books from him and handed them round real skorry[55].

Being three, we all had one each to viddy at except for Dim. The one I had was called 'Elementary Crystallography', so I opened it up and said: “Excellent, really first-class,” keeping turning the pages. Then I said in a very shocked type goloss: “But what is this here? What is this filthy slovo? I blush to look at this word. You disappoint me, brother, you do really.”

“But,” he tried, “but, but.”

“Now,” said Georgie, “here is what I should call real dirt. There's one slovo beginning with an 'f and another with a 'c'.” He had a book called 'The Miracle of the Snowflake.' “Oh,” said poor old Dim, smotting[56] over Pete's shoulder and going too far, like he always did[57], “it says here what he done to her, and there's a picture and all. Why,” he said, “you're nothing but a filthy-minded old skitebird[58].”

“An old man of your age, brother,” I said, and I started to rip up the book I'd got, and the others did the same with the ones they had. Dim and Pete doing a tug-of-war with 'The Rhombohedral System'. The starry prof type began to creech[59]: “But those are not mine, those are the property of the municipality, this is vandal work,” or some such slovos. And he tried to wrest the books back off of us, which was like pathetic. “You deserve to be taught a lesson[60], brother,” I said, “that you do.” This crystal book I had was very tough-bound and hard to razrez[61]to bits, being real starry and made in days when things were made to last like, but I managed to rip the pages up and toss them in handfuls of like snowflakes all over this creeching old veck, and then the others did the same with theirs, old Dim just dancing about like the clown he was. “There you are,” said Pete, “you dirty reader of filth.”

 “You naughty old veck, you,” I said, and then we began to filly about[62] with him. Pete held his rookers[63]and Georgie sort of opened his rot and Dim yanked out his false zoobies[64], upper and lower. He threw these down on the pavement and then I crushed them, though they were hard bastards like, being made of some new horrorshow plastic stuff. The old veck began to make sort of chumbling[65] shooms[66] – “wuf waf wof” – so Georgie let go of his goobers[67] and just let him have one[68] in the toothless rot with his ringy fist, and that made the old veck start moaning a lot then, then out comes the blood, my brothers, real beautiful. So all we did then was to pull his outer platties[69] off, stripping him down to his vest and long underpants, and then Pete kicks him lovely in his pot, and we let him go. He went sort of staggering off, it not having been too hard of a tolchock really, going “Oh oh oh”, not knowing where or what was what really, and we had a snigger at him[70] and then riffled through his pockets[71], Dim dancing round with his crappy umbrella meanwhile, but there wasn't much in them. There were a few starry letters, some of them dating right back to 1960 with “My dearest dearest” in them and all that chepooka[72], and a keyring and a starry pen. Old Dim gave up his umbrella dance and of course had to start reading one of the letters out loud, like to show the empty street he could read. “My darling one,” he recited, in this very high type goloss, “I shall be thinking of you while you are away and hope you will remember to dress warm when you go out at night.” Then he let out a very shoomny[73]smeck[74] – “Ho ho ho” – pretending to start wiping his yahma[75] with it. “All right,” I said. “Let it go[76].” In the trousers of this starry veck there was only a malenky bit of cutter[77] (money, that is[78]). Then we broke the umbrella and razrezzed his platties and gave them to the blowing winds, my brothers, and then we'd finished with the starry teacher type veck. We hadn't done much, I know, but that was only like the start of the evening and I make no appy polly loggies[79] to you for that. The knives in the milk plus were working nice and horrorshow now. The next thing was to do the sammy[80] act, which was one way to unload some of our cutter so we'd have more reason like for some shop-crasting, as well as to buy an alibi in advance, so we went into the Duke of New York on Amis Avenue and sure enough there were three or four old baboochkas[81] peeting their suds. Now we were the very good malchicks, smiling to one and all, though these wrinkled old cheenas[82] started to get all shook, their veiny old rookers all trembling round their glasses, and making the suds spill on the table. “Leave us be, lads[83],” said one of them, “we're only poor old women.” But we just smiled, sat down, rang the bell, and waited for the boy to come. When he came, all nervous and rubbing his rookers on his grazzy[84] apron, we ordered us four veterans – a veteran being rum and cherry brandy mixed, which was popular just then. Then I said to the boy:

