Invitation to a Beheading

by Nabokov, Vladimir

  Hastily and guiltily, she said, “But I wore rubbers—I left them down in the office, word of honor.”

  “Oh, enough, enough. Just don’t start explaining. Play your role—go heavy on the prattle and the unconcern—and you won’t have to worry, it’ll get by.”

  “I came because I am your mother,” she said softly, and Cincinnatus burst out laughing:

  “No, no, don’t let it degenerate into farce. Remember, this is a drama. A little comedy is all right, but still you ought not to walk too far from the station—the drama might leave without you. You’d do better to … yes, I’ll tell you what, why don’t you tell me again the legend about my father. Can it be true that he vanished into the dark of night, and you never found out who he was or where he came from—it’s strange …”

  “Only his voice—I didn’t see the face,” she answered as softly as before.

  “That’s it, that’s it, play up to me—I think perhaps we’ll make him a runaway sailor,” dejectedly continued Cincinnatus, snapping his fingers and pacing, pacing, “or a sylvan robber making a guest appearance in a public park. Or a wayward craftsman, a carpenter … Come, quickly, think of something.”

  “You don’t understand,” she cried (in her excitement she stood up and immediately sat down again). “It’s true, I don’t know who he was—a tramp, a fugitive, anything is possible … But why can’t you understand … yes, it was a holiday, it was dark in the park, and I was still a child, but that’s beside the point. The important thing is that it was not possible to make a mistake! A man who is being burned alive knows perfectly well that he isn’t taking a dip in our Strop. Why, what I mean is, one can’t be wrong … Oh, can’t you understand?”

  “Can’t understand what?”

  “Oh, Cincinnatus, he too was …”

  “What do you mean, ‘he too’?”

  “He was also like you, Cincinnatus.…”

  She quite lowered her face, dropping her pince-nez into her cupped hand.

  Pause.

  “How do you know this?” Cincinnatus asked morosely. “How can you suddenly notice …”

  “I am not going to tell you anything more,” she said without raising her eyes.

  Cincinnatus sat down on the cot and lapsed into thought. His mother blew her nose with an extraordinarily loud trumpet sound, which one would hardly expect from so small a woman, and looked up at the window recess. Evidently the weather had cleared, for one felt the close presence of blue skies, and the sun had painted its stripe on the wall—now it would pale, then brighten again.

  “There are cornflowers now in the rye,” she said, speaking fast, “and everything is so wonderful—clouds are scudding, everything is so restless and bright. I live far from here, in Doctorton, and when I come to this city of yours, when I drive across the fields in the little old gig, and see the Strop gleaming, and this hill with the fortress on it, and everything, it always seems to me that a marvelous tale is being repeated over and over again, and I either don’t have the time to, or am unable to grasp it, and still somebody keeps repeating it to me, with such patience! I work all day at our ward, I take everything in my stride, I have lovers, I adore ice-cold lemonade, although I’ve dropped smoking, because of heart trouble—and here I am sitting with you … I sit here and I don’t know why I sit, why I bawl, and why I tell you all this, and now I shall be hot trudging down in this coat and this wool dress, the sun will be absolutely fiendish after a storm like that …”

  “No, you’re still only a parody,” murmured Cincinnatus.

  She smiled interrogatively.

  “Just like this spider, just like those bars, just like the striking of that clock,” murmured Cincinnatus.

  “So,” she said, and blew her nose again.

  “So, that’s how it is,” she repeated.

  They both remained silent, not looking at each other, while the clock struck with nonsensical resonance.

  “When you go out,” said Cincinnatus, “note the clock in the corridor. The dial is blank; however, every hour the watchman washes off the old hand and daubs on a new one—and that’s how we live, by tarbrush time, and the ringing is the work of the watchman, which is why he is called a ‘watch’ man.”

  “You oughtn’t joke like that,” said Cecilia C. “There are, you know, all sorts of marvelous gimmicks. I remember, for instance when I was a child, there were objects called ‘nonnons’ that were popular, and not only among children, but among adults too, and, you see, a special mirror came with them, not just crooked, but completely distorted. You couldn’t make out anything of it, it was all gaps and jumble, and made no sense to the eye—yet the crookedness was no ordinary one, but calculated in just such a way as to … Or rather, to match its crookedness they had made … No, wait a minute, I am explaining badly. Well, you would have a crazy mirror like that and a whole collection of different ‘nonnons,’ absolutely absurd objects, shapeless, mottled, pockmarked, knobby things, like some kind of fossils—but the mirror, which completely distorted ordinary objects, now, you see, got real food, that is, when you placed one of these incomprehensible, monstrous objects so that it was reflected in the incomprehensible, monstrous mirror, a marvelous thing happened; minus by minus equaled plus, everything was restored, everything was fine, and the shapeless speckledness became in the mirror a wonderful, sensible image; flowers, a ship, a person, a landscape. You could have your own portrait custom made, that is, you received some nightmarish jumble, and this thing was you, only the key to you was held by the mirror. Oh, I remember what fun it was, and how it was a little frightening—what if suddenly nothing should come out?—to pick up a new, incomprehensible ‘nonnon’ and bring it near the mirror, and see your hand get all scrambled, and and at the same time see the meaningless ‘nonnon’ turn into a charming picture, so very, very clear …”

