Read Online Invitation to a Beheading by Vladimir Nabokov - Free Book Online Page A

trying not to look at Cincinnatus, was gathering yesterday’s dishes from the table. It must be a dreary day: the light penetrating from above was gray, and compassionate Rodion’s dark leather clothes seemed damp and stiff.
    “Oh well,” said Cincinnatus, “as you wish, as you wish … I am powerless anyway.” (The other Cincinnatus … a little smaller, was crying, all curled up in a ball.) “All right, let it be tomorrow. But I should like to ask you to call …”
    “Right away,” blurted out Rodion with such alacrity that he seemed to have been longing just for this; he was about to dash off but just then the director, who had been waiting too impatiently at the door, appeared just a split second too early, so that they collided.
    Rodrig Ivanovich was holding a wall calendar and did not know where to lay it down.
    “A million apologies,” he cried, “an inexcusable blunder! Upon consulting the text of the law …” Having repeated his message verbatim Rodrig Ivanovich seated himself at Cincinnatus’s feet and added hurriedly, “In any case you may submit a complaint, but I consider it my duty to warn you that the next congress will take place in the fall, and by then a lot of water—and not only water—will have flowed over the dam. Do I make myself clear?”
    “I do not intend to complain,” said Cincinnatus, “but wish to ask you, is there in the so-called order of so-called things of which your so-called world consists even one thingthat might be considered an assurance that you will keep a promise?”
    “A promise?” asked the director in surprise, ceasing to fan himself with the cardboard part of the calendar (depicting the fortress at sunset, a water color). “What promise?”
    “That my wife will come tomorrow. So you will not agree to guarantee it in this case—but I am phrasing my question more broadly: is there in this world, can there be, any kind of security at all, any pledge of anything, or is the very idea of guarantee unknown here?”
    A pause.
    “Isn’t it too bad though about Roman Vissarionovich,” said the director, “have you heard? He is in bed with a cold, and apparently quite a serious one …”
    “I have a feeling that you will not answer me at any cost; that is logical, for even irresponsibility in the end develops its own logic. For thirty years I have lived among specters that appear solid to the touch, concealing from them the fact that I am alive and real—but now that I have been caught, there is no reason to be constrained with you. At least I shall test for myself all the unsubstantiality of this world of yours.”
    The director cleared his throat and went on as if nothing had happened: “So serious, in fact, that I as a doctor am not certain whether he will be able to attend—that is, whether he will recover in time—
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, whether he will be able to make it to your show …”
    “Go away,” said Cincinnatus through clenched teeth.
    “Do not be crestfallen,” continued the director. “Tomorrow, tomorrow the thing you dream of will become a reality … It’s a cute calendar, though, isn’t it? A work of art. No, this isn’t for you.”
    Cincinnatus closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the director was standing in the center of the cell with his back toward him. The leather apron and red beard, apparently left behind by Rodion, were still cluttering the chair.
    “Today we shall have to do a particularly good job of cleaning up your abode,” he said without turning, “so as to prepare it for tomorrow’s interview … While we are washing the floor in here, I shall ask you to—”
    Cincinnatus shut his eyes again, and the voice, grown smaller in volume, went on: “…  I shall ask you to step out into the corridor. It will not take long. Let us make a real effort, so that tomorrow, in a fitting manner, neatly, smartly, festively …”
    “Get out,” cried Cincinnatus, raising himself and shaking all over.
    “Quite