King, Queen, Knave

by Vladimir Nabokov

  At half past seven Franz stirred. He had been told to get up at exactly half past seven. It was exactly half past seven. A baker in the encyclopedia who had poisoned an entire parish told the prison barber who was shaving his neck that never in his life had he slept so well. Franz had slept nine hours. His own contribution to the murder was up to now an accurate calculation of the distance to Rockpoint by land and by sea. The victim had to be there a few minutes before the boat arrived. He would be dead tired and grateful to be ferried back.

  Franz opened his window, which faced south with no sea to view, but at least it revealed a small balcony one story lower on which on three consecutive afternoons at the siesta hour he had watched the spread-eagled barmaid sunning herself on a towel. The floor of the balcony was darkly damp. It might dry in time for her siesta if the sun came out before noon. “By this evening it will all be over,” he reflected mechanically and was unable to imagine either that evening or the following day, as one is unable to imagine eternity.

  Gritting his teeth he pulled on his clammy bathing trunks. The pockets of his robe were full of sand. He softly closed the door behind him and set out along the long white corridors. There was sand also in the toes of his canvas shoes, producing there a blunt blind sensation. His uncle and aunt were already sitting on their balcony having coffee. It was a sunless day, with a white sky, a gray sea, and a cheerless breeze. Aunt Martha poured Franz some coffee. She was also wearing her robe over a bathing suit. Green designs ran across the fluffy dark blue. She held back the broad sleeve with her free hand as she passed the cup to Franz.

  Dreyer in blazer and flannel pants was reading the resort’s guest list, occasionally pronouncing aloud a funny name. He had intended to wear a delicate pale-lemon Chinese tie that had cost fifty marks but Martha said it looked like rain and the tie would be ruined. So he had put on another, an old lavender one. In such trifles Martha usually was right. Dreyer drank two cups of coffee and enjoyed a roll with delicious transparent honey trickling over the edges. Martha drank three cups and did not eat anything. Franz had half a cup and ate nothing either. The wind swept across the balcony.

  “Professor Klister of Swister,” read Dreyer. “Sorry. Lister of Swistok.”

  “If you’re finished, let’s go,” said Martha.

  “Blavdak Vinomori,” read Dreyer triumphantly.

  “Let’s go,” said Martha, wrapping her robe around her and trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “Before it starts raining again.”

  “It’s so early, my love,” he drawled, casting a furtive glance at the plate of rolls. “Why does nobody at home ever give butter that curly shape?”

  “Let’s go,” repeated Martha, rising. Franz got up also. Dreyer looked at his golden watch.

  “I’ll beat you anyway,” he said gleefully. “You two go on ahead. I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I could spare even more.”

  “Fine,” said Martha.

  “We’ll see who wins,” said Dreyer.

  “We’ll see,” said Martha.

  “Your oars or my calves,” said Dreyer.

  “Let me through, I can’t get out,” she exclaimed sharply, pushing with her knee and still fumbling at her robe.

  Dreyer moved his chair, she passed.

  “My back is much better,” he said, “but Franz is seasick or something.”

  Franz, without looking at him, shook his head. With sunglasses over his usual spectacles and his bright red robe he looked like Blavdak Vinomori should look.

  “Don’t get drowned, Blavdak,” said Dreyer and began his second roll.

  The glass door closed. Chewing, and sucking his honey-smeared fingers, Dreyer considered with disapproval the big pale sea. A bit of beach was visible from the balcony, with its striped shelter boxes untidily scattered and slightly askew. He did not envy the hardy bathers. The spot where one rented boats was a little farther to the west, near the pier, and could not be seen from the balcony. An old man dressed like an opera captain let them. How chilly, soggy, and uninteresting everything was without the sun. Never mind. It would be a brisk bracing walk. As in the old days, the very old days, Martha had agreed to play with him a little and had not refused at the last minute because of the bad weather as he had secretly feared.

  He looked again at his watch. Yesterday and the day before his office had called precisely at this time. Today, more than likely, Sarah would telephone again. He would call her back later. It was not worth waiting.

