Father's Rage English Podcast

THE INTERPRETER
 
 CHAPTER ONE

The Voice in the Dark

Matobo, Africa

The hot sun burned down on the small town. An old wooden sign above the road was shaking in the strong wind. The words on it were unclear now, but it read: WELCOME PRESIDENT EDMOND ZUWANIE.

The car moved slowly down the road. The driver was a black African man. Next to him, a fair-haired white man was writing a list of names in a blue notebook. Another white man with long, dark hair sat in the back seat, holding two cameras.

"She refused to tell me her husband's name," the white man in the front seat shouted above the noise of the wind.

"The names of the dead are bad luck," the driver replied.

"Zuwanie murdered half the town. Can their luck get worse?"

The driver slowed the car. "He can murder the other half."

The fair-haired white man put a gun and a new notebook into his bag.

He and the driver climbed out of the car.

"Stay here," the driver said to the cameraman.

Slowly, the two men walked across the street toward a large, old stadium. 
 Outside, two boys kicked a ball around the dry, brown grass.

One of the boys shouted to the two men.

"They want to show us the bodies," the driver said.

The boys took the men into a room inside the stadium. There was a

strong smell of death. The men covered their noses and told the boys to go

outside. In the dark corners of the room, they could see piles of bodies on

the floor. "XOLA NOW!" was written in blood on the walls.

They started to check the bodies. They recognized some of the dead and found the names of others from the papers in their pockets. The white man pulled the notebook out of his bag and started to write.

Suddenly, there was a shout from one of the boys outside.

"Somebody's coming!" the white man said.

The two men ran out into the bright sunlight. There was nobody outside - only the two boys. Slowly, one boy lifted a gun and shot the black African in the chest. Then he turned to the white man and shot him in the stomach.

The white man fell to his knees.

"It's OK," he said quietly. "It's OK." It was the last thing that he ever said.

THE INTERPRETER
 
 CHAPTER ONE

The Voice in the Dark

Matobo, Africa

The hot sun burned down on the small town. An old wooden sign above the road was shaking in the strong wind. The words on it were unclear now, but it read: WELCOME PRESIDENT EDMOND ZUWANIE.

The car moved slowly down the road. The driver was a black African man. Next to him, a fair-haired white man was writing a list of names in a blue notebook. Another white man with long, dark hair sat in the back seat, holding two cameras.

"She refused to tell me her husband's name," the white man in the front seat shouted above the noise of the wind.

"The names of the dead are bad luck," the driver replied.

"Zuwanie murdered half the town. Can their luck get worse?"

The driver slowed the car. "He can murder the other half."

The fair-haired white man put a gun and a new notebook into his bag.

He and the driver climbed out of the car.

"Stay here," the driver said to the cameraman.

Slowly, the two men walked across the street toward a large, old stadium. 
 Outside, two boys kicked a ball around the dry, brown grass.

One of the boys shouted to the two men.

"They want to show us the bodies," the driver said.

The boys took the men into a room inside the stadium. There was a

strong smell of death. The men covered their noses and told the boys to go

outside. In the dark corners of the room, they could see piles of bodies on

the floor. "XOLA NOW!" was written in blood on the walls.

They started to check the bodies. They recognized some of the dead and found the names of others from the papers in their pockets. The white man pulled the notebook out of his bag and started to write.

Suddenly, there was a shout from one of the boys outside.

"Somebody's coming!" the white man said.

The two men ran out into the bright sunlight. There was nobody outside - only the two boys. Slowly, one boy lifted a gun and shot the black African in the chest. Then he turned to the white man and shot him in the stomach.

The white man fell to his knees.

"It's OK," he said quietly. "It's OK." It was the last thing that he ever said.

The Death Of A Government Clerk
by Anton Chekhov

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/iidJ

ONE fine evening, a no less fine government clerk called Ivan Dmitritch Tchervyakov was sitting in the second row of the stalls(партере), gazing (смотря) through an opera glass at the Cloches de Corneville. He gazed and felt at the acme of bliss(на пике блаженства). But suddenly. . . . In stories one so often meets with this "But suddenly." The authors are right: life is so full of surprises! But suddenly his face puckered up(сморщилось), his eyes disappeared, his breathing was arrested . . . he took the opera glass from his eyes, bent over and . . . "Aptchee!!" he sneezed as you perceive. It is not reprehensible (предосудительно) for anyone to sneeze anywhere. Peasants sneeze and so do police superintendents, and sometimes even privy councillors. All men sneeze. Tchervyakov was not in the least confused, he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he had disturbed any one by his sneezing. But then he was overcome with confusion. He saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him in the first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck with his glove and muttering something to himself. In the old gentleman, Tchervyakov recognised Brizzhalov, a civilian general serving in the Department of Transport.

