“May weather,” affably said Konstantin, “and yet the trains are still heated.”
Her left eyebrow went up, and she answered, “Yes, it is warm here, and I’m mortally tired. My contract is finished, I’m going home now. They all toasted me—the station buffet there is tops. I drank too much, but I never get tipsy, just a heaviness in my stomach. Life has grown hard, I receive more flowers than money, and a month’s rest will be most welcome; after that I have a new contract, but of course, it’s impossible to lay anything by. The potbellied chap who just left behaved obscenely. How he stared at me! I feel as if I have been on this train for a long, long time, and I am so very anxious to return to my cozy little apartment far from all that flurry and claptrap and rot.”
“Allow me to offer you,” said Kostya, “something to palliate the offense.”
He pulled from under his backside a square pneumatic cushion, its rubber covered in speckled satin: he always had it under him during his flat, hard, hemorrhoidal trips.
“And what about yourself?” she inquired.
“We’ll manage, we’ll manage. I must ask you to rise a little. Excuse me. Now sit down. Soft, isn’t it? That part is especially sensitive on the road.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Not all men are so considerate. I’ve lost quite a bit of flesh lately. Oh, how nice! Just like traveling second class.”
“Galanterie, Gnädigste,” said Kostenka, “is an innate property with us. Yes, I’m a foreigner. Russian. Here’s an example: one day my father had gone for a walk on the grounds of his manor with an old pal, a well-known general. They happened to meet a peasant woman—a little old hag, you know, with a bundle of firewood on her back—and my father took off his hat. This surprised the general, and then my father said, ‘Would Your Excellency really want a simple peasant to be more courteous than a member of the gentry?’ ”
“I know a Russian—I’m sure you’ve heard his name, too—let me see, what was it? Baretski … Baratski.… From Warsaw. He now owns a drugstore in Chemnitz. Baratski … Baritski. I’m sure you know him?”
“I do not. Russia is a big country. Our family estate was about as large as your Saxony. And all has been lost, all has been burnt down. The glow of the fire could be seen at a distance of seventy kilometers. My parents were butchered in my presence. I owe my life to a faithful retainer, a veteran of the Turkish campaign.”
“How terrible,” she said, “how very terrible!”
“Yes, but it inures one. I escaped, disguised as a country girl. In those days I made a very cute little maiden. Soldiers pestered me. Especially one beastly fellow … And thereby hangs a most comic tale.”
He told his tale. “Pfui!” she uttered, smiling.
“Well, after that came the era of wanderings, and a multitude of trades. At one time I even used to shine shoes—and would see in my dreams the precise spot in the garden where the old butler, by torchlight, had buried our ancestral jewels. There was, I remember, a sword, studded with diamonds—”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said the lady.
The resilient cushion had not yet had time to cool when she again sat down upon it and with mellow grace recrossed her legs.
“—and moreover two rubies, that big, then stocks in a golden casket, my father’s epaulets, a string of black pearls—”
“Yes, many people are ruined at present,” she remarked with a sigh, and continued, again raising that left eyebrow: “I too have experienced all sorts of hardships. I had a husband, it was a dreadful marriage, and I said to myself: enough! I’m going to live my own way. For almost a year now I’m not on speaking terms with my parents—old people, you know, don’t understand the young—and it affects me deeply. Sometimes I pass by their house and sort of dream of dropping in—and my second husband is now, thank goodness, in Argentina, he writes me absolutely marvelous letters, but I will never return to him. There was another man, the director of a factory, a very sedate gentleman, he adored me, wanted me to bear him a child, and his wife was also such a dear, so warmhearted—much older than he—oh, we three were such friends, went boating on the lake in summer, but then they moved to Frankfurt. Or take actors—such good, gay people—and affairs with them are so kameradschaftlich, there’s no pouncing upon you, at once, at once, at once.…”
In the meantime Kostya reflected: We know all those parents and directors. She’s making up everything. Very attractive, though. Breasts like a pair of piggies, slim hips. Likes to tipple, apparently. Let’s order some beer from the diner.
