The Real Life of Sebastian Knight   ::   Набоков Владимир Владимирович

Once!Quite!'

'Could you perhaps….' I began.

'Anyfing,' he said. 'Ledder-belts, purses, notice-books, suggestions.'

'Suggestions,' I said. 'You see, I am trying to trace a person… a Russian lady whom I never have met, and whose name I do not know. All I know is that she lived for a certain stretch of time at a certain hotel at Blauberg.'

'Ah, good place,' said Mr Silbermann, 'very good' – and he screwed down the ends of his lips in grave approbation. 'Good water, walks, caseeno. What you want me to do?'

'Well,' I said, 'I should first like to know what can be done in such cases.'

'Better leave her alone,' said Mr Silbermann, promptly.

Then he thrust his head forward and his bushy eyebrows moved.

'Forget her,' he said. 'Fling her out of your head. It is dangerous and ewsyless.' He flicked something off my trouser knee, nodded and sat back again.

'Never mind that,' I said. 'The question is how, not why.'

'Every how has its why,' said Mr Silbermann. 'You find, found her build, her I picture, and now want to find herself yourself? Dat is not love. Ppah! Surface!'

'Oh, no,' I cried, 'it is not like that. I haven't the vaguest idea what she is like. But, you see, my dead brother loved her, and I want to hear her talk about him. It's really quite simple.'

'Sad!' said Mr Silbermann and shook his head.

'I want to write a book about him,' I continued, 'and every detail of his life interests me.'

'What was he ill?' Mr Silbermann asked huskily.

'Heart,' I replied.

'Harrt – dat's bad. Too many warnings, too many… general… general….'

'Dress rehearsals of death. That's right.'

'Yes. And how old?'

'Thirty-six. He wrote books, under his mother's name. Knight. Sebastian Knight.'

'Write it here,' said Mr Silbermann handing me an extraordinarily nice new notebook enclosing a delightful silver pencil, With a trk-trk-trk sound, he neatly removed the page, put it into his pocket and handed me the book again.

'You like it, no?' he said with an anxious smile. 'Permit me a little present.'

'Really,' I said, 'that's very kind….'

'Nofing, nofing,' he said, waving his hand. 'Now, what you want?'

'I want,' I replied, 'to get a complete list of all the people who have stayed in the Hotel Beaumont during June 1929. I also want some particulars of who they are, the women at least. I want their 'addresses. I want to be sure that under a foreign name a Russian woman is not hidden.