Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Eachmanseemsunawareoftheother.Ican’teventellifHarding’snoticedMcMurphyatall.Harding’sgothisthinshouldersfoldednearlytogetheraroundhimself,likegreenwings,andhe’ssittingverystraightneartheedgeofhischair,withhishandstrappedbetweenhisknees.He’sstaringstraightahead,hummingtohimself,tryingtolookcalm—buthe’schewingathischeeks,andthisgiveshimafunnyskullgrin,notcalmatall.

           McMurphyputshiscigarettebackbetweenhisteethandfoldshishandsoverthewoodenchairbackandleanshischinonthem,squintingoneeyeagainstthesmoke.HelooksatHardingwithhisothereyeawhile,thenstartstalkingwiththatcigarettewaggingupanddowninhislips.

           "Wellsay,buddy,isthisthewaytheseleetlemeetingsusuallygo?"

           "Usuallygo?"Harding’shummingstops.He’snotchewinghischeeksanymorebuthestillstaresahead,pastMcMurphy’sshoulder.

           "Isthistheusualpro-cedurefortheseGroupTher’pyshindigs?Bunchofchickensatapeckin’party?"

           Harding’sheadturnswithajerkandhiseyesfindMcMurphy,likeit’sthefirsttimeheknowsthatanybody’ssittinginfrontofhim.Hisfacecreasesinthemiddlewhenhebiteshischeeksagain,andthismakesitlooklikehe’sgrinning.Hepullshisshouldersbackandscootstothebackofthechairandtriestolookrelaxed.

           "A‘peckingparty’?Ifearyourquaintdown-homespeechiswastedonme,myfriend.Ihavenottheslightestinclinationwhatyou’retalkingabout."