  “Why do you tell me all this?” asked Cincinnatus.

  She was silent.

  “What’s the point of all this? Don’t you know that one of these days, perhaps tomorrow …”

  He suddenly noticed the expression in Cecilia C.’s eyes—just for an instant, an instant—but it was as if something real, unquestionable (in this world, where everything was subject to question), had passed through, as if a corner of this horrible life had curled up, and there was a glimpse of the lining. In his mother’s gaze, Cincinnatus suddenly saw that ultimate, secure, all-explaining and from-all-protecting spark that he knew how to discern in himself also. What was this spark so piercingly expressing now? It does not matter what—call it horror, or pity … But rather let us say this: the spark proclaimed such a tumult of truth that Cincinnatus’s soul could not help leaping for joy. The instant flashed and was gone. Cecilia C. got up, making an incredible little gesture, namely, holding her hands apart with index fingers extended, as if indicating size—the length, say, of a babe … Then she immediately began fussing, picking up from the floor her plump black bag, adjusting the lining of her pocket.

  “There now,” she said, in her former prattling tone, “I’ve stayed a while and now I’ll be going. Eat my candy. I’ve overstayed. I’ll be going, it’s time.”

  “Oh yes, it’s time!” thundered Rodrig Ivanovich with fierce mirth as he flung open the door.

  Head bent, she slipped out. Cincinnatus, trembling, was about to step forward …

  “Have no worry,” said the director, raising his palm, “This little midwife presents no danger to us. Back!”

  “But I would still …” began Cincinnatus.

  “Arrière!” roared Rodrig Ivanovich.

  Meanwhile, M’sieur Pierre’s compact striped little figure appeared in the depths of the corridor. He was smiling pleasantly from afar, but restraining his pace slightly, and letting his eyes roam about furtively, as people do when they have walked in on a row, but do not want to stress their awareness of it. He was carrying a checkerboard and a box before him and had a punchinello doll and something else under his arm.

  “You’ve had com
pany?” he inquired politely of Cincinnatus when the director had left them alone in the cell. “Your mama visited you? That’s fine, that’s fine. And now I, poor, weak little M’sieur Pierre, have come to amuse you and amuse myself for a while. Just see how my Punch looks at you. Say hello to uncle. Isn’t he a scream? Sit up, there, chum. Look, I’ve brought you lots of entertaining things. Would you like a game of chess first? Or cards? Do you play anchors? Splendid game! Come, I’ll teach you!”

  Thirteen

  He waited and waited, and now, at last, in the stillest hour of night, the sounds got busy once again. Alone in the dark, Cincinnatus smiled. I am quite willing to admit that they are also a deception but right now I believe in them so much that I infect them with truth.

  They were still more firm and precise than the previous night; they no longer were hacking away blindly; how could one doubt their approaching, advancing movement? How modest they were! How intelligent! How mysteriously calculating and insistent! Was it an ordinary pick or some outlandish implement made of some useless substance alloyed with omnipotent human will—but whatever it was, he knew that someone, somehow, was cutting a passage.

  The night was cold; the gray, greasy reflection of the moon, dividing itself into squares, fell on the inner wall of the window recess; the whole fortress seemed to be filled to the brim with thick darkness on the inside, and glazed by the moonlight on the outside, with black broken shadows that slithered down rocky slopes and silently tumbled into the moats; yes, the night was impassive and stony—but within it, in its deep, dark womb, undermining its might, something was hacking its way through that was quite foreign to the night’s substance and order. Or is this all but obsolete romantic rot, Cincinnatus?

  He picked up the submissive chair and brought it down hard, first on the floor, then several times on the wall, trying, at least by means of rhythm, to impart meaning to his pounding. And, in fact, the one who was tunneling through the night first paused, as if trying to decide whether the answering blows were friendly or not, and suddenly renewed his labors with such a jubilantly animated sound that Cincinnatus was certain his response had been understood.

