The Luzhin Defense by Vladimir Nabokov

Author:Vladimir Nabokov [Nabokov, Vladimir]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-78755-2
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-02-16T05:00:00+00:00

9

The sidewalk skidded, reared up at a right angle and swayed back again. Günther straightened himself up, breathing heavily, while his comrade, supporting him and also swaying, kept repeating: “Günther, Günther, try to walk.” Günther stood up quite straight and after this brief stop, which was not the first, both of them continued farther along the deserted night street, which alternately rose up smoothly to the stars and then sloped down again. Günther, a big sturdy fellow, had drunk more than his comrade: the latter, Kurt by name, supported Günther as best he could, although the beer was throbbing thunderously in his head. “Where are … where are …” Günther strove to ask. “Where are the others?” A moment before they had all been sitting around an oaken table, thirty fellows or so, happy, level-headed, hard-working men celebrating the fifth anniversary of their leaving school with a good sing and the sonorous ringing of clinked glasses—whereas now, as soon as they had started to disperse to their homes, they found themselves beset by nausea, darkness, and the hopeless unsteadiness of this sidewalk. “The others are there,” said Kurt with a broad gesture, which unpleasantly called into life the nearest wall: it leaned forward and slowly straightened up again. “They’ve gone, gone,” elucidated Kurt sadly. “But Karl is in front of us,” said Günther slowly and distinctly, and a resilient, beery wind caused them both to sway to one side: they halted, took a step backwards and again went on their way. “I’m telling you Karl is there,” repeated Günther sulkily. And truly a man was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with his head lowered. They miscalculated their impetus and were carried past. When they succeeded in approaching him the man smacked his lips and slowly turned toward them. Yes, it was Karl, but what a Karl—his face blank, his eyes glazed! “I’m just taking a rest,” he said in a dull voice. “I’ll continue in a minute.” Suddenly a taxi with its flag up came rolling slowly over the deserted asphalt. “Stop him,” said Karl. “I want him to take me.” The car drew up. Günther kept tumbling over Karl, trying to help him get up, and Kurt tugged at somebody’s gray-spatted foot. From his seat the driver encouraged all this good-naturedly and then climbed out and also began to help. The limply floundering body was squeezed through the aperture of the door and the car immediately pulled away. “And we’re nearly there,” said Kurt. The figure standing next to him sighed and Kurt, looking at him, saw that it was Karl—which meant that the taxi had carried off Günther instead. “I’ll give you a hand,” he said guiltily. “Let’s go.” Looking in front of him with empty, childlike eyes, Karl leaned toward him and they both moved off and started to cross to the other side of the heaving asphalt. “Here’s another,” said Kurt. A fat man without a hat lay all hunched up on the sidewalk, beside a garden fence.

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