Пролетая над гнездом кукушки
Chapter 11
It’sBillyBibbitwhogoesuptohim.
"Someofushaveb-beenhereforfi-fi-fiveyears,Randle,"Billysays.He’sgotamagazinerolledupandistwistingatitwithhishands;youcanseethecigaretteburnsonthebacksofhishands."Andsomeofuswillb-beheremaybeth-thatmuh-muh-muchlonger,longafteryou’reg-g-gone,longafterthisWo-worldSeriesisover.And...don’tyousee..."Hethrowsdownthemagazineandwalksaway."Oh,what’stheuseofitanyway."
McMurphystaresafterhim,thatpuzzledfrownknottinghisbleachedeyebrowstogetheragain.
Hearguesfortherestofthedaywithsomeoftheotherguysaboutwhytheydidn’tvote,buttheydon’twanttotalkaboutit,soheseemstogiveup,doesn’tsayanythingaboutitagaintillthedaybeforetheSeriesstarts."HereitisThursday,"hesays,sadlyshakinghishead.
He’ssittingononeofthetablesinthetubroomwithhisfeetonachair,tryingtospinhiscaparoundonefinger.OtherAcutesmopearoundtheroomandtrynottopayanyattentiontohim.Nobody’llplaypokerorblackjackwithhimformoneyanymore—afterthepatientswouldn’tvotehegotmadandskinnedthemsobadatcardsthatthey’reallsoindebtthey’rescaredtogoanydeeper—andtheycan’tplayforcigarettesbecausethenursehasstartedmakingthemenkeeptheircartonsonthedeskintheNurses’Station,whereshedolesthemoutonepackaday,saysit’sfortheirhealth,buteverybodyknowsit’stokeepMcMurphyfromwinningthemallatcards.
