2023年8月3日发(作者：)

Amerigo Bonasera sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3 and waited for justice; vengeance on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter, who had tried to dishonor her.

The judge, a formidably heavy-featured man, rolled up the sleeves of his black robe as if to physically chastise the two young men standing before the bench. His face was cold with majestic contempt. But there was something false in all this that Amerigo Bonasera sensed but

did not yet understand.

"You acted like the worst kind of degenerates," the judge said harshly. Yes, yes, thought Amerigo Bonasera. Animals. Animals. The two young men, glossy hair crew cut, scrubbed clean-cut faces composed into

humble contrition, bowed their heads in submission.

The judge went on. "You acted like wild beasts in a jungle and you are fortunate you did not sexually molest that poor girl or I'd put you behind bars for twenty years." The judge paused, his eyes beneath impressively thick brows flickered slyly toward the sallow-faced Amerigo Bonasera, then lowered to a stack of probation reports before him. He frowned and shrugged as if convinced against his own natural desire. He spoke again.

"But because of your youth, your clean records, because of your fine families, and because the law in its majesty does not seek vengeance, I hereby sentence you to three years' confinement to the penitentiary. Sentence to be suspended."

Only forty years of professional mourning kept the overwhelming frustration and hatred from showing on Amerigo Bonasera's face. His beautiful young daughter was still in the hospital with her broken jaw wired together; and now these two animales went free? It had all been a

farce. He watched the happy parents cluster around their darling sons. Oh, they were all happy now, they were smiling now.

The black bile, sourly bitter, rose in Bonasera's throat, overflowed through tightly clenched teeth. He used his white linen pocket handkerchief and held it against his lips. He was standing so when the two young men strode freely up the aisle, confident and cool-eyed, smiling, not giving him so much as a glance. He let them pass without saying a word, pressing the fresh linen against his mouth.

The parents of the animales were coming by now, two men and two women his age but more American in their dress. They glanced at him, shamefaced, yet in their eyes was an odd, triumphant defiance.

Out of control, Bonasera leaned forward toward the aisle and shouted hoarsely, "You will weep as I have wept--- I will make you weep as your children make me weep"--- the linen at his eyes now. The defense

attorneys bringing up the rear swept their clients forward in a tight little band, enveloping the two young men, who had started back down the aisle as if to protect their parents. A huge bailiff moved quickly to block the row in which Bonasera stood. But it was not necessary.

All his years in America, Amerigo Bonasera had trusted in law and order. And he had prospered thereby. Now, though his brain smoked with

hatred, though wild visions of buying a gun and killing the two young men jangled the very bones of his skull, Bonasera turned to his still uncomprehending wife and explained to her, "They have made fools of us." He paused and then made his decision, no longer fearing the cost. "For justice we must go on our knees to Don Corleone."

In a garishly decorated Los Angeles hotel suite, Johnny Fontane was as

jealously drunk as any ordinary husband. Sprawled on a red couch, he drank

straight from the bottle of scotch in his hand, then washed the taste away

by dunking his mouth in a crystal bucket of ice cubes and water. It was

four in the morning and he was spinning drunken fantasies of murdering

his trampy wife when she got home. If she ever did come home. It was too

late to call his first wife and ask about the kids and he felt funny about

calling any of his friends now that his career was plunging downhill. There

had been a time when they would have been delighted, flattered by his

calling them at four in the morning but now he bored them. He could even

smile a little to himself as he thought that on the way up Johnny Fontane's

troubles had fascinated some of the greatest female stars in America.

Gulping at his bottle of scotch, he heard finally his wife's key in the

door, but he kept drinking until she walked into the room and stood before

him. She was to him so very beautiful, the angelic face, soulful violet

eyes, the delicately fragile but perfectly formed body. On the screen her

beauty was magnified, spiritualized. A hundred million men all over the

world were in love with the face of Margot Ashton. And paid to see it on

the screen.

"Where the hell were you?" Johnny Fontane asked.

