Vladimir Nabokov. Un mal día
Vladimir Nabokov. A BAD DAY
From the park came a dark, damp reek of mushrooms and firs. Then appeared a corner of the house and the brick-red sand in front of the stone porch.
"The children are in the garden," said Mrs. Kozlov, when Peter and his sister, having traversed several cool rooms redolent of carnations, reached the main veranda where a number of grown-ups were assembled. Peter said how-do-you-do to each, scraping, and making sure not to kiss a man's hand by mistake as had once happened. His sister kept her palm on the top of his head—something she ne