"I have spattered(забрызгал) him," thought Tchervyakov, "he is not the head of my department, but still it is awkward. I must apologise."

Tchervyakov gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in the general's ear.

"Pardon, your Excellency, I spattered you accidentally. . . ."

"Never mind, never mind."

"For goodness sake excuse me, I . . . I did not mean to."

"Oh, please, sit down! let me listen!"

Tchervyakov was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the stage. He gazed at it but was no longer feeling bliss. He began to be troubled by uneasiness. In the interval, he went up to Brizzhalov, walked beside him, and overcoming his shyness, muttered(пробормотал):

"I spattered you, your Excellency, forgive me . . . you see . . . I didn't do it to . . . ."

"Oh, that's enough . . . I'd forgotten it, and you keep on about it!" said the general, moving his lower lip impatiently.

"He has forgotten, but there is a fiendish(дьявольский) light in his eye," thought Tchervyakov, looking suspiciously(подозрительно) at the general. "And he doesn't want to talk. I ought to explain to him . . . that I really didn't intend . . . that it is the law of nature or else he will think I meant to spit(плевать) on him. He doesn't think so now, but he will think so later!"

On getting home, Tchervyakov told his wife of his breach(нарушение) of good manners. It struck him that his wife took too frivolous a view of the incident; she was a little frightened, but when she learned that Brizzhalov was in a different department, she was reassured(успокоилась).

"Still, you had better go and apologise," she said, "or he will think you don't know how to behave in public."

"That's just it! I did apologise, but he took it somehow queerly(странно) . . . he didn't say a word of sense. There wasn't time to talk properly."

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/iidJ

The Death Of A Government Clerk
by Anton Chekhov

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/iidJ

ONE fine evening, a no less fine government clerk called Ivan Dmitritch Tchervyakov was sitting in the second row of the stalls(партере), gazing (смотря) through an opera glass at the Cloches de Corneville. He gazed and felt at the acme of bliss(на пике блаженства). But suddenly. . . . In stories one so often meets with this "But suddenly." The authors are right: life is so full of surprises! But suddenly his face puckered up(сморщилось), his eyes disappeared, his breathing was arrested . . . he took the opera glass from his eyes, bent over and . . . "Aptchee!!" he sneezed as you perceive. It is not reprehensible (предосудительно) for anyone to sneeze anywhere. Peasants sneeze and so do police superintendents, and sometimes even privy councillors. All men sneeze. Tchervyakov was not in the least confused, he wiped his face with his handkerchief, and like a polite man, looked round to see whether he had disturbed any one by his sneezing. But then he was overcome with confusion. He saw that an old gentleman sitting in front of him in the first row of the stalls was carefully wiping his bald head and his neck with his glove and muttering something to himself. In the old gentleman, Tchervyakov recognised Brizzhalov, a civilian general serving in the Department of Transport.

"I have spattered(забрызгал) him," thought Tchervyakov, "he is not the head of my department, but still it is awkward. I must apologise."

Tchervyakov gave a cough, bent his whole person forward, and whispered in the general's ear.

"Pardon, your Excellency, I spattered you accidentally. . . ."

"Never mind, never mind."

"For goodness sake excuse me, I . . . I did not mean to."

"Oh, please, sit down! let me listen!"

Tchervyakov was embarrassed, he smiled stupidly and fell to gazing at the stage. He gazed at it but was no longer feeling bliss. He began to be troubled by uneasiness. In the interval, he went up to Brizzhalov, walked beside him, and overcoming his shyness, muttered(пробормотал):

"I spattered you, your Excellency, forgive me . . . you see . . . I didn't do it to . . . ."

"Oh, that's enough . . . I'd forgotten it, and you keep on about it!" said the general, moving his lower lip impatiently.

"He has forgotten, but there is a fiendish(дьявольский) light in his eye," thought Tchervyakov, looking suspiciously(подозрительно) at the general. "And he doesn't want to talk. I ought to explain to him . . . that I really didn't intend . . . that it is the law of nature or else he will think I meant to spit(плевать) on him. He doesn't think so now, but he will think so later!"

On getting home, Tchervyakov told his wife of his breach(нарушение) of good manners. It struck him that his wife took too frivolous a view of the incident; she was a little frightened, but when she learned that Brizzhalov was in a different department, she was reassured(успокоилась).

"Still, you had better go and apologise," she said, "or he will think you don't know how to behave in public."

