×àðëüç Áóêîâñêè
òðÿïü¸, áóòûëêè, ìåøêè
êîãäà ÿ áûë ìàëü÷èêîì
ÿ ïîìíþ òîò çâóê:
"ÒÐßÏܨ, ÁÓÒÛËÊÈ, ÌÅØÊÈ!"
"ÒÐßÏܨ, ÁÓÒÛËÊÈ, ÌÅØÊÈ!"
ýòî áûëî âî âðåìÿ
Äåïðåññèè
è âû ìîãëè óñëûøàòü
ãîëîñ
çàäîëãî äî òîãî êàê âû âèäåëè
ñòàðåíüêóþ ïîâîçêó
è ñòàðóþ óòîìë¸ííóþ
êëÿ÷ó.
ïîòîì âû ñëûøàëè çâóê
êîïûò:
"êëîï, êëîï, êëîï..."
à ïîòîì âû âèäåëè ëîøàäü ñ
òåëåæêîé
è âñåãäà êàçàëîñü
÷òî ýòî áûëî
â ñàìûé çíîéíûé äåíü
ëåòà:
"ÒÐßÏܨ, ÁÓÒÛËÊÈ, ÌÅØÊÈ!"
î
ýòà ëîøàäü áûëà íàñòîëüêî
óñòàâøåé -
áåëûå ñòðóéêè ñëþíû
ñòåêàëè
êîãäà óäèëà âïèâàëèñü â
ïàñòü
ëîøàäü òàùèëà íåâûíîñèìûé
ãðóç
èç òðÿïîê, áóòûëîê, ìåøêîâ
ÿ âèäåë ìóêó
â å¸ áîëüøèõ
ãëàçàõ
å¸ ð¸áðà
òîð÷àëè êàê íà ïîêàç
îãðîìíûå ìóõè
êðóæèëèñü è óñàæèâàëèñü íà
ññàäèíû å¸
êîæè
ïîðîþ
îäèí èç íàøèõ îòöîâ ìîã
ïðîêðè÷àòü:
"Ýé! Ïî÷åìó òû
íå íàêîðìèøü ëîøàäü,
óáëþäîê!"
îòâåò ìóæ÷èíû áûë
âñåãäà îäèíàêîâûì:
"ÒÐßÏܨ, ÁÓÒÛËÊÈ, ÌÅØÊÈ!"
÷åëîâåê áûë
óæàñíî
ãðÿçíûì, íå-
áðèòûì îäåòûì â ïîìÿòóþ
è çàïà÷êàííóþ
øëÿïó èç ôåòðà
îí
ñèäåë ñâåðõó
áîëüøîé êó÷è
ìåøêîâ
è
êàçàëîñü ÷òî ëîøàäü
âñ¸ âðåìÿ
ñáèâàåòñÿ ñ øàãà
÷åëîâåê
ñòåãàë å¸
äëèííûì õëûñòîì
çâóê áûë ïîõîæ íà
âûñòðåë âèíòîâêè
êó÷à ìóõ
âçëåòàëà
è ëîøàäü
ñíîâà ðâàëàñü
âïåð¸ä
êîïûòà ïîñòîÿííî ñêîëüçèëè
ïî ãîðÿ÷åìó àñôàëüòó
è âñ¸
÷òî ìîãëè ìû
âèäåòü
áûëà çàäíÿÿ ÷àñòü
òåëåæêè
è
ìàññèâíûé áóãîð èç
òðÿïüÿ è áóòûëîê
ïðèêðûòûõ
êîðè÷íåâûìè ìåøêàìè
è
îïÿòü
ýòîò ãîëîñ:
"ÒÐßÏܨ, ÁÓÒÛËÊÈ, ÌÅØÊÈ!"
îí áûë ïåðâûì
èç òåõ
êîãî ÿ
âñåãäà õîòåë áû
óáèòü
à
ñ òåõ ïîð íèêîãî
è
íå áûëî.
12.10.19
rags, bottles, sacks
by Charles Bukowski
as a boy
I remember the sound
of:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
it was during the
Depression
and you could hear the
voice
long before you saw the
old wagon
and the
old tired
swaybacked horse.
then you heard the
hooves:
“clop, clop, clop…”
and then you saw the
horse and the
wagon
and it always seemed
to be
on the hottest summer
day:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
oh
that horse was so
tired–
white streams of
saliva
drooling
as the bit dug into
the mouth
he pulled an intolerable
load
of
rags, bottles, sacks
I saw his eyes
large
in agony
his ribs
showing
the giant flies
whirled and landed upon
raw places on his
skin.
sometimes
one of our fathers would
yell:
“Hey! Why don’t you
feed that horse, you
bastard!“
the man’s answer was
always the
same:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
the man was
incredibly
dirty, un-
shaven, wearing a crushed
and stained
fedora
he
sat on top of
a large pile of
sacks
and
now and
then
as the horse seemed to
miss
a step
this man would
lay down
the long whip…
the sound was like a
rifle shot
a phalanx of flies would
rise
and the horse would
yank forward
anew
the hooves slipping and
sliding on the hot
asphalt
and then
all we could
see
was the back of the
wagon
and
the massive mound of
rags and bottles
covered with
brown sacks
and
again
the voice:
“RAGS! BOTTLES! SACKS!”
he was
the first man
I ever wanted to
kill
and
there have been
none
since.