Bend Sinister

by Vladimir Nabokov

  He had apparently pressed a button or turned a knob for some trumpety-strumpety sounds issued from somewhere, and the good fellow added in a reverent whisper:

  “Music in your honour.”

  The band was drowned, however, by a shrill telephone peal. Capital news, evidently, for Kol replaced the receiver with a triumphant flourish and motioned Krug towards the curtained door. After you.

  He was a man of the world; Krug was not, and pressed forward like a boorish boar.

  Unnumbered scene (belonging to one of the last acts, anyway): the spacious waiting room of a fashionable prison. Cute little model of guillotine (with stiff top-hatted doll in attendance) under glass bell on mantelpiece. Oil pictures dealing darkly with various religious subjects. A collection of magazines on a low table (the Geographical Magazine, Stolitza i Usad’ba, Die Woche, The Tatler, L’Illustration). One or two bookcases with the usual books (Little Women, volume III of the History of Nottingham and so on). A bunch of keys on a chair (mislaid there by one of the wardens). A table with refreshments: a plate of herring sandwiches and a pail of water surrounded with several mugs coming from various German kurorts. (Krug’s mug had a view of Bad Kissingen.)

  A door at the back swung open; several press photographers and reporters formed a living gallery for the passage of two burly men leading in a thin frightened boy of twelve or thirteen. His head was newly bandaged (nobody was to blame, they said, he had slipped on a highly polished floor and hit his forehead against a model of Stevenson’s engine in the Children’s Museum). He wore a schoolboy’s black uniform, with belt. His elbow flew up to shield his face as one of the men made a sudden gesture meant to curb the eagerness of the press people.

  “This is not my child,” said Krug.

  “Your dad is always joking, always joking,” said Kol to the boy kindly.

  “I want my own child. This is somebody else’s child.”

  “What’s that?” asked Kol sharply. “Not your child? Nonsense, man. Use your eyes.”

  One of the burly men (a policeman in plain clothes) produced a document which he handed to Kol. The document said clearly: Arvid Krug, son of Professor Martin Krug, former Vice-President of the Academy of Medicine.

  “The bandage perhaps changes him a little,” said Kol hastily, a note of desperation creeping into his patter. “And then, of course, little boys grow so fast——”

  The guards were knocking down the apparatus of the photographers and pushing the reporters out of the room. “Hold the boy,” said a brutal voice.

  The newcomer, a person called Crystalsen (red face, blue eyes, tall starched collar) who was, as it soon transpired, Second Secretary of the Council of Elders, came up close to Kol and asked poor Kol while holding him by the knot of his necktie whether Kol did not think he was sort of responsible for this idiotic misunderstanding. Kol was still hoping against hope——

  “Are you quite sure,” he kept asking Krug, “are you quite sure this little fellow is not your son? Philosophers are absentminded, you know. The light in this room is not very grand——”

  Krug closed his eyes and said through clenched teeth:

  “I want my own child.”

  Kol turned to Crystalsen, spread out his hands and produced a helpless, hopeless bursting sound with his lips (ppwt). Meanwhile, the unwanted boy was led away.

  “We apologize,” said Kol to Krug. “Such mistakes are bound to occur when there are so many arrests.”

  “Or not enough,” interrupted Crystalsen crisply.

  “He means,” said Kol to Krug, “that those who made this mistake will be dearly punished.”

  Crystalsen, même jeu:

  “Or pay for it severely.”

  “Exactly. Of course, matters will be straightened out without delay. There are four hundred telephones in this building. Your little lost child will be found at once. I understand now why my wife had that terrible dream last night. Ah, Crystalsen, was ver a trum [what a dream]!”

  The two officials, the smaller one talking volubly and pawing at his tie, the other maintaining a grim silence, his Polar Sea eyes looking straight ahead, left the room.

  Krug waited again.

  At 11:24 P.M. a policeman (now in uniform) stole in, looking for Crystalsen. He wanted to know what was to be done with the wrong boy. He spoke in a hoarse whisper. When told by Krug that they had gone that way, he repointed to the door delicately, interrogatively, then tiptoed across the room, his Adam’s apple moving diffidently. Was centuries long in closing, quite noiselessly, the door.

