Vladimir Nabokov. La tormenta
Vladimir Nabokov. THE THUNDERSTORM
I bowed. The prophet clucked his tongue, scratching the while his bald brown spot.
"Lost a wheel. Find it for me, will you?"
The rain had now ceased. Enormous flame-colored clouds collected above the roofs. The shrubs, the fence, the glistening kennel, were floating in the bluish, drowsy air around us. We groped for a long time in various corners. The old man kept grunting, hitching up the heavy hem of his robe, splashing through the puddles with his round-t