Английский язык с Крестным Отцом

Johnny sat down at the piano again while Tina wandered off outside to watch the pool.

He started singing one of his old songs. There was no burning in his throat. The tones

were coming out muted but with proper body. He looked at the patio. Tina was still out

there, the glass door was closed, she wouldn't hear him. For some reason he didn't

want anybody to hear him. He started off fresh on an old ballad that was his favorite. He

sang full out as if he were singing in public, letting himself go, waiting for the familiar

burning rasp in his throat but there was none. He listened to his voice, it was different

somehow, but he liked it. It was darker, it was a man's voice, not a kid's, rich he thought,

dark rich. He finished the song easing up and sat there at the piano thinking about it.

Behind him Nino said, "Not bad, old buddy, not bad at all."

Johnny swiveled his body around. Nino was standing in the doorway, alone. His girl

wasn't with him. Johnny was relieved. He didn't mind Nino hearing him.

"Yeah," Johnny said. "Let's get rid of those two broads. Send them home."

Nino said, "You send them home. They're nice kids, I'm not gonna hurt their feelings.

Besides I just banged mine twice. How would it look if I sent her away without even

giving her dinner?"

The hell with it, Johnny thought. Let the girls listen even if he sounded lousy. He

called up a band leader he knew in Palm Springs and asked him to send over a

mandolin for Nino. The band leader protested, "Hell, nobody plays a mandolin in

California." Johnny yelled, "Just get one."

The house was loaded with recording equipment and Johnny had the two girls work

the turn-off and volumes. After they had dinner, Johnny went to work. He had Nino

playing the mandolin as accompaniment and sang all his old songs. He sang them all

the way out, not nursing his voice at all. His throat was fine, he felt that he could sing

forever. In the months he had not been able to sing he had often thought about singing,

planned out how he would phrase lyrics differently now than as a kid. He had sung the

songs in his head with more sophisticated variations of emphasis. Now he was doing it

for real. Sometimes it would go wrong in the actual singing, stuff that had sounded good

when he heard it just in his head didn't work out when he tried it really singing out loud.

OUT LOUD, he thought. He wasn't listening to himself now, he was concentrating on

performing. He fumbled a little on timing but that was OK, just rusty. He had a

197

metronome in his head that would never fail him. Just a little practice was all he needed.

Finally he stopped singing. Tina came over to him with eyes shining and gave him a

long kiss. "Now I know why Mother goes to all your movies," she said. It was the wrong

thing to say at any time except this. Johnny and Nino laughed.

They played the feedback and now Johnny could really listen to himself. His voice had

changed, changed a hell of a lot but was still unquestionably the voice of Johnny

Fontane. It had become much richer and darker as he had noticed before but there was

also the quality of a man singing rather than a boy. The voice had more true emotion,

more character. And the technical part of his singing was far superior to anything he had

ever done. It was nothing less than masterful. And if he was that good now, rusty as hell,

how good would he be when he got in shape again? Johnny grinned at Nino. "Is that as

good as I think it is?"

Nino looked at his happy face thoughtfully. "It's very damn good," he said. "But let's

see how you sing tomorrow."

Johnny was hurt that Nino should be so downbeat. "You son of a bitch, you know you

can't sing like that. Don't worry about tomorrow. I feel great." But he didn't sing any

more that night. He and Nino took the girls to a party and Tina spent the night in his bed

but he wasn't much good there. The girl was a little disappointed. But what the hell, you

couldn't do everything all in one day, Johnny thought.

He woke up in the morning with a sense of apprehension, with a vague terror that he

had dreamed his voice had come back. Then when he was sure it was not a dream he

got scared that his voice would be shot again. He went to the window and hummed a bit,

then he went down to the living room still in his pajamas. He picked out a tune on the

piano and after a while tried singing with it. He sang mutedly but there was no pain, no

hoarseness in his throat, so he turned it on. The chords were true and rich, he didn't

have to force it at all. Easy, easy, just pouring out. Johnny realized that the bad time

was over, he had it all now. And it didn't matter a damn if he fell on his face with movies,

it didn't matter if he couldn't get it up with Tina the night before, it didn't matter that

Virginia would hate him being able to sing again. For a moment he had just one regret.

If only his voice had come back to him while trying to sing for his daughters, how lovely

that would have been. That would have been so lovely.