Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
Monfiori sighed, swigged, smacked his lips, and marked the first item on the list with an X, using an automatic pencil. Two deep furrows ran from the wings of his nose to the corners of his thin mouth.
After his third glass Kern lit a cigarette in silence. After his sixth drink—an oversweet concoction of chocolate and champagne—he had the urge to talk.
He exhaled a megaphone of smoke. Narrowing his eyes, he tapped the ashes from his cigarette with a yellowed nail.
"Tell me, Monfiori, what do you think of this—what's her name—Isabel?"
"You'll get nowhere with her," replied Monfiori. "She belongs to the sl