“Well, some time later, there was a lucky break, brought me heaps of money. I had four apartment houses in Berlin. But the man whom I trusted, my friend, my partner, deceived me.… Painful recollections. I lost a fortune but not my optimism, and now, again, thank God, despite the depression.… Apropos, let me show you something, madam.”
The suitcase with the swanky stickers contained (among other meretricious articles) samples of a highly fashionable kind of vanity-bag looking glass; little things neither round, nor square, but Phantasie-shaped, say, like a daisy or a butterfly or a heart. Meanwhile came the beer. She examined the little mirrors and looked in them at herself; blinks of light shot across the compartment. She downed the beer like a trooper, and with the back of her hand removed the foam from her orange-red lips. Kostenka fondly replaced the samples in the valise and put it back on the shelf. All right, let’s begin.
“Do you know—I keep looking at you, and imagining that we met once years ago. You resemble to an absurd degree a girl—she died of consumption—whom I loved so much that I almost shot myself. Yes, we Russians are sentimental eccentrics, but believe me we can love with the passion of a Rasputin and the naïveté of a child. You are lonely, and I am lonely. You are free, and I am free. Who, then, can forbid us to spend several pleasant hours in a sheltered love nest?”
Her silence was enticing. He left his seat and sat next to her. He leered, and rolled his eyes, and knocked his knees together, and rubbed his hands, as he gaped at her profile.
“What is your destination?” she asked.
Kostenka told her.
“And I am returning to—”
She named a city famous for its cheese production.
“All right, I’ll accompany you, and tomorrow continue my journey. Though I dare not predict anything, madam, I have all grounds to believe that neither you nor I will regret it.”
The smile, the eyebrow.
“You don’t even know my name yet.”
“Oh, who cares, who cares? Why should one have a name?”
“Here’s mine,” she said, and produced a visiting card: Sonja Bergmann.
“And I’m just Kostya. Kostya, and no nonsense. Call me Kostya, right?”
An enchanting woman! A nervous, supple, interesting woman! We’ll be there in half an hour. Long live Life, Happiness, Ruddy Health! A long night of double-edged pleasures. See our complete collection of caresses! Amorous Hercules!
The person we nicknamed the recluse returned from the diner, and flirtation had to be suspended. She took several snapshots out of her handbag and proceeded to show them: “This girl’s just a friend. Here’s a very sweet boy, his brother works for the radio station. In this one I came out appallingly. That’s my leg. And here—do you recognize this person? I’ve put spectacles on and a bowler—cute, isn’t it?”
We are on the point of arriving. The little cushion has been returned with many thanks. Kostya deflated it and slipped it into his valise. The train began braking.
“Well, so long,” said the lady.
Energetically and gaily he carried out both suitcases—hers, a small fiber one, and his, of a nobler make. The glass-topped station was shot through by three beams of dusty sunlight. The sleepy recluse and the forgotten forget-me-nots rode away.
“You’re completely mad,” she said with a laugh.
Before checking his bag, he extracted from it a pair of flat folding slippers. At the taxi stand there still remained one cab.
“Where are we going?” she asked. “To a restaurant?
“We’ll fix something to eat at your place,” said terribly impatient Kostya. “That will be much cozier. Get in. It’s a better idea. I suppose he’ll be able to change fifty marks? I’ve got only big bills. No, wait a sec, here’s some small cash. Come on, come on, tell him where to go.”
The inside of the cab smelt of kerosene. We must not spoil our fun with the small fry of osculatory contacts. Shall we get there soon? What a dreary town. Soon? Urge becoming intolerable. That firm I know. Ah, we’ve arrived.
The taxi pulled up in front of an old, coal-black house with green shutters. They climbed to the fourth landing and there she stopped and said, “And what if there’s somebody else there? How do you know that I’ll let you in? What’s that on your lip?”
“A cold sore,” said Kostya, “just a cold sore. Hurry up. Open. Let’s dismiss the whole world and its troubles. Quick. Open.”
They entered. A hallway with a large wardrobe, a kitchen, and a small bedroom.
“No, please wait. I’m hungry. We shall first have supper. Give me that fifty-mark note, I’ll take the occasion to change it for you.”
