JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 74 из 124'Perhaps you remember a Russian lady – a young lady – and well… good looking?'
'Nous avons eu beaucoup de jolies dames,' he replied getting more and more distant. 'How should I remember?'
'Well,' said I, 'the simplest way would be to have a look at your books and sort out the Russian names for June 1929.'
'There are sure to be several,' he said. 'How will you pick out the one you need, if you do not know it?'
'Give me the names and addresses,' I said desperately, 'and leave the rest to me.'
He sighed deeply and shook his head.
'No,' he said.
'Do you mean to say you don't keep books?' I asked trying to speak quietly.
'Oh, I keep them all right,' he said. 'My business requires great order in these matters. Oh, yes, I have got the names all right….'
He wandered away to the back of the room and produced a large black volume.
'Here,' he said. 'First week of July 1935…. Professor Ott with wife, Colonel Samain….'
'Look here,' I said, 'I'm not interested in July 1935. What I want….' He shut his book and carried it away.
'I only wanted to show you,' he said with his back turned to me – 'to show you [a lock clicked] that I keep my books in good order.'
He came back to his desk and folded a letter that was lying on the blotting-pad.
'Summer 1929,' I pleaded. 'Why don't you want to show me the pages I want?'
'Well,' he said, 'the thing is not done. Firstly, because I don't want a person who is a complete stranger to me to bother people who were and will be my clients. Secondly, because I cannot understand why you should be so eager to find a woman whom you do not want to name. And thirdly – I do not want to get into any kind of trouble. I have enough troubles as it is. In the hotel round the corner a Swiss couple committed suicide in 1929,' he added rather irrelevantly.
'Is that your last word?' I asked.
He nodded and looked at his watch. I turned on my heel and slammed the door after me – at least, I tried to slam it – it was one of those confounded pneumatic doors which resist.
Slowly, I went back to the station. The park. Perhaps Sebastian recalled that particular stone bench under that cedar tree at the time he was dying. The outline of that mountain yonder may have been the paraph of a certain unforgettable evening. The whole place seemed to me a huge refuse heap where I knew a dark jewel had been lost. My failure was absurd, horrible, excruciating. The leaden sluggishness of dream-endeavour. Hopeless gropings among dissolving things.
'Nous avons eu beaucoup de jolies dames,' he replied getting more and more distant. 'How should I remember?'
'Well,' said I, 'the simplest way would be to have a look at your books and sort out the Russian names for June 1929.'
'There are sure to be several,' he said. 'How will you pick out the one you need, if you do not know it?'
'Give me the names and addresses,' I said desperately, 'and leave the rest to me.'
He sighed deeply and shook his head.
'No,' he said.
'Do you mean to say you don't keep books?' I asked trying to speak quietly.
'Oh, I keep them all right,' he said. 'My business requires great order in these matters. Oh, yes, I have got the names all right….'
He wandered away to the back of the room and produced a large black volume.
'Here,' he said. 'First week of July 1935…. Professor Ott with wife, Colonel Samain….'
'Look here,' I said, 'I'm not interested in July 1935. What I want….' He shut his book and carried it away.
'I only wanted to show you,' he said with his back turned to me – 'to show you [a lock clicked] that I keep my books in good order.'
He came back to his desk and folded a letter that was lying on the blotting-pad.
'Summer 1929,' I pleaded. 'Why don't you want to show me the pages I want?'
'Well,' he said, 'the thing is not done. Firstly, because I don't want a person who is a complete stranger to me to bother people who were and will be my clients. Secondly, because I cannot understand why you should be so eager to find a woman whom you do not want to name. And thirdly – I do not want to get into any kind of trouble. I have enough troubles as it is. In the hotel round the corner a Swiss couple committed suicide in 1929,' he added rather irrelevantly.
'Is that your last word?' I asked.
He nodded and looked at his watch. I turned on my heel and slammed the door after me – at least, I tried to slam it – it was one of those confounded pneumatic doors which resist.
Slowly, I went back to the station. The park. Perhaps Sebastian recalled that particular stone bench under that cedar tree at the time he was dying. The outline of that mountain yonder may have been the paraph of a certain unforgettable evening. The whole place seemed to me a huge refuse heap where I knew a dark jewel had been lost. My failure was absurd, horrible, excruciating. The leaden sluggishness of dream-endeavour. Hopeless gropings among dissolving things.