  He wiped his lips firmly, brushed the crumbs off his lap, and went to the bathroom. That cold shower had been agony but now he felt fine. He paused before the mirror and ran his little silver brush right and left over his English mustache. His German nose was peeling. Not very attractive. A knock at the door.

  The office had managed to catch him. Dreyer, beating his pocket, hurried to the telephone. The talk was brief. He wavered—should he take an umbrella—decided he would not and went out by the back entrance.

  The two young fellows whom they had met yesterday were sitting sideways on a bench playing chess. Both held their legs crossed. White had his hand ensconced between the knee of the left leg and the calf of the other leg and dangled his right foot slightly. Black’s arms were folded on his breast. Their gaze left the board as they greeted Dreyer. He stopped for a moment and gaily warned White that Black’s knight was planning to attack White’s king and queen with a forked check. Martha, who loved bets but thought them undignified, had asked him not to tell anybody about their little rendezvous at Rockpoint, so he said nothing about it and went on his way. “Old idiot,” muttered Black, whose position was desperate.

  Dreyer followed a boulevard of sorts, then a path, then walked through the hamlet where he observed that the bus to Swistok was leaving the post office and looked at his watch. It would catch the express to Berlin. As he turned right to rejoin the coastline, he glimpsed the sea and saw the speck of a boat in the blurry distance. He thought he distinguished two bright bathrobes but was not sure, and, quickening his step almost to a trot, entered the beechwood.

  Franz rowed in silence, now grimly lowering his face, then in a sweep of despair turning it skyward. Martha sat at the helm. Before renting the boat, she had gone in the water for a minute, thinking it would warm her up. That had been a mistake. The sun that had made a half-promise had not kept it. The cold wet suit now stuck to her chest, hips, and sides. She was too excited and happy to pay much attention to such trifles. A delightfully compliant mist veiled the receding beach. The boat started to round the little rocky island where seagulls were the only witnesses. The oarlocks creaked ponderously.

  “You don’t want to ask anything, you remember everything, darling?”

  Leaning forward on the back stroke, Franz nodded. And again stared at the empty sky as he pushed the resilient water.

  “… when I say, only when I say—remember?”

  Another grim nod.

  “Let us go over it quickly—all right? You remain in the bow—”

  The oarlocks creaked, an inquisitive gull circled over them, a wave lifted the boat to inspect it. Franz bowed in answer. He tried not to look at his insane aunt but whether he stared at the damp bottom of the boat along which lay a second pair of oars or followed the happy seagull with his eyes, he nevertheless perceived Martha with his entire being and saw, even without looking, her rubber cap, her broad-jawed dreadful face, her shaven shins, her heavy coronation robes. And he knew exactly how it would all be, how Martha would cry out the password, how both rowers would stand up to change places … the boat would rock … not easy to get past each other … careful … one more step … nearer … now!

  “… remember—just one big push, with your whole body,” said Martha, and he slowly bent forward again.

  “You must send him flying out, toppling in, face forward, and then you row like hell.”

  Now a chill breeze was penetrating her body with dampness and yet the elation persisted. She gazed intently at the in-curved shore, at its fringe o
f forest, at the mauve stretch of heather, searching for the place, near a pointed rock,where they were to land. She saw it. She pulled taut the left rope of the rudder.

  Franz, as he swung backwards with a soundless moan, heard Martha laugh hoarsely, cough, clear her throat, cough, and laugh again. A sizable wave took possession of the boat. He stopped rowing for a moment. The sweat trickled down his temples in spite of the cold. Martha rose and fell with the wave’s motion, shivering, aged beyond belief, her gray face shining like rubber.

  She was watching a tiny dark figure that had suddenly appeared on the deserted strip of jutting land.

  “Quicker,” she said, trembling and plucking at the icy-cold clinging bathing suit as if it were a sheet, and she dying. “Oh, please! He’s waiting.”

  Franz laid down the oars, slowly took off both pairs of glasses, slowly wiped the lenses of both on the flap of his robe.

  “I told you to hurry!” she shouted. “You don’t need those silly sunglasses. Franz, do you hear?”