  At 11:43, the same man, but now wild-eyed and dishevelled, was led back through the waiting room by two Special Guards, to be shot later as a minor scapegoat, together with the other “burly man” (vide unnumbered scene) and poor Konkordiĭ.

  At 12 punctually Krug was still waiting.

  Little by little, however, various sounds, coming from the neighbouring offices, increased in volume and agitation. Several times clerks crossed the room at a breathless run and once a telephone operator (a Miss Lovedale) who had been disgracefully manhandled, was carried to the prison hospital on a stretcher by two kind-hearted stone-faced colleagues.

  At 1:08 A.M. rumours of Krug’s arrest reached the little group of anti-Ekwilist conspirators of which the student Phokus was leader.

  At 2:17, a bearded man who said he was an electro-technician came to inspect the heat radiator, but was told by a suspicious warden that no electricity was involved in their heating system and would he please come another day.

  The windows had turned a ghostly blue when Crystalsen at last reappeared. He was glad to inform Krug that the child had been located. “You will be reunited in a few minutes,” he said, adding that a new torture room completely modernized was right at the moment being prepared to receive those who had blundered. He wanted to know whether he had been correctly informed regarding Adam Krug’s sudden conversion. Krug answered—yes, he was ready to broadcast to some of the richer foreign states his firm conviction that Ekwilism was all right, if, and only if, his child were returned to him safe and sound. Crystalsen led him to a police car, and on the way started to explain things.

  It was quite clear that something had gone dreadfully wrong; the child had been taken to a kind of—well, Institute for Abnormal Children—instead of the best State Rest House, as had been arranged. You are hurting my wrist, sir. Unfortunately, the director of the Institute had understood, as who would not, that the child delivered to him was one of the so-called “Orphans,” now and then used to serve as a “release-instrument” for the benefit of the most interesting inmates with a so-called “criminal” record (rape, murder, wanton destruction of State property, etc.). The theory—and we are not here to discuss its worth, and you shall pay for my cuff if you tear it—was that if once a week the really difficult patients could enjoy the possibility of venting in full their repressed yearnings (the exaggerated urge to hurt, destroy, etc.) upon some little human creature of no value to the community, then, by degrees, the evil in them would be allowed to escape, would be, so to say, “effundated,” and eventually they would become good citizens. The experiment might be criticized, of course, but that was not the point (Crystalsen carefully wiped the blood from his mouth and offered his none too clean handkerchief to Krug—to wipe Krug’s knuckles; Krug refused; they entered the car; several soldiers joined them). Well, the enclosure where the “release games” took place was so situated that the director from his window and the other doctors and research workers, male and female (Doktor Amalia von Wytwyl, for instance, one of the most fascinating personalities you have ever met, an aristocrat, you would enjoy meeting her under happier circumstances, sure you would) from other gemütlich points of vantage, could watch the proceedings and take notes. A nurse led the “orphan” down the marble steps. The enclosure was a beautiful expanse of turf, and the whole place, especially in summer, looked extremely attractive, reminding one of some of those open-air theatres that were so dear to the Greeks. The “orphan” or
“little person” was left alone and allowed to roam all over the enclosure. One of the photographs showed him lying disconsolately on his stomach and uprooting a bit of turf with listless fingers (the nurse reappeared on the garden steps and clapped her hands to make him stop. He stopped). After a while the patients or “inmates” (eight all told) were let into the enclosure. At first, they kept at a distance, eyeing the “little person.” It was interesting to observe how the “gang” spirit gradually asserted itself. They had been rough lawless unorganized individuals, but now something was binding them, the community spirit (positive) was conquering the individual whims (negative); for the first time in their lives they were organized; Doktor von Wytwyl used to say that this was a wonderful moment: one felt that, as she quaintly put it, “something was really happening,” or in technical language: the “ego,” he goes “ouf” (out) and the pure “egg” (common extract of egos) “remains.” And then the fun began. One of the patients (a “representative” or “potential leader”), a heavy handsome boy of seventeen went up to the “little person” and sat down beside him on the turf and said “open your mouth.” The “little person” did what he was told and with unerring precision the youth spat a pebble into the child’s open mouth. (This was a wee bit against the rules, because generally speaking, all missiles, instruments, arms and so forth were forbidden.) Sometimes the “squeezing game” started at once after the “spitting game” but in other cases the development from harmless pinching and poking or mild sexual investigations to limb tearing, bone breaking, deoculation, etc. took a considerable time. Deaths were of course unavoidable, but quite often the “little person” was afterwards patched up and gamely made to return to the fray. Next Sunday, dear, you will play with the big boys again. A patched up “little person” provided an especially satisfactory “release.”

