Free The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov by Vladimir Nabokov

laugh.
    “Biblical God.… Gaseous vertebrate.… I am not a believer.”
    “That’s from Huxley,” insinuatingly observed Monfiori. “There was a biblical God, though.… The point is that He is not alone; there are numerous biblical Gods.… A host. My favorite one is … ‘He sneezes and there is light. He has eyes like the eyelashes of dawn.’ Do you understand what this means? Do you? And there is more: ‘… the fleshy parts of his body are solidly interconnected, and they won’t budge.’ Well? Well? Do you understand?”
    “Wait a minute,” shouted Kern.
    “No, no—you must think about it. ‘He transforms the sea into a seething ointment; he leaves behind a trail of radiance; the abyss is akin to a patch of gray hair!’ ”
    “Wait, will you,” interrupted Kern. “I want to tell you that I have decided to kill myself.…”
    Monfiori gave him an opaque, attentive look, covering his glass with his palm. He was silent for a time.
    “Just as I thought,” he began with unexpected gentleness. “Tonight, as you were watching the people dancing, and before that, when you got up from the table … There was something about your face … The crease between the brows … That special one … I understood right away …” He fell silent, caressing the table’s edge.
    “Listen to what I’m going to tell you,” he continued, lowering his heavy, purplish eyelids with their wartlike lashes. “I search everywhere for the likes of you—in expensive hotels, on trains, in seaside resorts, at night on the quays of big cities.” A dreamy little sneer fleeted across his lips.
    “I recall, in Florence once …” He raised his doelike eyes. “Listen, Kern—I’d like to be present when you do it.… May I?”
    Kern, in a numb slouch, sensed a chill in his chest under his starched shirt.
We’re both drunk
, the words rushed through his brain,
and he’s spooky
.
    “May I?” repeated Monfiori with a pout, “Pretty please?” (touch of clammy, hairy little hand).
    With a jerk and a groggy sway Kern rose from his chair.
    “Go to hell! Let me out.… I was joking.…”
    The attentive gaze of Monfiori’s leechy eyes did not waver.
    “I’ve had enough of you! I’ve had enough of everything.” Kern dashed off with a splashlike gesture of his hands. Monfiori’s gaze came unstuck with what seemed like a smack.
    “Murk! Puppet!… Wordplay!… Basta!…”
    He banged his hip painfully on the edge of the table. The raspberry fatty behind his vacillating bar puffed out his white shirtfront and began to float, as though in a curved mirror, amid his bottles. Kern traversed the gliding ripples of the carpet and, with his shoulder, shoved a falling glass door.
    The hotel was fast asleep. Mounting the cushiony stairs with difficulty, he located his room. A key protruded from the adjoining door. Someone had forgotten to lock himself in. Flowers meandered in the dim light of the corridor. Once he was in his room he spent a long time groping along the wall in search of the light switch. Then he collapsed into an armchair by the window.
    It struck him that he must write certain letters, farewell letters. But the syrupy drinks had weakened him. His ears filled with a dense, hollow din, and gelid waves breathed on his brow. He had to write a letter, and there was something else troubling him. As if he had left home and forgotten his wallet. The mirrory blackness of the window reflected his stripelike collar and his pale forehead. He had splashed some intoxicating drops on his shirtfront. He must write that letter … no, that wasn’t it. Suddenly something flashed in his mind’s eye. The key! The key protruding from the neighboring door.…
    Kern rose ponderously and went out into the dimly lit corridor. From the enormous key dangled a shiny wafer with the number 35. He stopped in front of this white door. There was an avid tremor in his legs.
    A frosty wind lashed his brow. The window of the