Читать онлайн «Death of a Nightingale»
Автор Лине Кобербель
Also by Lene Kaaberbøl and Agnete Friis
Copyright © 2013 by Lene Kaaberbøl and Agnete Friis
English translation copyright © 2013 Elisabeth Dyssegaard
Published by
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kaaberbøl, Lene.
[Nattergalens Doed. English]
Death of a nightingale / Lene Kaaberbøl & Agnete Friis;
Translated from
the Danish by Elisabeth Dyssegaard.
p cm
Originally published as Nattergalens Doed, in Danish.
eISBN: 978-1-61695-305-8
I. Friis, Agnete, author. II. Dyssegaard, Elisabeth Kallick, translator.
III. Title.
PT8177. 21. A24N3713 2013
2013016761
v3. 1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5: Ukraine, 1934
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9: Ukraine, 1935
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13: Ukraine, 1934
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17: Ukraine, 1934
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24: Ukraine, 1934
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31: Ukraine, 1934
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34: Ukraine, 1935
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38: Ukraine, 1935
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41: Ukraine, 1935
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44: Ukraine, 1935
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48: Ukraine, 1935
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56: Ukraine, 1935
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61: Ukraine, 1934
Audio file #83: Nightingale
“Go on,” says a man’s voice.
“I’m tired,” an older woman answers, clearly uncomfortable and dismissive.
“But it’s so exciting. ”
“Exciting?” There’s a lash of bitterness in her reaction. “A bit of Saturday entertainment? Is that what this is for you?”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. ”
They are both speaking Ukrainian, he quickly and informally, she more hesitantly. In the background, occasional beeps from an electronic game can be heard.
“It’s important for posterity. ”
The old woman laughs now, a hard and unhappy laughter. “Posterity,” she says. “Do you mean the child? Isn’t she better off not knowing?”
“If that’s how you see it. We should be getting home anyway. ”
“No. ” The word is abrupt. “Not yet.
Surely you can stay a little longer. ”“You said you were tired,” says the man.
“No. Not … that tired. ”
“I don’t mean to press you. ”
“No, I know that. You just thought it was exciting. ”
“Forget I said that. It was stupid. ”
“No, no. Children like exciting stories. Fairy tales. ”
“I was thinking more along the lines of something real. Something you experienced yourself. ”
Another short pause. Then, “No, let me tell you a story,” the old woman says suddenly. “A fairy tale. A little fairy tale from Stalin Land. A suitable bedtime story for the little one. Are you listening, my sweet?”
Beep, beep, beep-beep. Unclear mumbling from the child. Obviously, her attention is mostly on the game, but that doesn’t stop the old woman.
“Once upon a time, there were two sisters,” she begins clearly, as if reciting. “Two sisters who both sang so beautifully that the nightingale had to stop singing when it heard them. First one sister sang for the emperor himself, and thus was the undoing of a great many people. Then the other sister, in her resentment, began to sing too. ”