“All right, but for God’s sake, hurry,” said Kostya, rummaging in his wallet. “There’s no need to change anything. Here’s a nice tenner.”
“What would you like me to buy?”
“Oh, anything you want. I only beseech you to make haste.”
She left. She locked him in, using both keys. Taking no chances. But what loot could one have found here? None. In the middle of the kitchen floor a dead cockroach lay on its back, brown legs stretched out. The bedroom contained one chair and a lace-covered wooden bed. Above it, the photograph of a man with fat cheeks and waved hair was nailed to the spotty wall. Kostya sat down on the chair and in a twinkle substituted the morocco slippers for his mahogany-red street shoes. Then he shed his Norfolk jacket, unbuttoned his lilac braces, and took off his starched collar. There was no toilet, so he quickly used the kitchen sink, then washed his hands and examined his lip. The doorbell rang.
He tiptoed fast to the door, placed his eye to the peephole, but could see nothing. The person behind the door rang again, and the copper ring was heard to knock. No matter—we can’t let him in even if we wished to.
“Who’s that?” asked Kostya insinuatingly through the door.
A cracked voice inquired, “Please, is Frau Bergmann back?”
“Not yet,” replied Kostya. “Why?”
“Misfortune,” said the voice and paused. Kostya waited.
The voice continued, “You don’t know when she will be back in town? I was told she was expected to return today. You are Herr Seidler, I believe?”
“What’s happened? I’ll pass her the message.”
A throat was cleared and the voice said as if over the telephone, “Franz Loschmidt speaking. She does not know me, but tell her please—”
Another pause and an uncertain query: “Perhaps you can let me come in?”
“Never mind, never mind,” said Kostya impatiently, “I’ll tell her everything.”
“Her father is dying, he won’t live through the night: he has had a stroke in the shop. Tell her to come over at once. When do you think she’ll be back?”
“Soon,” answered Kostya, “soon. I’ll tell her. Good-bye.”
After a series of receding creaks the stairs became silent. Kostya made for the window. A gangling youth, death’s apprentice, rain-cloaked, hatless, with a small close-cropped smoke-blue head, crossed the street and vanished around the corner. A few moments later from another direction appeared the lady with a well-filled net bag.
The door’s upper lock clicked, then its lower one.
“Phew!” she said, entering. “What a load of things I bought!”
“Later, later,” cried Kostya, “we’ll sup later. Quick to the bedroom. Forget those parcels, I beseech you.”
“I want to eat,” she replied in a long-drawn-out voice.
She smacked his hand away, and went into the kitchen. Kostya followed her.
“Roast beef,” she said. “White bread. Butter. Our celebrated cheese. Coffee. A pint of cognac. Goodness me, can’t you wait a little? Let me go, it’s indecent.”
Kostya, however, pressed her against the table, she started to giggle helplessly, his fingernails kept catching in the knit silk of her green undies, and everything happened very ineffectually, uncomfortably, and prematurely.
“Pfui!” she uttered, smiling.
No, it was not worth the trouble. Thank you kindly for the treat. Wasting my strength. I’m no longer in the bloom of youth. Rather disgusting. Her perspiring nose, her faded mug. Might have washed her hands before fingering eatables. What’s that on your lip? Impudence! Still to be seen, you know, who catches what from whom. Well, nothing to be done.
“Bought that cigar for me?” he inquired.
She was busy taking knives and forks out of the cupboard and did not hear.
“What about that cigar?” he repeated.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you smoked. Shall I run down to get one?”
“Never mind, I’ll go myself,” he replied gruffly and passed into the bedroom where he put on his shoes and coat. Through the open door he could see her moving gracelessly as she laid the table.
“The tobacconist’s right on the corner,” she sang out, and choosing a plate arranged upon it with loving care the cool, rosy slices of roast beef which she had not been able to afford since quite a time.
“Moreover, I’ll get some pastry,” said Konstantin, and went out. Pastry, and whipped cream, and a chunk of pineapple, and chocolates with brandy filling, he added mentally.
