JК
The Real Life of Sebastian Knight :: Набоков Владимир Владимирович
Страница: 88 из 124Her idea of life was drinking cocktails, and eating a large supper at four o'clock in the morning, and dancing the shimmy or whatever it was called, andinspecting brothels because that was fashionable among Parisian snobs, and buying expensive clothes, and raising hell in hotels when she thought the maid had stolen her small change which she afterwards found in the bathroom…. Oh, and all the rest of it – you may find her in any cheap novel, she's a type, a type. And she loved inventing some rare illness and going to some famous kurort, and…'
'Wait a bit,' I said. 'That interests me. In June 1929, she was alone in Blauberg:
'Exactly, but that was at the very end of our marriage. We were living in Paris then, and soon after we separated, and I worked for a year at a factory in Lyon. I was broke, you see.'
'Do you mean to say she met some man in Blauberg?'
'No, that I don't know. You see, I don't think she really went very far in deceiving me, not really, you know, not the whole hog – at least I tried to think so, because there were always lots of men around her, and she didn't mind being kissed by them, I suppose, but I should have gone mad, had I let myself brood over the matter. Once, I remember…'
'Pardon me,' I interrupted again, 'but are you quite sure you never heard of an English friend of hers?'
'English? I thought you said German. No, I don't know. There was a young American at Ste Maxime in 1928, I believe, who almost swooned every time Ninka danced with him – and, well, there may have been Englishmen at Ostende and elsewhere, but really I never bothered about the nationality of her admirers.'
'So you are quite, quite sure that you don't know about Blauberg and… well, about what happened afterwards?'
'No,' he said. 'I don't think that she was interested in anybody there. You see, she had one of her illness-phases at the time – and she used to eat only lemon-ice and cucumbers, and talk of death and the Nirvana or something – she had a weakness for Lhassa – you know what I mean…'
'What exactly was her name?' I asked.
'Well, when I met her her name was Nina Toorovetz – but whether – No, I think, you won't find her. As a matter of fact, I often catch myself thinking that she has never existed. I told Varvara Mitrofanna about her, and she said it was merely a bad dream after seeing a bad cinema film. Oh, you are not going yet, are you? She'll be back in a minute….' He looked at me and laughed (I think he had had a little too much of that brandy).
'Oh, I forget,' he said. 'It is not my present wife that you want to find. And by the way,' he added, 'my papers are in perfect order. I can show you my carte de travail.
'Wait a bit,' I said. 'That interests me. In June 1929, she was alone in Blauberg:
'Exactly, but that was at the very end of our marriage. We were living in Paris then, and soon after we separated, and I worked for a year at a factory in Lyon. I was broke, you see.'
'Do you mean to say she met some man in Blauberg?'
'No, that I don't know. You see, I don't think she really went very far in deceiving me, not really, you know, not the whole hog – at least I tried to think so, because there were always lots of men around her, and she didn't mind being kissed by them, I suppose, but I should have gone mad, had I let myself brood over the matter. Once, I remember…'
'Pardon me,' I interrupted again, 'but are you quite sure you never heard of an English friend of hers?'
'English? I thought you said German. No, I don't know. There was a young American at Ste Maxime in 1928, I believe, who almost swooned every time Ninka danced with him – and, well, there may have been Englishmen at Ostende and elsewhere, but really I never bothered about the nationality of her admirers.'
'So you are quite, quite sure that you don't know about Blauberg and… well, about what happened afterwards?'
'No,' he said. 'I don't think that she was interested in anybody there. You see, she had one of her illness-phases at the time – and she used to eat only lemon-ice and cucumbers, and talk of death and the Nirvana or something – she had a weakness for Lhassa – you know what I mean…'
'What exactly was her name?' I asked.
'Well, when I met her her name was Nina Toorovetz – but whether – No, I think, you won't find her. As a matter of fact, I often catch myself thinking that she has never existed. I told Varvara Mitrofanna about her, and she said it was merely a bad dream after seeing a bad cinema film. Oh, you are not going yet, are you? She'll be back in a minute….' He looked at me and laughed (I think he had had a little too much of that brandy).
'Oh, I forget,' he said. 'It is not my present wife that you want to find. And by the way,' he added, 'my papers are in perfect order. I can show you my carte de travail.