“Give these poor old baboochkas over there a nourishing something. Large Scotchmen all round and something to take away.” And I poured my pocket of deng all over the table, and the other three did likewise. So double firegolds[85] were brought in for the scared starry cheenas, and they knew not what to do or say. One of them got out “Thanks, lads,” but you could see they thought there was something dirty like coming. Anyway, they were each given a bottle of Yank General, cognac that is, to take away. Then with the cutter that was left over we did purchase all the meat pies, pretzels, cheese-snacks, crisps and chocbars in that mesto, and those too were for the old sharps[86]. Then we said: “Back in a minoota[87],” and the old ptitsas were still saying: “Thanks, lads,” and “God bless you, boys,” and we were going out without one cent of cutter in our carmans[88]. “Makes you feel real dobby[89], that does,” said Pete. Well, we went off now round the corner to Attlee Avenue, and there was this sweets and cancers[90] shop still open. We'd left them alone near three months now and the whole district had been very quiet on the whole, so the armed millicents[91] or rozz[92] patrols weren't round there much, being more north of the river these days. We put our maskies[93] on – new jobs these were, real horrorshow, wonderfully done really; they were like faces of historical personalitities and I had Disraeli[94], Pete had Elvis Presley, Georgie had Henry VIII and poor old Dim had a poet veck called Peebee Shelley[95]; they were a real like disguise, hair and all, and they were some very special plastic veshch so you could roll it up when you'd done with it and hide it in your boot – then three of us went in. Pete keeping chasso without[96], though there was nothing to worry about out there. As soon as we entered the shop we went for Slouse who ran it, who viddied at once what was coming and made straight for the inside where the telephone was and perhaps his well-oiled pooshka[97], complete with six dirty rounds. Dim was round that counter skorry as a bird, and what you could viddy then was a sort of a big ball rolling into the inside of the shop behind the curtain, this being old Dim and Slouse sort of locked in a death struggle.

Then you could slooshy[98] panting and snoring and kicking behind the curtain and veshches falling over and swearing and then glass going smash smash smash. Mother Slouse, the wife, was sort of froze behind the counter. We could tell she would creech murder[99] given one chance, so I was round that counter very skorry and had a hold of her. I'd got my rooker round her rot to stop her belting out death, but this lady doggie gave me a large foul big bite on it and it was me that did the creeching, and then she opened up beautiful with a flip[100] yell for the millicents. Well, then she had to be tolchocked proper with one of the weights for the scales[101], and then a fair tap with a crowbar they had for opening cases, and that brought the red out like an old friend. So we had her down on the floor and a rip of her platties for fun and a gentle bit of the boot to stop her moaning. And, viddying her lying there with her groodies on show, I wondered should I or not, but that was for later on in the evening. Then we cleaned the till[102], and there was horrorshow takings that nochy, and we had a few packs of the very best top cancers apiece, then off we went, my brothers.

 “A real big heavy great bastard he was,” Dim kept saying. I didn't like the look of Dim: he looked dirty and untidy, like a veck who'd been in a fight, which he had been, of course, but you should never look as though you have been. His cravat was like someone had trampled on it, his maskie had been pulled off and he had floor-dirt on his litso, so we got him in an alleyway and tidied him up a malenky bit, soaking our tashtooks[103] in spit to cheest[104]the dirt off. We were back in the Duke of New York very skorry and I reckoned by my watch we hadn't been more than ten minutes away. The starry old baboochkas were still there on the suds and Scotchmen we'd bought them, and we said: “Hallo there, girlies, what's it going to be?” They started on the old “Very kind, lads, God bless you, boys,” and so we rang the collocol[105] and brought a different waiter in this time and we ordered beers with rum in, being sore athirst, my brothers, and whatever the old ptitsas wanted. Then I said to the old baboochkas: “We haven't been out of here, have we? Been here all the time, haven't we?” They all caught on real skorry and said:

“That's right, lads. Not been out of our sight, you haven't. God bless you, boys,” drinking.

Not that it mattered much, really. About half an hour went by before there was any sign of life among the millicents, and then it was only two very young rozzes that came in their big copper's shlemmies[106]. One said: “You lot know anything about the happenings at Slouse's shop this night?”