  Now we take all this, press it into a small ball, and fit it into the centre of Krug’s brain where it gently expands.

  The drive was a long one. Somewhere, in a rough mountain region four or five thousand feet above sea level they stopped: the soldiers wanted their frishtik [early luncheon] and were not loath to make a quiet picnic of it in that wild and picturesque place. The car stood inert, very slightly leaning on one side among dark rocks and patches of dead white snow. They took out their bread and cucumbers and regimental thermos bottles and moodily munched as they sat hunched up on the footboard or on the withered tousled coarse grass beside the highway. The Royal Gorge, one of nature’s wonders, cut by sand-laden waters of the turbulent Sakra river through eons of time, offered scenes of splendour and glory. We try very hard at Bridal Veil Ranch to understand and appreciate the attitude of mind in which many of our guests arrive from their city homes and businesses, and this is the reason we endeavour to have our guests do just exactly as they wish in the way of fun, exercise, and rest.

  Krug was allowed to get out of the car for a minute. Crystalsen, who had no eye for beauty, remained inside eating an apple and skimming through a long private letter he had received the day before and had not had the time to peruse (even these men of steel have their domestic troubles). Krug stood with his back to the soldiers in front of a rock. This went on for such a long time that at last one of the soldiers remarked with a laugh:

  “Podi galonishcha dva vysvistal za-noch [I fancy he must have drunk a couple of gallons during the night].”

  Here she had her accident. Krug came back and slowly, painfully penetrated into the car where he joined Crystalsen who was still reading.

  “Good morning,” mumbled the latter withdrawing his foot. Presently he lifted his head, hastily crammed the letter into his pocket and called out to the soldiers.

  Highway 76 brought them down into another part of the plain and very soon they saw the smoking chimneys of the little factory town in the neighbourhood of which the famous experimental station was situated. Its director was a Dr. Hammecke: short, sturdy, with a bushy yellowish-white moustache, protruding eyes and stumpy legs. He, his assistants and the nurses were in a state of excitement bordering on ordinary panic. Crystalsen said he did not know yet whether they were to be destroyed or not; he expected, he said, to get destructions (a spoonerism for “instructions”) by telephone (he looked at his watch) soon. They all were horribly obsequious, toadying to Krug, offering him a shower bath, the assistance of a pretty masseuse, a mouth organ requisitioned from an inmate, a glass of beer, brandy, breakfast, the morning paper, a shave, a game of cards, a suit of clothes, anything. They were obviously playing for time. Finally Krug was ushered into a projection hall. He was told that he would be led to his child in a minute (the child was still asleep, they said), and in the meantime would not he like to see a movie picture taken but a few hours ago? It showed, they said, how healthy and happy the child was.

  He sat down. He accepted the flask of brandy which one of the shivering smiling nurses was thrusting into his face (so scared was she that she first attempted to feed him as she would an infant). Dr. Hammecke, his false teeth rattling in his head like dice, gave the order to start the performance. A young Chinese brought David’s fur-trimmed little overcoat (yes, I recognize it, it is his) and turned it this way and that (newly cleaned, no more holes, see) with the flickering gestures of a conjuror to show there was no deceit: the child had been really found. Finally, with a twittering cry he turned out of one of the pockets a little toy car (yes, we bought it together) and a child’s silver ring with most of the enamel gone (yes). Then he bowed and retired. Crystalsen, who sat next to Krug in the first row, looked gloomy and suspicious; his arms were crossed. “A trick, a damned trick,” he kept muttering.

