Vladimir Nabokov. Primavera en Fialta
Vladimir Nabokov. SPRING IN FIALTA
After the exodus from Russia, I saw her—and that was the second time—in Berlin at the house of some friends. I was about to get mar ried; she had just broken with her fiance. As I entered that room I caught sight of her at once and, having glanced at the other guests, I instinctively determined which of the men knew more about her than I. She was sitting in the corner of a couch, her feet pulled up, her small comfortable body folded in the form of a Z; an ashtray stood aslant on the couch near one of her heels; and, having squinted at me and lis tened to my name, she removed her stalklike cigarette holder from her lips and proceeded to utter slowly and