JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 87 из 124I was rich in Russia and I gotrich again in Belgium ten years ago, but then I went broke. Here's to yours.'
'Does your wife sew?' I asked, so as to set the ball rolling.
'Oh, yes, she has taken up dressmaking,' he said with a happy laugh. 'And I'm a type-setter, but I have just lost my job. She's sure to be back in a moment. I did not know she had German friends,' he added.
'I think,' I said, 'they met her in Germany, or was it Alsace?' He had been refilling his glass eagerly, but suddenly he stopped and looked at me agape.
'I'm afraid, there's some mistake,' he exclaimed. 'It must have been my first wife. Varvara Mitrofanna has never been out of Paris – except Russia, of course – she came here from Sebastopol via Marseilles.' He drained his glass and began to laugh.
'That's a good one,' he said eyeing me curiously. 'Have I met you before? Do you know my first one personally?'
I shook my head.
'Then you're lucky,' he cried. 'Damned lucky. And your German friends have sent you upon a wild goose chase because you'll never find her.'
'Why?' I asked getting more and more interested.
'Because soon after we separated, and that was years ago, I lost sight of her absolutely. Somebody saw her in Rome, and somebody saw her in Sweden – but I'm not sure even of that. She may be here, and she may be in hell. I don't care.'
'And you could not suggest any way of finding her?'
'None,' he said.
'Mutual acquaintances?'
They were her acquaintances, not mine,' he answered with a shudder.
'You haven't got a photo of her or something?'
'Look here,' he said, 'what are you driving at? Are the police after her? Because, you know, I shouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be an international spy. Mata Hari! That's her type. Oh, absolutely. And then…. Well, she's not a girl you can easily forget once she's got into your system. She sucked me dry, and in more ways than one. Money and soul, for instance. I would have killed her… if it had not been for Anatole.'
'And who's that?' I asked.
'Anatole? Oh, that's the executioner. The man with the guillotine here. So you're not of the police, after all. No? Well it's your own business, I suppose. But, really, she drove me mad. I met her, you know, in Ostende, that must have been, let me see, in 1927 – she was twenty then, no, not even twenty. I knew she was another fellow's mistress and all that, but I did not care.
'Does your wife sew?' I asked, so as to set the ball rolling.
'Oh, yes, she has taken up dressmaking,' he said with a happy laugh. 'And I'm a type-setter, but I have just lost my job. She's sure to be back in a moment. I did not know she had German friends,' he added.
'I think,' I said, 'they met her in Germany, or was it Alsace?' He had been refilling his glass eagerly, but suddenly he stopped and looked at me agape.
'I'm afraid, there's some mistake,' he exclaimed. 'It must have been my first wife. Varvara Mitrofanna has never been out of Paris – except Russia, of course – she came here from Sebastopol via Marseilles.' He drained his glass and began to laugh.
'That's a good one,' he said eyeing me curiously. 'Have I met you before? Do you know my first one personally?'
I shook my head.
'Then you're lucky,' he cried. 'Damned lucky. And your German friends have sent you upon a wild goose chase because you'll never find her.'
'Why?' I asked getting more and more interested.
'Because soon after we separated, and that was years ago, I lost sight of her absolutely. Somebody saw her in Rome, and somebody saw her in Sweden – but I'm not sure even of that. She may be here, and she may be in hell. I don't care.'
'And you could not suggest any way of finding her?'
'None,' he said.
'Mutual acquaintances?'
They were her acquaintances, not mine,' he answered with a shudder.
'You haven't got a photo of her or something?'
'Look here,' he said, 'what are you driving at? Are the police after her? Because, you know, I shouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be an international spy. Mata Hari! That's her type. Oh, absolutely. And then…. Well, she's not a girl you can easily forget once she's got into your system. She sucked me dry, and in more ways than one. Money and soul, for instance. I would have killed her… if it had not been for Anatole.'
'And who's that?' I asked.
'Anatole? Oh, that's the executioner. The man with the guillotine here. So you're not of the police, after all. No? Well it's your own business, I suppose. But, really, she drove me mad. I met her, you know, in Ostende, that must have been, let me see, in 1927 – she was twenty then, no, not even twenty. I knew she was another fellow's mistress and all that, but I did not care.