Read Online King, Queen, Knave by Vladimir Nabokov - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Vladimir Nabokov
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porch step. She wore a hat and a moleskin coat, and was checking the dubious whiteness of the sky, trying to decide whether or not to open her umbrella. She did not smile when she noticed Franz.
“My husband is not at home,” she said, fixing him with her beautiful cold eyes. “He is lunching in town today.”
Franz glanced at the handbag jutting from under her arm, at the artificial purple pansy pinned to the huge collar of her coat, at the stubby umbrella with its sparkling knob, and realized that she too was leaving.
“Pardon me for having disturbed you,” he said, inwardly cursing his fate.
“Oh, it’s perfectly all right,” said Martha, and they both moved in the direction of the gate. Franz wondered what to do next—bid her good-by? Go on walking beside her? Martha with a displeased expression kept looking straight ahead, her full warm lips half open. Then she quickly wet them and said: “This is so unpleasant. I have to walk. We wrecked the car last night.”
There had indeed been an unpleasant accident on the way home after a tea and a dance. In an ill-timed attempt to pass a truck, the chauffeur had first hit a wooden railing wherethe tram tracks were being repaired, and swerving sharply had collided with the side of the truck; the Icarus had spun around and crashed into a pole. While this motorized frenzy was in progress, Martha and her husband had assumed all imaginable positions, and had finally found themselves on the floor. Dreyer had asked sympathetically if she were not hurt. The shock, the search for the beads of her necklace, the crowd of gawkers, the vulgar aspect of the smashed car, the foul-mouthed truck driver, the arrogant policeman who was not amused by Dreyer’s jokes—all this brought Martha to a state of such irritation that she had had to take two sleeping pills, and had slept only two hours.
“A wonder I did not get killed,” she said sullenly. “But even our chauffeur was not hurt, which is a pity.” And slowly stretching out her hand, she helped Franz open the wicket which he was vainly pushing and rattling.
“No question about it, cars are dangerous playthings,” he said noncommitally. Now it was definitely time to take leave.
Martha noticed and approved his hesitation.
“Which way are you going?” she asked, transferring her umbrella from right hand to left. The glasses he had got were very becoming. He looked like the actor Hess in The Hindu Student , a movie.
“Don’t know myself,” said Franz, smirking rather freely. “You see I was just coming to ask Uncle’s advice about the room.” This first “Uncle” came out unconvincingly, and he resolved not to repeat it for a while so as to let the word ripen on its twig.
“I can help too,” said Martha. “Tell me what’s the trouble.”
Imperceptibly they had begun to move and were nowwalking slowly along the wide sidewalk on which broken chestnuts and claw-like crisp leaves lay here and there. Franz blew his nose and began telling her about the room.
“Why, that’s unheard of,” Martha interrupted. “Fifty-five? I’m sure you can haggle a little.”
A forethrill of triumph went through Franz but he decided not to rush things.
“The landlord is a closefisted old codger, the devil himself would not make him budge.”
“You know what?” Martha said suddenly. “I would not mind going there and talking to him myself.”
Franz exulted. What luck! To say nothing of how splendid it was to stroll along with this red-lipped beauty in her moleskin coat! The sharp autumn air, the susurration of tires—this was the life! Add a new suit and a flaming tie—and his happiness would be complete.
“Where is Mr. Tom today?” he inquired. “I thought I saw him going for a walk.”
“No, he’s locked up in the gardener’s shed. He’s a good dog but a little neurotic. As I always say, dogs are acceptable pets if they are clean.”
“Cats are cleaner,” said Franz.
“Oh, I abominate cats. Dogs
“My husband is not at home,” she said, fixing him with her beautiful cold eyes. “He is lunching in town today.”
Franz glanced at the handbag jutting from under her arm, at the artificial purple pansy pinned to the huge collar of her coat, at the stubby umbrella with its sparkling knob, and realized that she too was leaving.
“Pardon me for having disturbed you,” he said, inwardly cursing his fate.
“Oh, it’s perfectly all right,” said Martha, and they both moved in the direction of the gate. Franz wondered what to do next—bid her good-by? Go on walking beside her? Martha with a displeased expression kept looking straight ahead, her full warm lips half open. Then she quickly wet them and said: “This is so unpleasant. I have to walk. We wrecked the car last night.”
There had indeed been an unpleasant accident on the way home after a tea and a dance. In an ill-timed attempt to pass a truck, the chauffeur had first hit a wooden railing wherethe tram tracks were being repaired, and swerving sharply had collided with the side of the truck; the Icarus had spun around and crashed into a pole. While this motorized frenzy was in progress, Martha and her husband had assumed all imaginable positions, and had finally found themselves on the floor. Dreyer had asked sympathetically if she were not hurt. The shock, the search for the beads of her necklace, the crowd of gawkers, the vulgar aspect of the smashed car, the foul-mouthed truck driver, the arrogant policeman who was not amused by Dreyer’s jokes—all this brought Martha to a state of such irritation that she had had to take two sleeping pills, and had slept only two hours.
“A wonder I did not get killed,” she said sullenly. “But even our chauffeur was not hurt, which is a pity.” And slowly stretching out her hand, she helped Franz open the wicket which he was vainly pushing and rattling.
“No question about it, cars are dangerous playthings,” he said noncommitally. Now it was definitely time to take leave.
Martha noticed and approved his hesitation.
“Which way are you going?” she asked, transferring her umbrella from right hand to left. The glasses he had got were very becoming. He looked like the actor Hess in The Hindu Student , a movie.
“Don’t know myself,” said Franz, smirking rather freely. “You see I was just coming to ask Uncle’s advice about the room.” This first “Uncle” came out unconvincingly, and he resolved not to repeat it for a while so as to let the word ripen on its twig.
“I can help too,” said Martha. “Tell me what’s the trouble.”
Imperceptibly they had begun to move and were nowwalking slowly along the wide sidewalk on which broken chestnuts and claw-like crisp leaves lay here and there. Franz blew his nose and began telling her about the room.
“Why, that’s unheard of,” Martha interrupted. “Fifty-five? I’m sure you can haggle a little.”
A forethrill of triumph went through Franz but he decided not to rush things.
“The landlord is a closefisted old codger, the devil himself would not make him budge.”
“You know what?” Martha said suddenly. “I would not mind going there and talking to him myself.”
Franz exulted. What luck! To say nothing of how splendid it was to stroll along with this red-lipped beauty in her moleskin coat! The sharp autumn air, the susurration of tires—this was the life! Add a new suit and a flaming tie—and his happiness would be complete.
“Where is Mr. Tom today?” he inquired. “I thought I saw him going for a walk.”
“No, he’s locked up in the gardener’s shed. He’s a good dog but a little neurotic. As I always say, dogs are acceptable pets if they are clean.”
“Cats are cleaner,” said Franz.
“Oh, I abominate cats. Dogs
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