Laughter in the Dark

by Vladimir Vladimirovich Nabokov

  The light went out with a thud, and Margot leaned against the grating of the lift crying afresh. She was crying because he had left her that time; because he had concealed his name and his reputation from her; because she might all this time have been happy with him if he had stayed; and because she would then have escaped the two Japanese, the old man and Albinus. And then she cried, too, because at supper Rex had touched her right knee and Albinus her left—as though Paradise had been on her right hand and Hell on her left.

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve, groped in the darkness and pressed the switch again. The light calmed her a little. She examined the sketch once more; reflected that, however much it meant to her, it would be dangerous to keep it; tore it into fragments and flung these through the grating into the well of the lift. This reminded her of her early childhood. Then she pulled out her pocket mirror, powdered her face with a swift circular motion, straining her upper lip as she did so, closed her bag with a resolute click and ran up the steps.

  “Why so late?” asked Albinus.

  He was already in his pyjamas.

  She explained breathlessly that she had found it difficult to get rid of von Ivanoff, who had kept insisting that she must let him drive her home.

  “How my beauty’s eyes are sparkling,” he murmured, “and how tired and hot she is. My beauty has been drinking.”

  “No, leave me alone tonight,” replied Margot softly.

  “Bunny, please,” implored Albinus, “I’ve been waiting so.”

  “Wait a bit longer. First I want to know something: have you done anything about the divorce yet?”

  “The divorce?” he repeated, taken aback.

  “Sometimes I can’t understand you, Albert. After all, we must put things on a proper footing, mustn’t we? Or perhaps you mean to leave me after a while and go back to Lizzy?”

  “Leave you?”

  “Stop repeating my words, you idiot. No, you shan’t come near me till you give me a sensible answer.”

  “Very well,” he said. “On Monday I’ll speak to my lawyer.”

  “Positively? You promise?”

  18

  AXEL REX was glad to be back in his beautiful native land. He had been having troubles lately. Somehow, the hinges of luck had got stuck—and he had abandoned it in the mud like a broken car. There had been, for instance, that row with his editor who had failed to appreciate his last joke—not that it was ever intended for reproduction. There had been a row generally. A rich spinster had been mixed up in it and a fishy (“though very amusing,” thought Rex sadly) money-transaction, and a rather one-sided conversation with certain authorities on the subject of undesirable aliens. People had been unkind to him, he reflected, but he forgave them readily. Funny the way people admired his work and the very next moment attempted (once or twice fairly successfully) to punch his face.

  Worst of all, however, was the question of his financial position. Fame—not quite on the world scale which that mild fool had yesterday suggested it to be—but still, fame—had brought in a good deal of money at one period. Now, when he was rather at a loose end and hazy about his cartoonist’s career in Berlin, where people were, as they always had been, at the mother-in-law stage of humor, he would have had that money still—at least some of it—had he not been a gambler.

  Having cultivated a penchant for bluff since his tenderest age, no wonder his favorite card-game was poker! He played it whenever he could get partners; and he played it in his dreams: with historical characters or some distant cousin of his, long dead, whom in real life he never remembered, or with people who—in real life again—would have flatly refused to be in the same room with him. In that dream he took up, stacked together, and lifted close to his eyes the five dealt to him, saw with pleasure the joker in cap and bells, and, as he pressed out with a cautious thumb one top corner and then another, he found by degrees that he had five jokers. “Excellent,” he thought to himself, without any surprise at their plurality, and quietly made his first bet, which Henry the Eighth (by Holbein) who had only four queens, doubled. Then he woke up, still with his poker face.

  The morning was so bleak and dark that he had to turn on his bedside light. The gauze on the window looked filthy. They could have given him a better room for his money (which, he thought, they might never see). Suddenly, with a sweet shock, he remembered that curious meeting yesterday.

  As a rule, Rex recalled his love affairs without any particular emotion. Margot was an exception. In the course of these two last years, he had often found himself thinking of her; and he had often gazed with something very like melancholy at that rapid pencil sketch; a strange sentiment because Axel Rex was, to say the least of it, a cynic.

  When, as a youth, he had first left Germany (very quickly, in order to avoid the War), he had abandoned his poor half-witted mother, and the day after his departure for Montevideo she had fallen downstairs and injured herself fatally. As a child he had poured oil over live mice, set fire to them and watched them dart about for a few seconds like flaming meteors. And it is best not to inquire into the things he did to cats. Then, in riper years, when his artistic talent developed, he tried in more subtle ways to satiate his curiosity, for it was not anything morbid with a medical name—oh, not at all—just cold, wide-eyed curiosity, just the marginal notes supplied by life to his art. It amused him immensely to see life made to look silly, as it slid helplessly into caricature. He despised practical jokes: he liked them to happen by themselves with perchance now and then just that little touch on his part which would send the wheel running downhill. He loved to fool people; and the less trouble the process entailed, the more the joke pleased him. And at the same time this dangerous man was, with pencil in hand, a very fine artist indeed.