  He was now satisfied that it was he to whom that someone was coming, that it was he whom that someone wanted to rescue, and, continuing to knock on the more sensitive sections of the stone, he evoked—in a different register and key, fuller, more complex, more enchanting—repetitions of the simple rhythms that he offered.

  He was already thinking of how to set up an alphabet when he noticed that not the moon but a different, uninvited light was diluting the darkness, and he had barely noticed this when the sounds ceased. For quite a while afterwards there was a crumbling sound, but gradually this also grew silent, and it was hard to imagine that such a short time ago the stillness of night was being invaded by ardent, persistent activity, by a creature, sniffing, wheezing, with flattened muzzle, and again digging in frenzy, like a hound tunneling his way to a badger.

  Through his brittle drowsiness he saw Rodion entering; and it was already past noon when he awoke fully, and thought, as always, that the end was not yet today, and it could have been today, just as easily as it might be tomorrow, but tomorrow was still far away.

  All day long he harked to the humming in his ears, kneading his hands, as though silently exchanging with his own self a welcoming grip; he walked around the table, where the letter lay, still unsent; or else he would imagine the glance of yesterday’s guest, momentary, breathtaking, like a hiatus in this life; or he would listen in fancy to Emmie’s rustling movements. Well, why not drink this mush of hope, this thick, sweet slop … my hopes are still alive … and I thought that at least now, at least here, where solitude is held in such high esteem, it might divide into two parts only, for you and for me, instead of multiplying as it did—noisy, manifold, absurd, so that I could not even come near you, and your terrible father nearly broke my legs with his cane … this is why I am writing—this is my last attempt to explain to you what is happening, Marthe … make an exceptional effort and understand, if only through a fog, if only with a corner of your brain, but understand what is happening, Marthe, understand that they are going to kill me—can it be so difficult—I do not ask lengthy widow’s lamentations from you, or mourning lilies, but implore you, I need it so badly—now, today—just grow afraid like a child that they are going to do something terrible to me, a vile thing that makes you sick, and you scream so in the middle of the night that even when you already hear nurse approaching, with her “hush, hush,” you still keep on screaming, that is how you must be afraid, Marthe, even though you love me little, you must still understand, even if only for an instant, and then you may forget again. How can I stir you? Oh, our life together was horrible, horrible, but I cannot stir you with that, I tried hard at first, but, you know, our tempos were different, and I immediately fell behind. Tell me, how many hands have palpated the pulp that has grown so generously around your hard, bitter little soul? Yes, like a ghost I return to your first betrayals and, howling, rattling my chains, walk through them. The kisses I spied. Your and his kisses, which most resembled some sort of feeding, intent, untidy, and noisy. Or when you, with eyes closed tight, devoured a spurting peach and then, having finished, but still swallowing, with your mouth still full, you cannibal, your glazed eyes wandered, your fingers were spread, your inflamed lips were all glossy, your chin trembled, all covered with drops of the cloudy juice, which trickled down onto your bared bosom, while the Priapus who had nourished you suddenly, with a convulsive oath, turned his bent back to me, who had entered the room at the wrong moment. “All kinds of fruit are good for Marthe,” you would say with a certain sweet-slushy moistness in your throat, all gathering into one damp, sweet, accursed little fold—and if I return to all of this, it is to get it out of my system, to purge myself—and also so that you will know, so that you will know … What? Probably I am mistaking you for someone else, after all, when I think that you will understand me, as an insane man mistakes his visiting kin for galaxies, logarithms, low-haunched hyenas—but there are also madmen—and they are invulnerable—who take themselves for madmen—and here the circle closes. Marthe, in some such circle you and I revolve—oh, if only you could break away for an instant!—then you can go back to it, I promise you … I do not ask a great deal of you, only break away for an instant and understand that they are murdering me, that we are surrounded by dummies, and that you are a dummy yourself. I do not know why I was so tormented by your betrayals, rather I myself know why, but I do not know the words I must choose to make you understand why I was so tormented. Such words do not come in the small size that fits your everyday needs. And yet I shall try again: “they are murdering me!”—all right, all together once more: “they are murdering me!”—and again: “murdering!”… I want to write this in such a way that you will cover your ears, your membranaceous, simian ears that you hide under strands of beautiful feminine hair—but I know them, I see them, I pinch them, the cold little things, I worry them with my fingers to somehow warm them, bring them to life, render them human, force them to hear me. Marthe I want you to obtain another interview, and, of course, come alone, come alone! So-called life is finished for me, before me there is only the polished block, and my jailers have managed to drive me to such a state that my handwriting—see—is like a drunken man’s—but it does not matter, I shall have strength enough, Marthe, for such a talk with you as we have never yet had, that is why it is so necessary that you come again, and do not think that this letter is a forgery—it is I, Cincinnatus, who am writing, it is I, Cincinnatus, who am weeping; and who was, in fact, walking around the table, and then, when Rodion brought his dinner, said:

  “This letter. This letter I shall ask you to … Here is the address …”

  “You’d do better to learn to knit like everybody else,” grumbled Rodion, “so you could knit me a cache-knee. Writer, indeed! You just saw your missus, didn’t you?”