"Out fucking," she said.

She had misjudged his drunkenness. He sprang over the cocktail table and grabbed her by the throat. But close up to that magical face, the lovely

violet eyes, he lost his anger and became helpless again. She made the

mistake of smiling mockingly, saw his fist draw back. She screamed,

"Johnny, not in the face, I'm making a picture."

She was laughing. He punched her in the stomach and she fell to the floor.

He fell on top of her. He could smell her fragrant breath as she gasped

for air. He punched her on the arms and on the thigh muscles of her silky

tanned legs. He beat her as he had beaten snotty smaller kids long ago

when he had been a tough teenager in New York's Hell's Kitchen. A painful

punishment that would leave no lasting disfigurement of loosened teeth

or broken nose.

But he was not hitting her hard enough. He couldn't. And she was giggling

at him. Spread-eagled on the floor, her brocaded gown hitched up above

her thighs, she taunted him between giggles. "Come on, stick it in. Stick

it in, Johnny, that's what you really want."

Johnny Fontane got up. He hated the woman on the floor but her beauty

was a magic shield. Margot rolled away, and in a dancer's spring was on

her feet facing him. She went into a childish mocking dance and chanted,

"Johnny never hurt me, Johnny never hurt me." Then almost sadly with grave

beauty she said, "You poor silly bastard, giving me cramps like a kid.

Ah, Johnny, you always will be a dumb romantic guinea, you even make love

like a kid. You still think screwing is really like those dopey songs you

used to sing." She shook her head and said, "Poor Johnny. Goodbye, Johnny."

She walked into the bedroom and he heard her turn the key in the lock.

Johnny sat on the floor with his face in his hands. The sick, humiliating

despair overwhelmed him. And then the gutter toughness that had helped

him survive the jungle of Hollywood made him pick up the phone and call

for a car to take him to the airport. There was one person who could save

him. He would go back to New York. He would go back to the one man with

the power, the wisdom he needed and a love he still trusted. His Godfather

Corleone. The baker, Nazorine, pudgy and crusty as his great Italian

loaves, still dusty with flour, scowled at his wife, his nubile daughter,

Katherine, and his baker's helper, Enzo. Enzo had changed into his

prisoner-of-war uniform with its green-lettered armband and was terrified

that this scene would make him late reporting back to Governor's Island.

One of the many thousands of Italian Army prisoners paroled daily to work

in the American economy, he lived in constant fear of that parole being

revoked. And so the little comedy being played now was, for him, a serious

business.

Nazorine asked fiercely, "Have you dishonored my family? Have you given

my daughter a little package to remember you by now that the war is over

and you know America will kick your ass back to your village full of shit

in Sicily?"

Enzo, a very short, strongly built boy, put his hand over his heart and

said almost in tears, yet cleverly, "Padrone, I swear by the Holy Virgin

I have never taken advantage of your kindness. I love your daughter with

all respect. I ask for her hand with all respect. I know I have no right,

but if they send me back to Italy I can never come back to America. I will

never be able to marry Katherine."

Nazorine's wife, Filomena, spoke to the point. "Stop all this

foolishness," she said to her pudgy husband. "You know what you must do.

Keep Enzo here, send him to hide with our cousins in Long Island."

Katherine was weeping. She was already plump, homely and sprouting a

faint moustache. She would never get a husband as handsome as Enzo, never

find another man who touched her body in secret places with such respectful

love. "I'll go and live in Italy," she screamed at her father. "I'll run

away if you don't keep Enzo here."

Nazorine glanced at her shrewdly. She was a "hot number" this daughter

of his. He had seen her brush her swelling buttocks against Enzo's front

when the baker's helper squeezed behind her to fill the counter baskets

with hot loaves from the oven. The young rascal's hot loaf would be in

her oven, Nazorine thought lewdly, if proper steps were not taken. Enzo

must be kept in America and be made an American citizen. And there was

only one man who could arrange such an affair. The Godfather. Don Corleone.