The Unreal Life of Sergey Nabokov by Paul Russell Page A

for the moment his quibble, which really seemed beside the point, but all the while, to my surprise, sustaining his gaze. How lustrous his eyes were, how grave and thoughtful his expression.
    Volodya stirred restlessly. “I think we’ve had enough of this philosophizing. I’m exhausted. In fact, I think it’s time for bed. Yurasha, are you coming? Or do you wish to indulge further my brother’s maunderings?”
    Yuri continued to look at me for a very long moment; then, disappointingly, he said, “Sure, Volodya. I’m coming. Goodnight, Sergey Vladimirovich.”
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    Two days later Yuri left for Warsaw. That same afternoon, Mother received via telegram the news that her brother Vassily Ivanovich Rukavishnikov, my beloved and unattainable Uncle Ruka, had died of heart failure at the Clinique Ste.-Maude near Paris.
    â€œYou were fond of him, I know,” she said, caressing my hair. “Rest assured, he’s finally at peace.”
    I found Volodya out by the swings, pushing our sister Elena in aggressive arcs. Soaring, she squealed with delight. His brow was furrowed. He ignored my arrival.
    â€œDo you know what this means?” I asked him.
    â€œI suppose it means I’m free,” he said, giving the swing a rough shove.
    â€œI don’t understand,” I said. “Free from what?”
    But he only bit his lip, and shook his head, and looked away, and would not answer even when I repeated my innocuous question.

11
    BERLIN,
NOVEMBER 27, 1943
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    AS I HAVE GROWN WEARY OF FRAU SCHLEGEL’S turnip soups and margarined radishes, bless her black-marketeer’s heart, I find myself looking forward to my lunch with Felix Silber. Though I am filled with irresolvable questions about his motives, and am half expecting that he has laid some sort of trap (but why go to all that trouble?), I am at the same time hungry for this bit of honest human contact. Perhaps he is as well. Perhaps it is all as simple as that.
    But then, just as I have half convinced myself that is the case, I remember with a shudder the prankster-executioner from V. Sirin’s Invitation to a Beheading , that novel which has so unnervingly predicted my present predicament. I must confess that I wonder, from time to time, whether I have somehow unwittingly fallen into one of Sirin’s narratives, just as the poor chess
master falls into an abyss of chess squares at the end of Luzhin’s Defense . Was I being warned all those times I sensed an uncanny echo of my own shadow life in his novels? Have I turned out to be what V. Sirin, aka V. Nabokov, despises most—the Careless Reader?
    In any event, I dress in dark if threadbare flannels and a crimson bowtie. My shoes have been repaired till there is nothing left to repair, but I can do little about that unfortunate situation. I reinforce the practically nonexistent soles with several pages torn at random from one of the encyclopedia volumes in my room (Dementia, Demon, Demosthenes).
    Few trams run any longer, and those that do are windowless and terribly cold. I prefer walking, anyway. Thanks to the battalions of Russian and Italian POWs, the streets are cleared remarkably quickly, and there is a kind of melancholy grandeur to the ruins of this once beautiful city.
    The Propaganda Ministry has been busy in my absence. From fire-scorched walls have sprouted a new crop of posters to inspire us, red-and-black placards urging, TO VICTORY WITH OUR LEADER! But other messages are more practical, such as the one that reminds us, RESCUE CREWS HAVE LISTENING DEVICES! Or another, white skull and crossbones on a black field: ATTENTION PLUNDERERS: THE PUNISHMENT IS DEATH!
    One sees, as well, more personal pleas chalked in German, in Russian, in Polish, in French: “Reinhart family: I am staying at Elsie’s.” “Vasla: contact Frieda in Potsdam.” “Where are you, my angel? I’ve looked everywhere. I’m sick with