Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Thedormfloorslidesonoutoftheshaftandintothemachineroom.RightawayIseewhat’sstraightaboveus—oneofthosetrestleaffairslikeyoufindinmeathouses,rollersontrackstomovecarcassesfromthecoolertothebutcherwithoutmuchlifting.Twoguysinslacks,whiteshirtswiththesleevesturnedback,andthinblacktiesareleaningonthecatwalkaboveourbeds,gesturingtoeachotherastheytalk,cigarettesinlongholderstracinglinesofredlight.They’retalkingbutyoucan’tmakeoutthewordsabovethemeasuredroarrisingallaroundthem.Oneoftheguyssnapshisfingers,andthenearestworkmanveersinasharpturnandsprintstohisside.Theguypointsdownatoneofthebedswithhiscigaretteholder,andtheworkertrotsofftothesteelstepladderandrunsdowntoourlevel,wherehegoesoutofsightbetweentwotransformershugeaspotatocellars.

           Whenthatworkerappearsagainhe’spullingahookalongthetrestleoverheadandtakinggiantstridesasheswingsalongit.Hepassesmybedandafurnacewhoopingsomewheresuddenlylightshisfaceuprightovermine,afacehandsomeandbrutalandwaxylikeamask,wantingnothing.I’veseenamillionfaceslikeit.

           HegoestothebedandwithonehandgrabstheoldVegetableBlasticbytheheelandliftshimstraightuplikeBlasticdon’tweighmore’nafewpounds;withtheotherhandtheworkerdrivesthehookthroughthetendonbackoftheheel,andtheoldguy’shangingthereupsidedown,hismoldyfaceblownupbig,scared,theeyesscummedwithmutefear.Hekeepsflappingbotharmsandthefreelegtillhispajamatopfallsaroundhishead.Theworkergrabsthetopandbunchesandtwistsitlikeaburlapsackandpullsthetrolleyclickingbackoverthetrestletothecatwalkandlooksuptowherethosetwoguysinwhiteshirtsarestanding.