Vladimir Nabokov. Guía de Berlín
The pub in which he and I are sitting is divided into two parts, one large, the other somewhat smaller. A billiard table occupies the center of the former; there are a few tables in the corners; a bar faces the en-trance, and bottles stand on shelves behind the bar. On the wall, be-teen the windows, newspapers and magazines mounted on shot staffs lung like paper banners. At the far end there is a wide passageway, through which one sees a cramped little room with a green couch under a mirror, out of which an oval table with a checked oilcloth topples and takes up its solid position in front of the couch. That room is part of the publican's humble little ap