Vladimir Nabokov. Una carta que nunca lleg? a Rusia : Клуб изучающих испанский языкVladimir Nabokov. Una carta que nunca lleg? a Rusia
. It trumpets gruffly into the ear of the night, and its shadow passes under my feet. By now the street is totally deserted— except for an aged Great Dane whose claws rap on the sidewalk as it reluctantly takes for a walk a listless, pretty, hatless girl with an opened umbrella. When she passes under the garnet bulb (on her left, above the fire alarm), a single taut, black segment of her umbrella reddens damply.
And beyond the bend, above the sidewalk—how unexpectedly!— the front of a cinema ripples in diamonds. Inside, on its rectangular, moon-pale screen you can watch more-or-less skillfully trained mimes: the huge face of a girl with gray, shimmering eyes and black lips traver