Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           "Haveyoueverinallyourborndaysseenthelike?Haveyounow?Isweartoheaven,haveyouever?"

           Hepullsoffthehatandpatshisredrubberballofaheadwithahandkerchief,careful,likehe’safraidofgettingoneortheothermussedup—thehandkerchieforthedabofdampstringyhair.

           "Canyouimaginepeoplewantingtolivethisway?Tellme,John,canyou?"Hetalksloudonaccountofnotbeingusedtotheroarofthefalls.

           John’snexttohim,gotathickgraymustacheliftedtightupunderhisnosetostopoutthesmellofthesalmonI’mworkingon.He’ssweateddownhisneckandcheeks,andhe’ssweatedcleanoutthroughthebackofhisbluesuit.He’smakingnotesinabook,andhekeepsturninginacircle,lookingatourshack,ourlittlegarden,atMama’sredandgreenandyellowSaturday-nightdressesdryingoutbackonastretchofbedcord—keepsturningtillhemakesafullcircleandcomesbacktome,looksatmelikehejustseesmeforthefirsttime,andmenotbuttwoyardsawayfromhim.Hebendstowardmeandsquintsandliftshismustacheuptohisnoseagainlikeit’smestinkinginsteadofthefish.

           "Wheredoyousupposehisparentsare?"Johnasks."Insidethehouse?Oroutonthefalls?Wemightaswelltalkthisoverwiththemanwhilewe’reouthere."

           "I,forone,amnotgoinginsidethathovel,"thefatguysays.

           "Thathovel,"Johnsaysthroughhismustache,"iswheretheChieflives,Brickenridge,themanweareheretodealwith,thenobleleaderofthesepeople."