Read Online King, Queen, Knave by Vladimir Nabokov - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vladimir Nabokov
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understand when you scold them, but cats are hopeless—no contact with human beings, no gratitude, nothing.”
“We shot lots of stray ones back home, a school friend and I. Especially along the river in spring.”
“There’s something wrong with my left heel,” said Martha. “I need your support for a moment.” She placed two light fingers upon his shoulder as she glanced backward and downward. It was nothing. With the tip of her umbrella she scraped off the dead leaf her heel had transfixed.
They reached the square. At least two future stories of the new corner house could be discerned through the scaffolding of the present.
Martha pointed with her umbrella. “We know,” she said, “the man who works for the partner of the director of the cinema company who is building that house there.”
It would not be ready till sometime next year. The workmen were moving as in a dream.
Franz frantically racked his brain for some more fruitful theme. The coincidence!
“I still can’t forget how strangely we met on the train. It’s incredible!”
“Yes, a coincidence,” said Martha, thinking her own thoughts.
“Listen,” she said as they started to climb the steep staircase of the fifth floor, “I’d rather my husband did not know I helped you. No, there is no mystery here. Simply, I would rather he did not.”
Franz made a bow. It was no concern of his. Yet he wondered if what she had said were flattering or insulting. Hard to decide. They had now been standing for some time before the door. No one answered the bell. Franz rang again. The door flew open. A little old man with hanging braces and no collar thrust out a rumpled face, and let them in silently.
“I’m back again,” said Franz. “Could I see the room once more?”
The old fellow made a kind of rapid salute and shuffled ahead through a long darkish passage.
“Good heavens, what a squalid hole,” thought Martha squeamishly. Was she right in coming here? She imagined her husband’s mischievous smile: You reproached me, and now you’re helping him yourself.
The room, however, turned out to be reasonably bright and clean. By the left-hand wall stood a wooden, probably creaky bed, a washstand, and a stove. On the right, two chairs and a pretentious armchair of moth-eaten plush. There was a small table in the center and a chest-of-drawers in a corner. Over the bed hung a picture. Puzzled, Franz stared at it. A bare-bosomed slave girl on sale was being leered at by three hesitant lechers. It was even more artistic than the bathing September nymph. She must have been in some other room—yes, of course, in the one with the stench.
Martha felt the mattress. It was firm and hard. She took off one glove, stroked the bed table, and consulted the face of her finger. A fashionable song she liked, Black-eyed Natasha , came from two different radios on two different levels, mingling buoyantly with the musical clanking of construction work somewhere outside.
Franz looked hopefully at Martha. She pointed her umbrella at the barish right-hand wall and inquired in a neutral voice without looking at the old man: “Why did you remove the couch? Obviously, you had something here before.”
“The couch was beginning to sag and is being repaired,” answered the old man and cocked his head.
“You will put it back later,” observed Martha, and raising her eyes, she switched on the light for an instant. The old man looked up too.
“All right,” said Martha and again extended her umbrella. “You furnish sheets, don’t you?”
“Sheets?” repeated the old man after her with surprise. Then, cocking his head to the other side, he pursed his lips, thought for a moment, and replied: “Yes, we can dig up some sheets.”
“And how about service and cleaning?”
The old man poked himself in the chest.
“I do everything,” he said. “I make everything. I alone.”
Martha went over to the window, looked at a truck with planks in the street, then
“We shot lots of stray ones back home, a school friend and I. Especially along the river in spring.”
“There’s something wrong with my left heel,” said Martha. “I need your support for a moment.” She placed two light fingers upon his shoulder as she glanced backward and downward. It was nothing. With the tip of her umbrella she scraped off the dead leaf her heel had transfixed.
They reached the square. At least two future stories of the new corner house could be discerned through the scaffolding of the present.
Martha pointed with her umbrella. “We know,” she said, “the man who works for the partner of the director of the cinema company who is building that house there.”
It would not be ready till sometime next year. The workmen were moving as in a dream.
Franz frantically racked his brain for some more fruitful theme. The coincidence!
“I still can’t forget how strangely we met on the train. It’s incredible!”
“Yes, a coincidence,” said Martha, thinking her own thoughts.
“Listen,” she said as they started to climb the steep staircase of the fifth floor, “I’d rather my husband did not know I helped you. No, there is no mystery here. Simply, I would rather he did not.”
Franz made a bow. It was no concern of his. Yet he wondered if what she had said were flattering or insulting. Hard to decide. They had now been standing for some time before the door. No one answered the bell. Franz rang again. The door flew open. A little old man with hanging braces and no collar thrust out a rumpled face, and let them in silently.
“I’m back again,” said Franz. “Could I see the room once more?”
The old fellow made a kind of rapid salute and shuffled ahead through a long darkish passage.
“Good heavens, what a squalid hole,” thought Martha squeamishly. Was she right in coming here? She imagined her husband’s mischievous smile: You reproached me, and now you’re helping him yourself.
The room, however, turned out to be reasonably bright and clean. By the left-hand wall stood a wooden, probably creaky bed, a washstand, and a stove. On the right, two chairs and a pretentious armchair of moth-eaten plush. There was a small table in the center and a chest-of-drawers in a corner. Over the bed hung a picture. Puzzled, Franz stared at it. A bare-bosomed slave girl on sale was being leered at by three hesitant lechers. It was even more artistic than the bathing September nymph. She must have been in some other room—yes, of course, in the one with the stench.
Martha felt the mattress. It was firm and hard. She took off one glove, stroked the bed table, and consulted the face of her finger. A fashionable song she liked, Black-eyed Natasha , came from two different radios on two different levels, mingling buoyantly with the musical clanking of construction work somewhere outside.
Franz looked hopefully at Martha. She pointed her umbrella at the barish right-hand wall and inquired in a neutral voice without looking at the old man: “Why did you remove the couch? Obviously, you had something here before.”
“The couch was beginning to sag and is being repaired,” answered the old man and cocked his head.
“You will put it back later,” observed Martha, and raising her eyes, she switched on the light for an instant. The old man looked up too.
“All right,” said Martha and again extended her umbrella. “You furnish sheets, don’t you?”
“Sheets?” repeated the old man after her with surprise. Then, cocking his head to the other side, he pursed his lips, thought for a moment, and replied: “Yes, we can dig up some sheets.”
“And how about service and cleaning?”
The old man poked himself in the chest.
“I do everything,” he said. “I make everything. I alone.”
Martha went over to the window, looked at a truck with planks in the street, then
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