The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov Read Free Book Online Page B

door of the Khrushchov apartment and tiptoed into the parlor.
    It is amusing to catch another’s room by surprise. The furniture froze in amazementwhen I switched on the light. Somebody had left a letter on the table; the empty envelope lay there like an old useless mother, and the little sheet of note paper seemed to be sitting up like a robust babe. But the eagerness, the throb of excitement, the precipitous movement of my hand, all proved uncalled-for. The letter was from a person unknown to me, a certain Uncle Pasha. It contained not a single allusion to Smurov! And if it was coded, then I did not know the key. I flitted over into the dining room. Raisins and nuts in a bowl, and, next to it, spread-eagled and prone, a French novel—the adventures of
Ariane, Jeune Fille Russe
. In Vanya’s bedroom, where I went next, it was cold from the open window. I found it so strange to look at the lace bedspread and the altarlike toilet table, where cut glass glistened mystically. The orchid was nowhere to be seen, but in recompense there was the photo propped against the bedside lamp. It had been taken by Roman Bogdanovich. It showed Vanya sitting with luminous legs crossed, behind her was the narrow face of Mukhin, and to Vanya’s left, one could make out a black elbow—all that remained of lopped-off Smurov. Shattering evidence! On Vanya’s lace-covered pillow there suddenly appeared a star-shaped hollow—the violent imprint of myfist, and in the next moment I was already in the dining room, devouring the raisins and still trembling. Here I remembered the escritoire in the parlor and noiselessly hurried to it. But at this moment the metallic fidgeting of a key sounded from the direction of the front door. I began to retreat hastily, switching off lights as I went, until I found myself in a satiny little boudoir next to the dining room. I fumbled about in the dark, bumped into a sofa and stretched out on it as if I had gone in to take a nap.
    In the meantime voices carried from the hallway—those of the two sisters and that of Khrushchov. They were saying goodbye to Mukhin. Wouldn’t he come in for a minute? No, it was late, he would not. Late? Had my disincarnate flitting from room to room really lasted three hours? Somewhere in a theater one had had time to perform a silly play I had seen many times while here a man had but walked through three rooms. Three rooms: three acts. Had I really pondered over a letter in the parlor a whole hour, and a whole hour over a book in the dining room, and an hour again over a snapshot in the strange coolness of the bedroom? … My time and theirs had nothing in common.
    Khrushchov probably went right to bed; thesisters entered the dining room alone. The door to my dark damasked lair was not shut tight. I believed that now I would learn all I wanted about Smurov.
    “…  But rather exhausting,” said Vanya and made a soft och-ing sound conveying to me a yawn. “Give me some root beer, I don’t want any tea.” There was the light scrape of a chair being moved to the table.
    A long silence. Then Evgenia’s voice—so close that I cast an alarmed look at the slit of light. “…  The main thing is, let him tell them his terms. That’s the main thing. After all, he speaks English and those Germans don’t. I’m not sure I like this fruit paste.”
    Silence again. “All right, I’ll advise him to do that,” said Vanya. Something tinkled and fell—a spoon, maybe—and then there was another long pause.
    “Look at this,” said Vanya with a laugh.
    “What’s it made of, wood?” asked her sister.
    “I don’t know,” said Vanya and laughed again.
    After a while, Evgenia yawned, even more cosily than Vanya.
    “…  clock has stopped,” she said.
    And that was all. They sat on for quite a while; they made clinking sounds with somethingor other; the nutcracker would crunch and return to the tablecloth with a thump; but there was no more talk. Then the chairs moved again.