“Us?” I said, innocent. “Why, what happened?”

“Stealing and roughing. Two hospitalizations.

Where've you lot been this evening?”

“I don't go for that nasty tone,” I said. “I don't care much for these nasty insinuations, my little brothers.”

“They've been in here all night, lads,” the old sharps started to creech out. “God bless them, there's no better lot of boys living for kindness and generosity. Been here all the time they have. Not seen them move we haven't.”

“We're only asking,” said the other young millicent. “We've got ourjob to do like anyone else.” But they gave us the nasty warning look before they went out. As they were going out we handed them a bit of lip-music: brrrrzzzzrrrr. But, myself, I couldn't help a bit of disappointment at things as they were those days. Nothing to fight against really. Everything as easy as kiss-my-sharries[107]. Still, the night was still very young.

2

When we got outside of the Duke of New York we viddied an old pyahnitsa[108] or drunkie, singing the filthy songs of his fathers. One veshch I could never stand was that. I could never stand to see a moodge[109] all filthy and burping and drunk, whatever his age might be, but more especially when he was real starry like this one was. He was sort of flattened to the wall and his platties were a disgrace, all creased and untidy and covered in cal[110] and mud and filth and stuff. So we got hold of him and cracked him with a few good horrorshow tolchocks, but he still went on singing. The song went:

And I will go back to my darling, my darling,
When you, my darling, are gone.

But when Dim fisted him a few times on his filthy drunkard's rot he shut up singing and started to creech: “Go on, do me in, you bastard cowards, I don't want to live anyway, not in a stinking world like this one.” I told Dim to lay off a bit then, because it used to interest me sometimes to slooshy what some of these starry decreps[111]had to say about life and the world. I said: “Oh. And what's stinking about it?” He cried out: “It's a stinking world because it lets the young get on to the old like you done, and there's no law nor order no more.” He was creeching out loud and waving his rookers and making real horrorshow with the slovos: “It's no world for any old man any longer, and that means that I'm not one bit scared of you, my boyos, because I'm too drunk to feel the pain if you hit me, and if you kill me I'll be glad to be dead.” We smecked and then grinned but said nothing, and then he said: “What sort of a world is it at all? Men on the moon and men spinning round, and there's not more attention paid to earthly law nor order no more. So you may do your worst, you filthy cowardly hooligans.” Then he gave us some lip-music – “Prrrrzzzzrrrr” – like we'd done to those young millicents, and then he started singing again:

Oh dear dear land, I fought for thee[112]
And brought thee peace and victory —

So we cracked into him lovely, grinning all over our litsos, but he still went on singing. Then we tripped him so he laid down flat and heavy and a bucketload of beervomit came out. That was disgusting so we gave him the boot[113], one go each, and then it was blood, not song nor vomit, that came out of his filthy old rot. Then we went on our way. It was round by the Municipal Power Plant that we came across Billyboy and his five droogs. Now in those days, my brothers, the teaming up was mostly by fours or fives. Sometimes gangs would gang up so as to make like malenky armies for big night-war, but mostly it was best to roam in these like small numbers. Billyboy was something that made me want to sick just to viddy his fat grinning litso[114], and he always had this von[115] of very stale oil that's been used for frying over and over, even when he was dressed in his best platties, like now. They viddied us just as we viddied them: this would be real, this would be proper, this would be the nozh[116], the oozy[117], the britva[118], not just fisties and boots. Billyboy and his droogs stopped what they were doing, which was just getting ready to perform something on a weepy young devotchka they had there, not more than ten, she creeching away but with her platties still on. Billyboy holding her by one rooker and his number-one, Leo, holding the other. They'd probably just been doing the dirty slovo part of the act before getting down to a malenky bit of ultra-violence. When they viddied us a-coming they let go of this little ptitsa, and she ran with her thin white legs flashing through the dark, still going “Oh oh oh”. I said, smiling very wide and droogie: “ Well, if it isn't fat stinking billygoat[119] Billyboy. How art thou[120], thou globby bottle of cheap stinking chip-oil[121]? Come and get one in the yarbles[122], if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly, thou.” And then we started.