  “I shall try to ask you anyway,�
� said Cincinnatus, “are there, besides me and that rather obtrusive Pierre, any other prisoners here?”

  Rodion flushed but remained silent.

  “And the headsman hasn’t arrived yet?” asked Cincinnatus.

  Rodion was about to furiously slam the already screeching door, but, as the day before, there entered, morocco slippers squeaking stickily, striped jelly-body quivering, hands carrying a chess set, cards, a cup-and-ball game—

  “My humblest respects to friend Rodion,” said M’sieur Pierre, in his reedy voice, and, without breaking stride, quivering, squeaking, he walked into the cell.

  “I see,” he said, seating himself, “that the dear fellow took a letter with him. Must have been the one that was lying here on the table yesterday, eh? To your spouse? No, no, a simple deduction, I don’t read other people’s letters, although it’s true it was lying right in plain sight, while we were going at our game of anchors. How about some chess today?”

  He spread out a checkerboard made of wool and with his plump hand, cocking the little finger, he set up the places, which were fashioned of kneaded bread, according to an old prisoner’s recipe, so solidly, that a stone might envy them.

  “I’m a bachelor myself, but of course I understand … Forward. I shall quickly … Good players do not take a long time to think. Forward. I caught just a glimpse of your spouse—a juicy little piece, no two ways about it—what a neck, that’s what I like … Hey, wait a minute, that was an oversight, allow me to take my move back. Here, this is better. I am a great aficionado of women, and the way they love me, the rascals, you simply wouldn’t believe it. You were writing to your spouse there about her pretty eyes and lips. Recently, you know, I had … Why can’t my pawn take it? Oh, I see. Clever, clever. All right, I retreat. Recently I had sexual intercourse with an extraordinarily healthy and splendid individual. What pleasure you experience, when a large brunette … What is this? That’s a snide move on your part. You must warn your opponent, this won’t do. Here, let me change my last move. So. Yes, a gorgeous, passionate creature—and, you know, I’m no piker myself, I’ve got such a spring that—wow! Generally speaking, of the numerous earthly temptations, which, in jest, but really with the utmost seriousness, I intend to submit gradually for your consideration, the temptation of sex … No, wait a minute, I haven’t decided yet if I want to move that piece there. Yes, I will. What do you mean, checkmate? Why checkmate? I can’t go here; I can’t go there; I can’t go anywhere. Wait a minute, what was the position? No, before that. Ah, now that’s a different story. A mere oversight. All right, I’ll move here. Yes, a red rose between her teeth, black net stockings up to here, and not-a-stitch besides—that’s really something, that’s the supreme … and now, instead of the raptures of love, dank stone, rusty iron, and ahead—well, you know yourself what lies ahead. Now this I overlooked. And what if I move otherwise? Yes, this is better. The game is mine, anyway—you make one mistake after another. What if she was unfaithful to you—didn’t you also hold her in your embraces? When people ask me for advice I always tell them, ‘Gentlemen, be inventive. There is nothing more pleasant, for example, than to surround oneself with mirrors and watch the good work going on there—wonderful! Hey! Now this is far from wonderful. Word of honor, I thought I had moved to this square, not to that. So therefore you were unable … Back, please. Simultaneously I like to smoke a cigar and talk of insignificant matters, and I like her to talk too—there’s nothing to be done, I have a certain streak of perversion in me … Yes, how grievous, how frightening and hurtful to say farewell to all this—and to think that others, who are just as young and sappy, will continue to work and work … ah! I don’t know about you, but when it comes to caresses I love what we French wrestlers call ‘macarons’: You give her a nice slap on the neck, and, the firmer the meat … First of all, I can take your knight, secondly, I can simply move my king away; all right—there. No, stop, stop, I’d like to think for a minute after all. What was your last move? Put that piece back and let me think. Nonsense, there’s no checkmate here. You, it seems to me—if you do not mind my saying so—are cheating: this piece stood here, or maybe here, but not there, I am absolutely certain. Come, put it back, put it back …”