  Uncle alone in the house with the children said he’d dress up to amuse them. After a long wait, as he did not appear, they went down and saw a masked man putting the table silver into a bag. “Oh, Uncle,” they cried in delight. “Yes, isn’t my make-up good?” said Uncle, taking his mask off. Thus goes the Hegelian syllogism of humor. Thesis: Uncle made himself up as a burglar (a laugh for the children); antithesis: it was a burglar (a laugh for the reader); synthesis: it still was Uncle (fooling the reader). This was the super-humor Rex liked to put into his work; and this, he claimed, was quite new.

  A great painter one day, high up on the scaffold, began moving backward to view better his finished fresco. The next receding step would have taken him over, and, as a warning cry might be fatal, his apprentice had the presence of mind to sling the contents of a pail at the masterpiece. Very funny! But how much funnier still, had the rapt master been left to walk back into nothing—with, incidentally, the spectators expecting the pail. The art of caricature, as Rex understood it, was thus based (apart from its synthetic, fooled-again nature) on the contrast between cruelty on one side and credulity on the other. And if, in real life, Rex looked on without stirring a finger while a blind beggar, his stick tapping happily, was about to sit down on a freshly painted bench, he was only deriving inspiration for his next little picture.

  But all this did not apply to the feelings which Margot had aroused in him. In her case, even in the artistic sense, the painter in Rex triumphed over the humorist. He felt a little annoyed at being so pleased to find her again: indeed, if he had left Margot, it had been only because he was afraid of becoming too fond of her.

  Now first of all he wanted to find out whether she was really living with Albinus. He looked at his watch. Noon. He looked into his note-case. Empty. He dressed and made his way on foot to the house where he had been on the previous evening. Snow was falling softly and steadily.

  Albinus happened to open the door himself and did not at first recognize his guest in the snow-covered figure before him. But when Rex, after rubbing his shoes on the mat, raised his face, Albinus welcomed him very cordially. The man had impressed him the evening before not only by his ready wit and easy manner, but also by his extraordinary personal appearance:
his pale, hollow cheeks, thick lips and queer black hair went to form a kind of fascinating ugliness. On the other hand it was pleasant to remember that Margot, when they were discussing the party, had observed: “That artist friend of yours has a revolting mug—there’s a man I’d not kiss at any price.” And what Dorianna had had to say of him was interesting too.

  Rex apologized for the informality of his visit, and Albinus laughed genially.

  “To tell the truth,” Rex said, “you’re one of the few people in Berlin whom I’d like to know more intimately. In America men make friends more easily than here and I’ve formed the habit over there of behaving unconventionally. Excuse me if I shock you—but do you really think it advisable to allow that natty rag-doll to straggle on your divan when there’s a Ruysdael right above it? By the way, may I examine your pictures more closely? That one over there looks superb.”

  Albinus led him through the rooms. Every one of them contained some fine painting—with a sprinkling of fakes. Rex gazed in rapture. He wondered whether that Lorenzo Lotto with the mauve-robed John and weeping Virgin was quite genuine. At one time of his adventurous life he had worked as a faker of pictures and had produced some very good stuff. The seventeenth century—that was his period. Last night he had noticed an old friend in the dining room, and now he examined it again with exquisite delight. It was in Baugin’s best manner: a mandolin on a chessboard, ruby wine in a glass and a white carnation.

  “Doesn’t it look modern? Almost surrealistic, in fact,” said Albinus fondly.

  “Quite,” said Rex, holding his own wrist, as he contemplated the picture. It was modern: he had painted it only eight years ago.

  Then they walked along the passage where there was a nice Linard—flowers and an eyed moth. At that moment Margot emerged from the bathroom in a bright yellow bathrobe. She ran down the corridor, almost losing one of her slippers on the way.

  “In here,” said Albinus with a bashful laugh. Rex followed him into the library.

  “If I am not mistaken,” he said smiling, “that was Fräulein Peters. Is she a relative of yours?”

  “What’s the use of pretending?” thought Albinus swiftly. It would be impossible to hoodwink anyone so observant—and, well, wasn’t it all rather smart—in a subtle Bohemian way? “My little mistress,” he answered aloud.

  He invited Rex to stay for dinner, and the latter made no ado about accepting. When Margot appeared at table, she was languid but calm: the agitation which she had been barely able to control the night before had now changed into something very like happiness. As she sat between these two men who were sharing her life, she felt as though she were the chief actress in a mysterious and passionate film-drama—so she tried to behave accordingly: smiling absently, drooping her eyelashes, tenderly laying her hand on Albinus’ sleeve, as she asked him to pass the fruit, and casting a fleeting, indifferent glance at her former lover.

  “No, I won’t let him escape again, no fear,” she said to herself suddenly, and a delicious, long-lost shudder ran down her spine.

  Rex spoke a good deal. Among other amusing things he told them a funny story about an inebriated Lohengrin who happened to miss the swan and waited hopefully for the next one. Albinus laughed heartily, but Rex knew (and this was the private point of his joke) that he saw only half the joke, and that it was the other half which made Margot bite her lips. He hardly looked at her while talking. When he did, she at once cast a downward glance at this or that part of her dress where his eyes had settled for a moment, and touched it up unconsciously.

  “And soon,” said Albinus with a wink, “we’ll be seeing someone on the screen.”