Once in the street, he looked up, seeking out her window (the one with the cactuses or the next?), then turned right, walked around the back of a furniture van, nearly got struck by the front wheel of a cyclist, and showed him his fist. Further on there was a small public garden and some kind of stone Herzog. He made another turn, and saw at the very end of the street, outlined against a thundercloud and lit up by a gaudy sunset, the brick tower of the church, past which, he recalled, they had driven. From there it was but a step to the station. A convenient train could be had in a quarter of an hour: in this respect, at least, luck was on his side. Expenses: bag-check, 30 pfennigs, taxi, 1.40, she, 10 marks (5 would have been enough). What else? Yes, the beer, 55 pfennigs, with tip. In all: 12 marks and 25 pfennigs. Idiotic. As to the bad news, she was sure to get it sooner or later. I spared her several sad minutes by a deathbed. Still, maybe, I should send her a message from here? But I’ve forgotten the house number. No, I remember: 27. Anyway, one may assume I forgot it—nobody is obliged to have such a good memory. I can imagine what a rumpus there would have been if I had told her at once! The old bitch. No, we like only small blonds—remember that once for all.
The train was crammed, the heat stifling. We feel out of sorts, but do not quite know if we are hungry or drowsy. But when we have fed and slept, life will regain its looks, and the American instruments will make music in the merry café described by our friend Lange. And then, sometime later, we die.
A BAD DAY
PETER sat on the box of the open carriage, next to the coachman (he was not particularly fond of that seat, but the coachman and everybody at home thought he liked it extremely, and he on his part did not want to hurt people, so this is how he came to be sitting there, a sallow-faced, gray-eyed youngster in a smart sailor blouse). The pair of well-fed black horses, with a gloss on their fat croups and something extraordinarily feminine about their long manes, kept lashing their tails in sumptuous fashion as they progressed at a rippling trot, and it pained one to observe how avidly, despite that movement of tails and that twitching of tender ears—despite, too, the thick tarry odor of the repellent in use—dull gray deerflies, or some big gadfly with shimmery eyes bulging, would stick to the sleek coats.
Coachman Stepan, a taciturn elderly man wearing a sle
eveless vest of black velvet over a crimson Russian shirt, had a dyed beard and a brown neck lined with thin cracks. Peter felt embarrassed to keep silent while sitting on the same box; therefore he fixed his gaze on the middle shaft, on the traces, trying to invent a keen question or a sound remark. From time to time this or that horse would half-raise its tail, under the tensed root of which a bulb of flesh would swell, squeezing out one tawny globe, then another, a third, after which the folds of black skin would close again and the tail droop.
In the victoria sat, with her legs crossed, Peter’s sister, a dark-complexioned young lady (although only nineteen, she had already divorced one husband), in a bright frock, high-laced white boots with glistening black caps, and a wide-brimmed hat that cast a lacy shadow upon her face. Ever since morning she had been in a vile temper, and now, when Peter turned to her for the third time, she directed at him the point of her iridescent parasol and said: “Stop fidgeting please.”
The first part of the way went through the woods. Splendid clouds gliding across the blue only increased the glitter and vivacity of the summer day. If one looked from below at the tops of the birches, their verdure reminded one of sun-soaked translucent grapes. On both sides of the road bushes exposed the pale underside of their leaves to the hot wind. Shine and shade speckled the depths of the forest: one could not separate the pattern of tree trunks from that of their interspaces. Here and there a patch of moss flashed its heavenly emerald. Floppy ferns ran past, almost brushing against the wheels.
There appeared in front a great wagon of hay, a greenish mountain flecked with tremulous light. Stepan reined in his steeds; the mountain inclined over to one side, the carriage to the other—there was barely room enough to pass on the narrow forest road—and one caught a tangy whiff of new-mown fields, and the ponderous creak of cartwheels, and a glimpse of wilted scabiouses and daisies amid the hay, and then Stepan clicked his tongue, gave a shake to his reins, and the wagon was left behind. Presently the woods parted, the victoria turned onto the highway, and farther came harvested fields, the stridulation of grasshoppers in the ditches, and the humming of telegraph poles. In a moment the village of Voskresensk would show up, and a few minutes later it would be the end.
The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov Page 34