There were four of us to six of them, like I have already indicated, but poor old Dim, for all his dimness[123], was worth three of the others in sheer madness and dirty fighting. Dim had a real horrorshow length of oozy or chain round his waist, twice wound round, and he unwound this and began to swing it beautiful in the eyes or glazzies. Pete and Georgie had good sharp nozhes, but I for my own part had a fine starry horrorshow cutthroat britva which, at that time, I could flash artistic. So there we were dratsing[124] away in the dark, the old Luna just coming up. With my britva I managed to slit right down the front of one of Billyboy's droog's platties, very very neat and not even touching the plott[125] under the cloth. Then in the dratsing this droog of Billyboy's suddenly found himself all opened up like a peapod, with his belly bare and his poor old yarbles showing, and then he got very razdraz[126], waving and screaming and losing his control, so that old Dim chained him right in the glazzies, and this droog of Billyboy's went tottering off and howling his heart out. We were doing very horrorshow, and soon we had Billyboy's number-one down underfoot, blinded with old Dim's chain and crawling and howling about like an animal, but with one fair boot on the gulliver he was out.

Of the four of us Dim, as usual, got the worst, that is to say his litso was all bloodied and his platties a dirty mess, but the others of us were still cool and whole. It was stinking fatty Billyboy I wanted now, and there I was dancing about with my britva like I might be a barber on board a ship on a very rough sea, trying to get in at him with a few fair slashes on his unclean oily litso. Billyboy had a long nozh but he was a malenky bit too slow and heavy in his movements to vred[127] anyone really bad. And, my brothers, it was real satisfaction to me to waltz – left two three, right two three – and carve left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like twocurtains of blood seemed to pour out at the same time, one on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter starlight. Down this blood poured in like red curtains, but you could viddy Billyboy felt not a thing, and he went on like a filthy fatty bear, poking at me with his nozh.

Then we slooshied the sirens and knew the millicents were coming with their pooshkas. That weepy little devotchka had told them, no doubt, there being a box for calling the rozzes not too far behind the Muni Power Plant. “Get you soon, fear not,” I called, “stinking billygoat[128]. I'll have your yarbles off lovely.” Then off they ran, except for Number One Leo on the ground, away north towards the river, and we went the other way. Just round the next turning was an alley, dark and empty and open at both ends, and we rested there, panting fast then slower, then breathing like normal. It was like resting between the feet of two terrific and very enormous mountains, these being the flatblocks[129], and in the windows of all the flats you could viddy like blue dancing light. This would be the telly. Tonight was what they called a worldcast, meaning that the same programme was being viddied by everybody in the world that wanted to, that being mostly the middle-aged middle-class lewdies. We waited panting, and we could slooshy the sirening millicents going east, so we knew we were all right now. But poor old Dim kept looking up at the stars and planets and the Luna with his rot wide open like a kid who'd never viddied any such things before, and he said:

“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.”

“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?

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2

дружки

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3

рассудок

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4

место, заведение

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5

вещи (зд. алкоголь или наркотики)

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6

молоко

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7

пить

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8

хороший

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9

бог

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10

мозг

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11

наркотики

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12

разбойничье нападение, изнасилование

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13

деньги

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14

красть, грабить, воровать

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15

деньги, бабки, бабло

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16

бить, пинать

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17

человек

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18

видеть

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19

подсчитывали выручку

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20

старая

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21

женщина, курица

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22

смеяться, хохотать, ржать

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23

содержимое / потроха кассы

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24

плечи, плечики

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25

картофель

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26

девушки, девчонки

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27

мальчики, парни

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28

девицы, женщины

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29

на голове

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30

глаза

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31

рот

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32

на груди

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33

спали

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34

секс

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35

купить

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36

пол-литра белого

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37

это будет нечестная игра

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38

человек, мужчина

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39

слова

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40

мысль

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41

тебя взяли за шиворот/кирку

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42

расщепляться, как атомы

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43

связаться, войти в контакт

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44

голос

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45

ухо

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46

ночь

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47

маленький

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48

публичной библиотеки

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49

людей

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50

по причине

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51

мальчишечки/разбойнички

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52

подошли; гуляли

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испуганный

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схватил

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55

скоро, быстро

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смотря, глядя

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заходя, как обычно, слишком далеко

