Free Invitation to a Beheading by Vladimir Nabokov Page B

him—and while he was pulling on the white silk stockings which he, as a teacher, was entitled to wear at gala performances—Rodion brought in a wet cut-glass vase with jowly peonies from the director’s garden and placed it on the table, in the center … no, not quite in the center; he backed outand in a minute returned with a stool and an additional chair, and arranged the furniture not haphazardly but with judgment and taste. He came back several times, and Cincinnatus did not dare ask, “will it be soon?” and—as happens at that particularly inactive hour when, all dressed up, you are awaiting guests—he strolled around, now perching in unaccustomed corners, now straightening the flowers in the vase, so that at last Rodion took pity on him and said it would not be long now.
    Punctually at ten, Rodrig Ivanovich appeared, in his best, most monumental frock coat, pompous, aloof, excited yet composed; he set down a massive ash tray and inspected everything (with the exception only of Cincinnatus), acting like a major-domo engrossed in his job, who gives his attention to the neatness of the inanimate inventory only, leaving the animate to shift for themselves. He returned carrying a green flask equipped with a rubber bulb and began spraying pine fragrance, rather unceremoniously pushing aside Cincinnatus when the latter happened to get in his way. The chairs Rodrig Ivanovich arranged differently from Rodion, and for a long time he stared, goggle-eyed, at the backs, which did not match—one was lyrate, the other square. He puffed up his cheeks and let out the air with a whistle, and at last turned to Cincinnatus.
    “And how about you? Are you ready?” he asked. “Did you find everything you needed? Are your shoe buckles in order? Why is it wrinkled, or something, over here? Shame on you—Let’s see your paws. Bon. Now try not to get all dirty. I think it won’t be long now …”
    He went out, and his succulent, authoritative bass reverberated through the corridor. Rodion opened the celldoor, securing it in that position, and unrolled a caramel-striped runner on the threshold. “Coming,” he whispered with a wink and disappeared again. Now a key made a threefold clank in a lock somewhere, confused voices were audible, and a gust stirred the hair on Cincinnatus’s head.
    He was very agitated, and his quivering lips continuously assumed the shape of a smile. “Right this way. Here we are already,” he could hear the sonorous comments of the director, and in the next instant the latter appeared, gallantly leading in by the elbow the plump, striped little prisoner who, before coming in, paused on the mat, noiselessly brought together his morocco feet, and bowed gracefully.
    “Allow me to present to you M’sieur Pierre,” said the director to Cincinnatus in jubilant tones. “Come in, come in, M’sieur Pierre. You can’t imagine how you have been awaited here—Get acquainted, gentlemen—The long-awaited meeting—An instructive spectacle … Do bear with us, M’sieur Pierre, do not find fault …”
    He did not even know what he was saying—he was bubbling over, cutting heavy little capers, rubbing his hands, bursting with delighted embarrassment.
    M’sieur Pierre, very calm and composed, walked in, bowed once again, and Cincinnatus mechanically joined him in a handshake; the other man retained Cincinnatus’s escaping fingers in his small soft paw a second longer than is customary—as a gentle elderly doctor draws out a handshake, so gently, so appetizingly—and now he released it.
    In a melodious, high-pitched voice coming from the throat M’sieur Pierre said, “I too am extremely happy tomake your acquaintance at last. I make bold to hope that we may get to know each other more closely.”
    “Exactly, exactly,” roared the director, “oh, please, be seated … Make yourself at home … Your colleague is so happy to see you here that he is at a loss for words.”
    M’sieur Pierre