"That's just it! I did apologise, but he took it somehow queerly(странно) . . . he didn't say a word of sense. There wasn't time to talk properly."

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/iidJ

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/dsid

Fat And Thin

by Anton Chekhov

Two friends -- one a fat man and the other a thin man -- met at the Nikolaevsky station. The fat man had just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like ripe(спелый) cherries. He smelt of sherry and fleur d'orange. The thin man had just slipped out of the train and was laden(нагруженный) with portmanteaus, bundles, and bandboxes. He smelt of ham and coffee grounds (кофейная гуща). A thin woman with a long chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye screwed up (подбитый) came into view behind his back.

"Porfiry," cried the fat man on seeing the thin man. "Is it you? My dear fellow! How many summers, how many winters!"

"Holy saints!" cried the thin man in amazement. "Misha! The friend of my childhood! Where have you dropped from?"

The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed(смотрели) at each other with eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded(пораженный).

"My dear boy!" began the thin man after the kissing. "This is unexpected! This is a surprise! Come have a good look at me! Just as handsome as I used to be! Just as great a darling and a dandy! Good gracious me! Well, and how are you? Made your fortune? Married? I am married as you see. . . . This is my wife Luise, her maiden name was Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion(вероисповедания). . . . And this is my son Nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class. This is the friend of my childhood, Nafanya. We were boys at school together!"

Nafanail thought a little and took off his cap.

"We were boys at school together," the thin man went on. "Do you remember how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed Herostratus because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and I was nicknamed        because I was fond of telling tales. Ho--ho! . . . we were children! . . . Don't be shy, Nafanya. Go nearer to him. And this is my wife, her maiden name was Vantsenbach, of the Lutheran persuasion. . . ."

Nafanail thought a little and took refuge(укрылся) behind his father's back.

"Well, how are you doing my friend?" the fat man asked, looking enthusiastically at his friend. "Are you in the service? What grade have you reached?"

"I am, dear boy! I have been a collegiate assessor(оценщик) for the last two years and I have the Stanislav. The salary is poor, but that's no great matter! The wife gives music lessons, and I go in for carving wooden cigarette cases in a private way. Capital cigarette cases! I sell them for a rouble each. If any one takes ten or more I make a reduction of course. We get along somehow. I served as a clerk, you know, and now I have been transferred here as a head clerk in the same department. I am going to serve here. And what about you? I bet you are a civil councillor by now? Eh?"

"No dear boy, go higher than that," said the fat man. "I have risen to privy councillor (тайный советник) already . . . I have two stars."

The thin man turned pale and rigid(бледный и жесткий) all at once, but soon his face twisted in all directions in the broadest smile; it seemed as though sparks were flashing from his face and eyes. He squirmed(корчился), he doubled together, crumpled up(мялся). . . . His portmanteaus, bundles and cardboard boxes seemed to shrink and crumple up too. . . . His wife's long chin grew longer still; Nafanail drew himself up to attention and fastened all the buttons of his uniform.

"Your Excellency, I . . . delighted! The friend, one may say, of childhood and to have turned into such a great man! He--he!"

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/dsid

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/dsid

Fat And Thin

by Anton Chekhov

Two friends -- one a fat man and the other a thin man -- met at the Nikolaevsky station. The fat man had just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like ripe(спелый) cherries. He smelt of sherry and fleur d'orange. The thin man had just slipped out of the train and was laden(нагруженный) with portmanteaus, bundles, and bandboxes. He smelt of ham and coffee grounds (кофейная гуща). A thin woman with a long chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye screwed up (подбитый) came into view behind his back.

"Porfiry," cried the fat man on seeing the thin man. "Is it you? My dear fellow! How many summers, how many winters!"

"Holy saints!" cried the thin man in amazement. "Misha! The friend of my childhood! Where have you dropped from?"

The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed(смотрели) at each other with eyes full of tears. Both were agreeably astounded(пораженный).

"My dear boy!" began the thin man after the kissing. "This is unexpected! This is a surprise! Come have a good look at me! Just as handsome as I used to be! Just as great a darling and a dandy! Good gracious me! Well, and how are you? Made your fortune? Married? I am married as you see. . . . This is my wife Luise, her maiden name was Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion(вероисповедания). . . . And this is my son Nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class. This is the friend of my childhood, Nafanya. We were boys at school together!"

Nafanail thought a little and took off his cap.

"We were boys at school together," the thin man went on. "Do you remember how they used to tease you? You were nicknamed Herostratus because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and I was nicknamed        because I was fond of telling tales. Ho--ho! . . . we were children! . . . Don't be shy, Nafanya. Go nearer to him. And this is my wife, her maiden name was Vantsenbach, of the Lutheran persuasion. . . ."

