Free Invitation to a Beheading by Vladimir Nabokov Page A

candy.
    “I have some more,” she said. “Want one?”
    Cincinnatus shook his head.
    “You aren’t supposed to walk here,” repeated Emmie.
    “Why?” asked Cincinnatus.
    She shrugged one shoulder and, grimacing, arching the hand in which she held the ball, tensing her calves, she went over to the spot where he had thought there was a niche, a window, and, fidgeting, suddenly seeming all legs, settled herself on a sill-like projection of stone.
    No, it was only the semblance of a window; actually it was a glazed recess, a showcase, and it displayed in its false depth—yes, of course, how could one help but recognize it!—a view of the Tamara Gardens. This landscape, daubed in several layers of distance, executed in blurry green hues and illuminated by concealed bulbs, was reminiscent not so much of a terrarium or some model of theatrical scenery as of the backdrop in front of which a wind orchestra toils and puffs. Everything was reproduced fairly accurately as far as grouping and perspective was concerned, and, were it not for the drab colors, the stirless treetops and the torpid lighting, one could slit one’s eyes and imagine oneself gazing through an embrasure, from this very prison, at those very gardens. The indulgent gaze recognized those avenues, that curly verdancy of groves, the portico at the right, the detached poplars, and, in the middle of the unconvincing blue of the lake, the pale blob that was probably a swan. Afar, in a stylized mist, the hills humped their round backs, and above them, in that kind of slate-blue firmament underwhich Thespians live and die, cumulus clouds stood still. And all of this was somehow not fresh, antiquated, covered with dust, and the glass through which Cincinnatus was looking bore smudges, from some of which a child’s hand could be reconstructed.
    “Won’t you please take me out there?” whispered Cincinnatus. “I beseech you.”
    He was sitting next to Emmie on the stone projection and both of them were peering into the artificial remoteness beyond the glass; enigmatically, she kept following winding paths with her finger, and her hair smelled of vanilla.
    “Pop’s coming,” she suddenly said in a husky, hurried voice; then she hopped to the floor and vanished.
    It was true: Rodion was approaching, keys a-jangle, from the direction opposite the one whence Cincinnatus had come (who thought for a moment it was a reflection in a mirror).
    “Home you go,” he said jokingly.
    The light behind the glass went out and Cincinnatus took a step, intending to return by the same route as he had come.
    “Hey, hey, where are you off to?” exclaimed Rodion. “Go straight, it’s shorter that way.”
    And only then did Cincinnatus realize that the bends in the corridor had not been leading him away anywhere, but rather formed a great polyhedron—for now, as he turned a corner, he saw his door in the distance, and, before he reached it, passed the cell where the new prisoner was kept. The door of this cell was wide open, and inside, the likable shorty whom he had seen before, dressed in his stripedpajamas, was standing on a chair and tacking the calendar to the wall: tap, tap, like a woodpecker.
    “No peeking, my fair damsel,” said Rodion good-naturedly to Cincinnatus. “Home, home. And what a cleaning job we’ve done on your place, eh? Now we don’t have to be ashamed about bringing guests in.”
    He seemed particularly proud of the fact that the spider was enthroned in a clean, impeccably correct web, which had been created, it was clear, just a moment before.

Seven
     

    An enchanting morning! Freely, without the former friction, it penetrated through the barred glass washed yesterday by Rodion. Nothing could look more festive than the yellow paint of the walls. The table was covered by a clean tablecloth, which did not yet cling because of the air under it. The liberally doused stone floor exhaled fontal freshness.
    Cincinnatus put on the best clothes he had with