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засранец

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кричать

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60

Тебя надо проучить

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61

разрезать, разорвать

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62

дурачиться

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63

руки

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64

зубы

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невнятный, бормочущий

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шум, звуки

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отпустил его губы

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и врезал ему

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69

платье, одежда

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70

похихикали над ним

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71

пошарили по карманам

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72

чепуха

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громкий

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74

смех

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75

задница

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76

Ну всё, хватит

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77

деньги, бабки

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78

то есть

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извинения

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щедрый

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бабушки, старухи

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женщины

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83

Не трогайте нас, ребята

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грязный

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крепкие напитки

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женщины, тётки

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минута

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карманы

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89

добрый, хороший

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сигареты

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полицейские

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полицейский

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маски

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

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

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96

Пит стоял на стрёме снаружи

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пушка, пистолет

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слышать

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кричать караул

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100

дикий

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весовая гиря

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102

обчистили кассу

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103

носовые платки

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104

чистить, стереть

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105

звонок

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106

шлемы

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107

шары, ягодицы

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108

пьяница

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109

мужчина, мужик

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110

кал, испражнения

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111

выжившие из ума

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112

you

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113

мы его попинали

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114

лицо

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115

вонь, запах

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116

нож

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117

узы, цепь

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118

бритва

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козёл

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120

are you

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масло для жарки картофеля

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122

получи по яйцам

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123

при всей своей тупости

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124

дрались

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плоть, тело

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обозлённый, раздражённый

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навредить

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Не бойся, скоро доберусь до тебя, козёл вонючий

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жилые дома

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глупый, дурной

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смеялись

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на голубом экране

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

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кинотеатр/кино

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мог сгодиться/подойти

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отмычки

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нога

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трахающихся

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Это был настоящий прикол

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шут, клоун

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роговые очки

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смех

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хрясь, хрясь

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хлеб

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хихикали

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плакать

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всхлипывать

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пища

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груди

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помочился

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жена

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поехали

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стрелка топливного датчика

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кашлять

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собирать (вместо «забирать»)

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плеск, всплеск

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отпустив тормоза

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смех

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если понадобится

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шоколадные батончики

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окно

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кабинки

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мальчики

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охранники

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сапог, ботинок

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тинейджеры

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разговаривающие

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волосы у меня стали дыбом / зашевелились

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Придуманная автором опера.

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Грязный, слюнявый, невоспитанный урод

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жизнь

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И полегче, Дим, если хочешь продлить жизнь свою

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осушить, вытереть

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Сейчас лучше на боковую, так что пошли по домам

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Вот как-то так

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спячка, сон

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177

Казалось, он слишком глуп, чтобы долго сердиться

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178

банды, группы, шайки

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дурачество/забавы/похождения

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хорошо сложенный

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181

голый, нагой

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кнопка

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ключ

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папа и мама (papa and mama)

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мясная тушёнка

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хлеб

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жизнь в исправительной школе

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дубинка

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Бранденбургский концерт И. С. Баха

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понимать, понять

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разорвать на куски/части

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всплеск

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одинокий, сам по себе

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194

идти, пойти

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школа

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варится, делается

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работал

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в положении, беременная

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сниться; сон

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200

отдавать честь

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идти, продолжаться

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шляпа

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дом

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чай

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205

Чем я обязан такой честью?

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206

Почему для этого должно было что-то случиться?

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Просто оборот речи

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208

тюрьма, место за решёткой

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уходить

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210

ловить, поймать

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211

несмотря на мой нежный возраст

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212

отдельно взятая личность может быть плохой

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213

сладкий зуб, сластёна

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чашка

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джем и яйцо (слова, придуманные автором)

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поп

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собачий ошейник, высокий воротник

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бутик

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Девятая симфония Л. ван Бетховена

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преданный вам рассказчик

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221

Хотите прослушать?

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222

братец

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223

бывалые/тёртые девицы

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224

самое интересное

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225

со стояком

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226

чудесный

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227

замечательный

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битва

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229

колотили

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230

аппетитный

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231

на подхвате / подручный

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232

как бы говоря: не лезь не в своё дело / тебя это не касается (mind your own business)

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мямля

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заинтересовал

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235

Я в душе посмеялся над этим

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