  The lights went out and a square shimmer of light jumped on to the screen. But the whirr of the machine was again broken off (the engineer being affected by the general nervousness). In the dark Dr. Hammecke leant towards Krug and spoke in a thick stream of apprehensiveness and halitosis.

  “We are happy to have you with us. We hope you will enjoy the picture. In the interest of silence. Put in a good word. We did our best.”

  The whirring noise was resumed, an inscription appeared upside down, again the engine stopped.

  A nurse giggled.

  “Science, please!” said the doctor.

  Crystalsen, who had had enough of it, quickly left his place; the unfortunate Hammecke tried to restrain him, but was shaken off by the gruff official.

  A trembling legend appeared on the screen: Test 656. This melted into a subtle subtitle: “A Night Lawn Party.” Armed nurses were shown unlocking doors. Blinking, the inmates trooped out. “Frau Doktor von Wytwyl, Leader of the Experiment (No Whistling, Please!)” said the next inscription. In spite of the dreadful predicament he was in, even Dr. Hammecke could not restrain an appreciative ha-ha. The woman Wytwyl, a statuesque blonde, holding a whip in one hand and a chronometer in the other, swept haughtily across the screen. “Watch Those Curves”: a curving line on a blackboard was shown and a pointer in a rubber-gloved hand pointed out the climactic points and other points of interest in the yarovization of the ego.

  “The Patients Are Grouped at the Rosebush Entrance of the Enclosure. They Are Searched for Concealed Weapons.” One of the doctors drew out of the sleeve of the fattest boy a lumberman’s saw. “Bad Luck, Fatso!” A collection of labelled implements was shown on a tray: the aforeseen saw, a piece of lead pipe, a mouth organ, a bit of rope, one of those penknives with twenty-four blades and things, a peashooter, a sixshooter, awls, augers, gramophone needles, an old-fashioned battle-axe. “Lying in Wait.” They lay in wait. “The Little Person Appears.”

  Down the floodlit marble steps leading into the garden he came. A nurse in white accompanied him, then stopped and bade him descend alone. David had his warmest overcoat on, but his legs were bare and he wore his bedroom slippers. The whole thing lasted a moment: he turned his face up to the nurse, his eyelashes beat, his hair caught a gleam of lambent light; then he looked around, met Krug’s eyes, showed no sign of recognition and uncertainly went d
own the few steps that remained. His face became larger, dimmer, and vanished as it met mine. The nurse remained on the steps, a faint not untender smile playing on her dark lips. “What a Treat,” said the legend, “For a Little Person to be Out Walking in the Middle of the Night,” and then “Uh-Uh. Who’s that?”

  Loudly Dr. Hammecke coughed and the whirr of the machine stopped. The light went on again.

  I want to wake up. Where is he? I shall die if I do not wake up.

  He declined the refreshments, refused to sign the distinguished visitors’ book, walked through the people barring his way as if they were cobwebs. Dr. Hammecke, rolling his eyes, panting, pressing his hand to his diseased heart, motioned the head nurse to lead Krug to the infirmary.

  There is little to add. In the passage Crystalsen with a big cigar in his mouth was engaged in jotting down the whole story in a little book which he pressed to the yellow wall on the level of his forehead. He jerked his thumb towards door A-1. Krug entered. Frau Doktor von Wytwyl née Bachofen (the third, eldest, sister) was gently, almost dreamily, shaking a thermometer as she looked down at the bed near which she stood in the far corner of the room. Then she turned to Krug and advanced towards him.

  “Brace yourself,” she said quietly. “There has been an accident. We have done our best——”

  Krug pushed her aside with such force that she crashed into a white weighing machine and broke the thermometer she was holding.

  “Oops,” she said.

  The murdered child had a crimson and gold turban around its head; its face was skilfully painted and powdered: a mauve blanket, exquisitely smooth, came up to its chin. What looked like a fluffy piebald toy dog was prettily placed at the foot of the bed. Before rushing out of the ward, Krug knocked this thing off the blanket, whereupon the creature, coming to life, gave a snarl of pain and its jaws snapped, narrowly missing his hand.