  Margot pouted and slapped his hand lightly.

  “Are you an actress?” asked Rex. “Oh, indeed? And may I inquire in what film you are appearing?”

  She answered without looking at him and felt extremely proud. He was a famous artist and she was a film star. They were now both on the same level.

  Rex left immediately after dinner, reflected what he should do next and dropped into a gambling-club. A straight flush (which had not happened to him for ages) bucked him up somewhat. The next day he rang up Albinus and they went to an exhibition of pointedly modern pictures. The day after that, he had supper at Albinus’ flat. Then he called unexpectedly, but Margot was not at home, and he had to sustain a good lengthy highbrow conversation with Albinus, who was beginning to like him hugely. Rex was getting thoroughly annoyed. At length fate took pity on him, choosing for her good deed the circumstance of an ice-hockey match at the Sport Palace.

  As the three of them were making their way to their box, Albinus noticed Paul’s shoulders and Irma’s fair plait. Something of this kind was bound to happen one day or another, but although he had always been expecting it, it took him so entirely unawares that he veered awkwardly, bumping violently into Margot’s side as he did so.

  “Look what you’re doing, you,” she said nastily.

  “Make yourself comfortable and order some coffee,” said Albinus. “I must—er—telephone. I had quite forgotten.”

  “Please, don’t go away,” said Margot, standing up again.

  “It’s rather urgent,” he insisted, hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible (had Irma seen him?). “If I should be detained, don’t worry. Do excuse me, Rex.”

  “Please, stay here,” repeated Margot very quietly.

  But he did not notice her strange glance, nor how her cheeks flushed and her lips quivered. His back became quite round, and he hurried to the exit.

  There was a moment of silence and then Rex heaved a great sigh.

  “Enfin seuls,” he said grimly.

  They sat side by side in their expensive box at a little table with a very white cloth. Below, just beyond the barrier, extended the vast frozen area. The band was playing a thumping circus march. The empty sheet of ice bore an oily blue gloss. The air was hot and cold at the same time.

  “Do you understand now?” asked Margot suddenly, hardly knowing herself what she was asking.

  Rex was about to answer, but at that moment a crash of applause reverberated through the enormous house. He squeezed her hot little fingers under the table. Margot felt the tears rising, but did not withdraw her hand.

  A girl in white tights with a silvery, fluff-hemmed short skirt had come running across the ice on the toes of her skates and, having gained impetus, described a lovely curve and leaped, and turned, and was gliding again.

  Her glittering skates flashed like lightning as she circled and danced, cutting the ice with an excruciating impact.

  “You jilted me,” Margot began.

  “Yes, but I have dashed back to you, haven’t I? Don’t cry, baby. Have you been with him long?”

  Margot tried to speak, but again a huge hubbub filled the house. The ice was empty again. She propped her elbows on the table and pressed her hands to her temples.

  Among catcalls, clappings and clamor, the players were leisurely gliding across the ice—first the Swedes, then the Germans. The visitors’ goalkeeper, in his brilliant sweater, with great leather pads from instep to hip, slid slowly toward his tiny goal.

  “He’s going to get her to divorce him. Do you understand what a very awkward moment you’ve chosen for coming?”

  “Nonsense. Do you really believe he’s going to marry you?”

  “If you upset things he won’t.”

  “No, Margot, he’ll not marry you.”

  “And I tell you he will.”

  Their lips continued to move, but the clamor around drowned their swift quarrel. The crowd was roaring with excitement as nimble sticks pursued the puck on the ice, and knocked it, and hooked it, and passed it on, and missed it, and clashed together in rapid collision. Shifting smoothly this way and that at his post, the goal-keeper pressed his legs together so that his two pads combined to form one single shield.

  “… it’s dreadful that you’ve come back. You’re a beggar compared with him. Good God, now I know
you’re going to spoil everything.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense, we’ll be very careful.”

  “I’m going mad,” said Margot. “Get me out of this din. Let’s go. I’m sure he won’t come back now, and if he does, it’ll be a good lesson.”

  “Come to my place. You must come. Don’t be a fool. We’ll be quick. You’ll be home in an hour.”

  “Shut up. I won’t take any risks. I’ve been working to get him that far for months, and now he’s ripe. Do you really expect me to throw it all up now?”

  “He won’t marry you,” said Rex in a tone of conviction.

  “Will you take me home or not?” she asked, almost screaming—and the thought flashed through her mind: “I’ll let him kiss me in the taxi.”

  “Wait a bit. Say, how do you know I am broke?”

  “I can see that in your eyes,” she replied, and then stopped her ears, for now the noise had reached its climax: a goal had been scored, the Swedish goalkeeper was lying prone on the ice, and the stick which had been struck out of his hand spun round and round as it slid away on the ice like a lost oar.

  “Well, what I say is this: it’s a waste of time to put it off. It’s got to happen sooner or later. Come on. There’s a fine view from my window when the blind is down.”

  “Another word and I’ll drive home alone.”

  As they were making their way along the back of the boxes. Margot gave a start and frowned. A plump gentleman in horn-rimmed glasses was staring at her with disgust. Seated by his side was a little girl following the game through a large pair of field glasses.