Английский язык с Э. Хемингуэем. Снега Килиманджар

And there in the café as he passed was that American poet (и в /одном/ кафе, когда он проходил мимо, сидел тот /самый/ американский поэт) with a pile of saucers in front of him (с горой блюдечек перед собой) and a stupid look on his potato face (и с глупым выражением на своем картофельном лице) talking about the Dada movement with a Roumanian (/и/ говорил о дадаизме с румыном; movement — движение; течение, направление /литературное и т. п./)

who said his name was Tristan Tzara (который говорил, что его зовут Тристан Тцара[18]) who always wore a monocle and had a headache (/и/ который носил монокль и всегда жаловался на головную боль: «имел головную боль»), and, back at the apartment with his wife that now he loved again (а потом снова в своей квартире, с женой, которую он теперь опять любил), the quarrel all over (ссоры как ни бывало), the madness all over

(безумия как не бывало), glad to be home (рад, что /снова/ дома), the office sent his mail up to the flat (контора = редакция пересылает его почту в /их/ квартиру). So then the letter in answer to the one he'd written came in on a platter one morning (и вот однажды утром пришло = ему подают на подносе письмо /написанное/ в ответ на то, которое он написал /тогда/)

and when he saw the handwriting he went cold all over (и, увидев = узнав почерк, он весь похолодел) and tried to slip the letter underneath another (и попытался = хотел подсунуть письмо под другое = другой конверт). But his wife said (но жена сказала = спросила), "Who is that letter from, dear

(от кого это письмо, милый)?" and that was the end of the beginning of that (и это был конец того, что /только/ начиналось).

café ['kxfeI], Roumanian [rH'meInIqn], headache ['hedeIk]

And there in the café as he passed was that American poet with a pile of saucers in front of him and a stupid look on his potato face talking about the Dada movement with a Roumanian who said his name was Tristan Tzara who always wore a monocle and had a headache, and, back at the apartment with his wife that now he loved again, the quarrel all over, the madness all over, glad to be home, the office sent his mail up to the flat. So then the letter in answer to the one he'd written came in on a platter one morning and when he saw the handwriting he went cold all over and tried to slip the letter underneath another. But his wife said, "Who is that letter from, dear?" and that was the end of the beginning of that.