who I’d like to paint the way Goya did his duchess. There is something of The Maja about her, haven’t you noticed?”
I pretended I wasn’t interested. Nikolasha liked to talk like that, probably because he knew that it irritated me.
In a corner of the Russian bistrot called l’Ours, Nina was sitting with Vladimir Nabokov. It hadn’t been such a long time since Nina had left Vladya. It didn’t surprise me that the couple had attracted the attention of my painter friend: Nabokov was blond and tanned, with a fine face, slim, athletic, dressed in a white shirt; Nina, vaguely Oriental looking, in a pearl-colored dress. There was something about the couple that was noble, aristocratic, that made them stand out in the crowd, at least for someone with a sharp eye.
They were eating Russian pancakes—the cook of L’Ours made exceptional blini—with smoked fish and imitation caviar, and they were washing it down with vodka. Later the waiter also brought them a bottle of red wine. As Nabokov knew the owner of the premises, without a doubt it was he who had invited Nina to have lunch with him. They were laughing a lot; they didn’t stop making toasts, and it was clear that they were getting drunk, and not only on the wine but also, especially, on each other. Nabokov’s frenchified rrrrrrr, so typical of the Saint Petersburg aristocracy, he repeated again and again.
“Where do you write, Nina Nikolayevna?”
“At home, on a little wobbly table, with a view of the chimneys of Paris, or at a cafe table. Like everybody, no?”
“No, not quite like everybody. I write exclusively in the lavatory, if I might dignify that little room in my hideaway in the outskirts of the city with such noble terms.”
“Why in the lavatory, Vladimir Vladimirovich?”
“Mainly because it is sunny there all morning. And also for the not insignificant reason that my apartment is unfurnished.”
“You live in an empty apartment?”
“Completely empty. When my wife or my son want to go the lavatory, I have to take a break. But they know this and are respectful. They drink very little.”
Nina laughed as if she never wanted to stop. They made a toast to that original form of writing desk.
“It is a table or a chair, as I please, but is never the two things together. I’ll give you a piece of advice, Nina, even though you don’t need any. Don’t forget that the lavatory is usually the quietest place in the apartment.”
The waiter comes up to refill their glasses. Nabokov pays and apologizes to Nina saying that he hadn’t noticed how time had flown in her company and that unfortunately he simply had to attend a meeting of the editorial board, which had started half an hour ago. Nina said that at least she could quietly finish enjoying the exquisite dishes that they hadn’t had time to finish while they conversed. He kissed her on the cheeks, one, two, three kisses, and was off.
Now my moment has come, I told myself. I said hello to Nina and she invited me to sit at her table. I signalled to my companion.
“Nina, let me introduce you to my friend Nikolay Vassil-yevich Makeyev, painter, student of Odilon Redon, and also a journalist and politician, the author of the book Russia, published in New York.”
“That is to say, a Renaissance man,” Nina smiled wryly. Nikolasha also smiled and looked at Nina without blinking. She noticed it and took hold of the bottle to offer us a glass of wine.
“Isn’t this friend of yours, Nabokov, a bit arrogant?” said Nikolay.
I had never seen my friend behave like this. Although he liked to épater le bourgeois, he never got close to being rude.
“Not at all. Why do you say that?” said Nina coldly.
“It is notorious that in a gathering of people he pretends not to know his closest friend; he deliberately calls a man who he knows perfectly well as Ivan Petrovich, Ivan Ivanovich. Be careful with him, Nina Nikolayevna: one day he will address you as Nina Alexandrovna, you’ll see! And in order to show his superiority he likes to mangle the titles of novels, with his hallmark sarcasm. For example, apparently without thinking and with all the pretense of innocence, he calls a book titled From the East Comes the Cold, From the East Comes the Fart.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at with all this,” Nina said, very distant. “Vladimir Vladimirovich has his eccentricities, as does everybody. In 1929, when The Luzchin Defence came