Nafanail thought a little and took refuge(укрылся) behind his father's back.

"Well, how are you doing my friend?" the fat man asked, looking enthusiastically at his friend. "Are you in the service? What grade have you reached?"

"I am, dear boy! I have been a collegiate assessor(оценщик) for the last two years and I have the Stanislav. The salary is poor, but that's no great matter! The wife gives music lessons, and I go in for carving wooden cigarette cases in a private way. Capital cigarette cases! I sell them for a rouble each. If any one takes ten or more I make a reduction of course. We get along somehow. I served as a clerk, you know, and now I have been transferred here as a head clerk in the same department. I am going to serve here. And what about you? I bet you are a civil councillor by now? Eh?"

"No dear boy, go higher than that," said the fat man. "I have risen to privy councillor (тайный советник) already . . . I have two stars."

The thin man turned pale and rigid(бледный и жесткий) all at once, but soon his face twisted in all directions in the broadest smile; it seemed as though sparks were flashing from his face and eyes. He squirmed(корчился), he doubled together, crumpled up(мялся). . . . His portmanteaus, bundles and cardboard boxes seemed to shrink and crumple up too. . . . His wife's long chin grew longer still; Nafanail drew himself up to attention and fastened all the buttons of his uniform.

"Your Excellency, I . . . delighted! The friend, one may say, of childhood and to have turned into such a great man! He--he!"

FULL TEXT - https://lnnk.in/dsid

DOC FILE
https://lnnk.in/fhdO

A Blunder
(big mistake)

by Anton Chekhov

ILYA SERGEITCH PEPLOV and his wife Kleopatra Petrovna were standing at the door, listening greedily (жадно). On the other side in the little drawing-room a love scene was apparently (по-видимому) taking place between two persons: their daughter Natashenka and a teacher of the district school, called Shchupkin.

"He's rising!" whispered Peplov, quivering(дрожа) with impatience and rubbing his hands. "Now, Kleopatra, mind; as soon as they begin talking of their feelings, take down the ikon from the wall and we'll go in and bless them. . . . We'll catch him. . . . A blessing with an ikon is sacred and binding(священный и обязывающий). . . He couldn't get out of it, if he brought it into court."

On the other side of the door this was the conversation:

"Don't go on like that!" said Shchupkin, striking a match against his checked trousers. "I never wrote you any letters!"

"I like that! As though I didn't know your writing!" giggled(хихакала) the girl with an affected shriek(пораженный крик), continually peeping (подсматривая) at herself in the glass. "I knew it at once! And what a queer(странный) man you are! You are a writing master, and you write like a spider! How can you teach writing if you write so badly yourself?"

"H'm! . . . That means nothing. The great thing in writing lessons is not the hand one writes, but keeping the boys in order. You hit one on the head with a ruler, make another kneel down. . . . Besides, there's nothing in handwriting! Nekrassov was an author, but his handwriting's a disgrace(позор), there's a specimen (образец) of it in his collected works."

"You are not Nekrassov. . . ." (A sigh). "I should love to marry an author. He'd always be writing poems to me."

"I can write you a poem, too, if you like."

"What can you write about?"

"Love -- passion -- your eyes. You'll be crazy when you read it. It would draw a tear (выбить слезу) from a stone! And if I write you a real poem, will you let me kiss your hand?"

"That's nothing much! You can kiss it now if you like."

Shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish(озорные) eyes, bent over the fat little hand that smelt of egg soap.

"Take down the ikon," Peplov whispered in a fluster(в смятении), pale with excitement, and buttoning his coat as he prodded (подтолкнул) his wife with his elbow. "Come along, now!"

And without a second's delay Peplov flung open(распахнул) the door.

"Children," he muttered(пробормотал), lifting up his arms and blinking tearfully(слезливо моргая), "the Lord bless you, my children. May you live -- be fruitful -- and multiply."

"And -- and I bless you, too," the mamma brought out, crying with happiness. "May you be happy, my dear ones! Oh, you are taking from me my only treasure!" she said to Shchupkin. "Love my girl, be good to her. . . ."

Shchupkin's mouth fell open with amazement and alarm. The parents' attack was so bold(смелый) and unexpected that he could not utter(произнести) a single word.

"I'm in for it! I'm spliced(married)!" he thought, going limp (обмякнуть) with horror. "It's all over with you now, my boy! There's no escape!"

