The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov Read Online Free

ask, as he opened it with his thumbnail,
“Einen Rauchen?”
—I remember that day for a special reason: Petya suddenly came in from the street, disheveled and livid with rage. Martin’s niece had decided to return to her mother in Moscow, and Petya had just been to see the diplomatic representatives. While one of the representatives was giving him some information, another, who was obviously involved with the government political directorate, whispered barely audibly, “All kinds of White Guard scum keep hanging around.”
    “I could have made mincemeat of him,” said Petya, slamming his fist into his palm, “but unfortunately I could not forget about my aunt in Moscow.”
    “You already have a peccadillo or two on your conscience,” good-naturedly rumbled Martin. He was alluding to a most amusing incident. Not long ago, on his nameday, Petya had visited the Soviet bookstore, whose presence blemishes one of Berlin’s most charming streets. They sell not only books there, but also various handmade bric-a-brac. Petya selected a hammer adorned with poppies and emblazoned with an inscription typical for a Bolshevik hammer. The clerk inquired if he would like something else. Petya said, “Yes, I would,” nodding at a small plaster bust of Mister Ulyanov. * He paid fifteen marks for bust and hammer, whereupon, without a word, right there on the counter, he popped that bust with that hammer, and with such force that Mister Ulyanov disintegrated.
    I was fond of that story, just as I was fond, for instance, of the dear silly sayings from unforgettable childhood that warm the cockles of one’s heart. Martin’s words made me glance with a laugh at Petya. But Petya jerked his shoulder sullenly and scowled. Martin rummaged inthe drawer and proffered him the most expensive cigarette in the shop. But even this did not dispel Petya’s gloom.
    I returned to Berlin a half-year later. One Sunday morning I felt an urge to see Martin. On weekdays you could get through via the shop, since his apartment—three rooms and kitchen—was directly behind it. But of course on a Sunday morning the shop was closed, and the window had shut its grated visor. I glanced rapidly through the grating at the red and gold boxes, at the swarthy cigars, at the modest inscription in a corner: “Russian spoken here,” remarked that the display had in some way grown even gayer, and walked through the courtyard to Martin’s place. Strange thing—Martin himself appeared to me even jollier, jauntier, more radiant than before. And Petya was downright unrecognizable: his oily, shaggy locks were combed back, a broad, vaguely bashful smile did not leave his lips, he kept a kind of sated silence, and a curious, joyous preoccupation, as if he carried a precious cargo within him, softened his every movement. Only the mother was pale as ever, and the same touching tic flashed across her face like faint summer lightning. We sat in their neat parlor, and I knew that the other two rooms—Petya’s bedroom and that of his parents—were just as cozy and clean, and I found that an agreeable thought. I sipped tea with lemon, listened to Martin’s mellifluous speech, and I could not rid myself of the impression that something new had appeared in their apartment, some kind of joyous, mysterious palpitation, as happens, for instance, in a home where there is a young mother-to-be. Once or twice Martin glanced with a preoccupied air at his son, whereupon the other would promptly rise, leave the room, and, on his return, nod discreetly toward his father, as if to say everything was going splendidly.
    There was also something new and, to me, enigmatic in the old man’s conversation. We were talking about Paris and the French, and suddenly he inquired, “Tell me, my friend, what’s the largest prison in Paris?” I replied I didn’t know and started telling him about a French revue that featured blue-painted women.
    “You think that’s something!” interrupted