King, Queen, Knave by Vladimir Nabokov Read Free Book Online Page B

Meanwhile Franz was experiencing fantastic difficulties with the vol-au-vent and then with the dessert. He had the feeling that in another minute his body would melt completely leaving only his head, which, with its mouth stuffed with a cream puff, would start floating about the room like a balloon. The coffee and the curaçao all but finished him. Dreyer, slowly rotating before him like a flaming wheel with human arms for spokes, began discussing the job awaiting Franz. Noting the state in which the poor fellow was, he did not go into details. He did say, however, that very soon Franz would become an excellent salesman, that the aviator’s principal enemy is not wind but fog, and that, as the salary would not be much at first, he would undertake to pay for the room and would be glad if Franz dropped in every evening if he desired, though he would not be surprised if next year air service were established betweenEurope and America. The merry-go-round in Franz’s head never stopped; his armchair travelled around the room in gliding circles. Dreyer considered him with a kindly smile, and, in anticipation of the tongue-lashing Martha would give him for all this jollity, kept mentally pouring out upon Franz’s head the contents of an enormous cornucopia, for he had to reward Franz somehow for the exhilarating fun lavished upon him by the imp of coincidence through Franz. He must reward not only him, but cousin Lina too for that wart on her cheek, for her pug, for the rocking chair with its green sausage-shaped nape rest bearing the embroidered legend “Only one little half hour.” Later, when Franz, exhaling wine and gratitude, bade his uncle good-by, carefully descended the steps to the garden, carefully squeezed through the gate, and, still holding his hat in his hand, disappeared round the corner, Dreyer imagined what a nice nap the poor boy would have back in his hotel room, and then himself felt the blissful weight of drowsiness and went up to the bedroom.
    There, in an orange peignoir, her bare legs crossed, her velvety-white neck nicely set off by the black of her low thick chignon—Martha sat at her dressing table polishing her nails. Dreyer saw in the mirror the gloss of her smooth bandeaux, her knit brows, her girlish breasts. A robust but untimely throb dispelled sleepiness. He sighed. It was not the first time he regretted that Martha regarded afternoon lovemaking as a decadent perversion. And since she did not raise her head, he understood she was angry.
    He said softly—trying to make matters worse so as to stop regretting: “Why did you disappear after lunch? You might have waited until he left.”
    Without raising her eyes Martha answered: “You know perfectly well we’ve been invited today to a very importantand very smart tea. It wouldn’t hurt if you got cleaned up too.”
    “We still have an hour or so,” said Dreyer. “Actually I thought I’d take a nap.”
    Martha remained silent as she worked rapidly with the chamois polisher. He threw off his so-called Norfolk jacket, then sat down on the edge of the couch, and began taking off his red-sand-stained tennis shoes.
    Martha bent even lower and abruptly said: “Amazing how some people have no sense of dignity.”
    Dreyer grunted and leisurely got rid of his flannel trousers, then of his white silk socks.
    A minute or so later Martha chucked something with a clatter onto the glass surface of her dressing table and said: “I’d like to know what that young man thinks of you now. No formalities, call me Uncle.… It’s unheard-of.”
    Dreyer smiled, wiggling his toes. “Enough playing on public courts,” he said. “Next spring I’ll join a club.”
    Martha abruptly turned toward him and, leaning her elbow on the arm of her chair, dropped her chin on her fist. One leg crossed over the other was swinging slightly. She surveyed her husband, incensed by the look of half-mischief, half-desire in his eyes.
    “You’ve got what you wanted,” she