Vladimir Nabokov. Batir de alas
"I recall, in Florence once..." He raised his doelike eyes. "Listen, Kern—I'd like to be present when you do it.... May I?"
Kern, in a numb slouch, sensed a chill in his chest under his starched shirt. We're both drunk, the words rushed through his brainy and he's spooky.
"May I?" repeated Monfiori with a pout, "Pretty please?" (touch of clammy, hairy little hand).
With a jerk and a groggy sway Kern rose from his chair.
"Go to hell! Let me out.... I was joking...."
The attentive gaze of Monfiori's leechy eyes did not waver.
"I'v