Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Heholdsoutthatlonghandandbringsitupinfrontofhiseyesandsquintsintoit,bringsuphisotherhandandunderlinesthewordswithafingerwoodenandvarnishedthecolorofagunstockbynicotine.Hisvoiceasdeepandslowandpatient,andIseethewordscomeoutdarkandheavyoverhisbrittlelipswhenhereads.

           "No...Theflagis...Ah-mer-ica.Americais...theplum.Thepeach.Thewah-ter-mel-on.Americais...thegumdrop.Thepump-kinseed.Americais...tell-ah-vision."

           It’strue.It’sallwrotedownonthatyellowhand.Icanreaditalongwithhimmyself.

           "Now...Thecrossis...Mex-i-co."HelooksuptoseeifI’mpayingattention,andwhenheseesIamhesmilesatmeandgoeson."Mexicois...thewal-nut.Thehazelnut.Theay-corn.Mexicois...therain-bow.Therain-bowis...wooden.Mexicois...woo-den."

           Icanseewhathe’sdrivingat.He’sbeensayingthissortofthingforthewholesixyearshe’sbeenhere,butIneverpaidhimanymind,figuredhewasnomorethanatalkingstatue,athingmadeoutofboneandarthritis,ramblingonandonwiththesegoofydefinitionsofhisthatdidn’tmakealickofsense.Now,atlast,Iseewhathe’ssaying.I’mtryingtoholdhimforonelastlooktorememberhim,andthat’swhatmakesmelookhardenoughtounderstand.