And he bowed(наклонил) his head submissively(покорно), as though to say, "Take me, I'm vanquished(побежден)."

"Ble-blessings on you," the papa went on, and he, too, shed tears. "Natashenka, my daughter, stand by his side. Kleopatra, give me the ikon."

READ MORE IN THE DOC FILE
https://lnnk.in/fhdO

DOC FILE
https://lnnk.in/fhdO

A Blunder
(big mistake)

by Anton Chekhov

ILYA SERGEITCH PEPLOV and his wife Kleopatra Petrovna were standing at the door, listening greedily (жадно). On the other side in the little drawing-room a love scene was apparently (по-видимому) taking place between two persons: their daughter Natashenka and a teacher of the district school, called Shchupkin.

"He's rising!" whispered Peplov, quivering(дрожа) with impatience and rubbing his hands. "Now, Kleopatra, mind; as soon as they begin talking of their feelings, take down the ikon from the wall and we'll go in and bless them. . . . We'll catch him. . . . A blessing with an ikon is sacred and binding(священный и обязывающий). . . He couldn't get out of it, if he brought it into court."

On the other side of the door this was the conversation:

"Don't go on like that!" said Shchupkin, striking a match against his checked trousers. "I never wrote you any letters!"

"I like that! As though I didn't know your writing!" giggled(хихакала) the girl with an affected shriek(пораженный крик), continually peeping (подсматривая) at herself in the glass. "I knew it at once! And what a queer(странный) man you are! You are a writing master, and you write like a spider! How can you teach writing if you write so badly yourself?"

"H'm! . . . That means nothing. The great thing in writing lessons is not the hand one writes, but keeping the boys in order. You hit one on the head with a ruler, make another kneel down. . . . Besides, there's nothing in handwriting! Nekrassov was an author, but his handwriting's a disgrace(позор), there's a specimen (образец) of it in his collected works."

"You are not Nekrassov. . . ." (A sigh). "I should love to marry an author. He'd always be writing poems to me."

"I can write you a poem, too, if you like."

"What can you write about?"

"Love -- passion -- your eyes. You'll be crazy when you read it. It would draw a tear (выбить слезу) from a stone! And if I write you a real poem, will you let me kiss your hand?"

"That's nothing much! You can kiss it now if you like."

Shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish(озорные) eyes, bent over the fat little hand that smelt of egg soap.

"Take down the ikon," Peplov whispered in a fluster(в смятении), pale with excitement, and buttoning his coat as he prodded (подтолкнул) his wife with his elbow. "Come along, now!"

And without a second's delay Peplov flung open(распахнул) the door.

"Children," he muttered(пробормотал), lifting up his arms and blinking tearfully(слезливо моргая), "the Lord bless you, my children. May you live -- be fruitful -- and multiply."

"And -- and I bless you, too," the mamma brought out, crying with happiness. "May you be happy, my dear ones! Oh, you are taking from me my only treasure!" she said to Shchupkin. "Love my girl, be good to her. . . ."

Shchupkin's mouth fell open with amazement and alarm. The parents' attack was so bold(смелый) and unexpected that he could not utter(произнести) a single word.

"I'm in for it! I'm spliced(married)!" he thought, going limp (обмякнуть) with horror. "It's all over with you now, my boy! There's no escape!"

And he bowed(наклонил) his head submissively(покорно), as though to say, "Take me, I'm vanquished(побежден)."

"Ble-blessings on you," the papa went on, and he, too, shed tears. "Natashenka, my daughter, stand by his side. Kleopatra, give me the ikon."

READ MORE IN THE DOC FILE
https://lnnk.in/fhdO

to have MONEY/TIME TO SPARE
 to still have money/time left after you have spent/used some

EXAMPLES
•Anyone who HAS TIME TO SPARE can join us and help.
•They got to the airport with SECONDS TO SPARE.
•He bought a yacht but he still has SOME MONEY TO SPARE.

QUESTIONS TO ANSWER
•What do you do when you have TIME TO SPARE?
•Who would you help if you had MONEY TO SPARE?
•How often do you get to the airport with SECONDS/MINUTES TO SPARE?

to have MONEY/TIME TO SPARE
 to still have money/time left after you have spent/used some

EXAMPLES
•Anyone who HAS TIME TO SPARE can join us and help.
•They got to the airport with SECONDS TO SPARE.
•He bought a yacht but he still has SOME MONEY TO SPARE.

QUESTIONS TO ANSWER
•What do you do when you have TIME TO SPARE?
•Who would you help if you had MONEY TO SPARE?
•How often do you get to the airport with SECONDS/MINUTES TO SPARE?