  He put the sunglasses into the pocket of his robe. He raised the other pair skyward. He looked through the lenses at the clouds; then he slowly put them on and took up the oars again.

  The dark little figure became more distinct and acquired a face like a grain of maize. Martha was moving her torso back and forth, perhaps repeating Franz’s movements, perhaps trying to speed up the boat.

  Now the blue jacket and gray pants were distinguishable. He stood with his feet planted apart and his arms akimbo.

  “This is the critical moment,” said Martha, already speaking in a whisper. “He will never get into a boat if he does not now. Try to look more cheerful.”

  She was twisting the ends of the rudder ropes in her hands. The shore was drawing near.

  Dreyer stood looking at them and smiling. In his palm he held a flat gold watch. He had arrived eight minutes ahead of them, eight whole minutes. The boat was called “Lindy.” Cute.

  “Welcome,” he said, putting the watch back in his pocket.

  “You must have run all the way,” said Martha, breathing heavily and glancing around.

  “Nothing of the sort. Took it easy. Even stopped to rest along the way.”

  She continued her survey. Sand, rocks, and further on, heathery slopes and woods. Not a soul, not a dog ever came here.

  “Get into the boat,” she said.

  Lapping little waves jolted the boat ever so slightly. Franz was listlessly fussing with the second pair of oars.

  Dreyer said: “Oh, I’ll return the same way. It’s wonderful in the woods. I made friends with a squirrel. We’ll meet at the Siren Café.”

  “Get in,” she repeated sharply. “You can row a little. You’re getting fat. Look how tired Franz is. I can’t row alone.”

  “Really, my love, I don’t feel like it at all. I hate rowing, and my back smarts again.”

  “All right,” she said, “it was part of the bet and if you don’t get in at once, I’m not playing, the bet is cancelled.”

  Martha was slapping her palm with the rudder rope. He rolled up his eyes, sighed and, trying not to wet his feet, started awkwardly, cautiously, to get into the boat. “Illogical and unfair,” he said, and fell down heavily in the middle seat.

  The second pair of oars were in the locks. Dreyer took off his blazer. The boat moved off.

  A sense of blissful peace now descended on Martha. The plan had worked, the dream had come true. A deserted beach, a deserted sea, and fog. Just to be safe they should go out some distance north of the shore. An odd, cool, not unpleasant emptiness was in her chest and head as if the breeze had blown right through her, cleaning her inwardly, removing all the trash. And through that cool vibration she heard his carefree voice.

  “You keep getting tangled up in my oars, Franz—that’s no way to row. You have never rowed in your life, I suspect. Of course, I can understand that your thoughts are far away.… There again. You must pay a little more attention to what I’m trying to do. Together, together! She hasn’t forgotten you. I hope you left her your address. One, two. I’m positive there’ll be a letter for you today saying she’s with child. Rhythm! Rhythm!”

  Franz watched his firm stout neck, the yellow strands of hair thinning on pink suede, the white shirt now growing taut on his back, then ballooning. But he saw it all as if through a dream.

  “Ah, children, it was glorious in the woods,” the voice was saying. “The beeches, the gloom, the bindweed. Keep in rhythm!”

  Martha, through half-closed eyes, was looking with interest at this face which she was seeing for the last time. Beside her lay his blazer; it contained the golden timepiece, the silver mustache brush, and a plump wallet. She was glad these things would not be lost. A little bonus. Somehow, she did not realize at that moment that the jacket with its contents would have to be thrown in the water too. This rather complicated question arose only later when the main matter had already been settled. Now her thoughts were circling slowly, almost languidly. The anticipation of hard-won happiness was ravishing.

  “I must admit I was wrong in thinking this would irritate my back. You promised, darling, it would be all right today, and sure enough it’s much better. Remember, I’ve won the bet. And I can row a hundred times better than that rascal behind me. My shirt keeps rubbing the itchy spots, and that feels good. I think I shall take off my tie.”

  They were now sufficiently far from the shore. It was drizzling. A number of white spectators had found their seats on their black island. The tie joined the blazer. The wavelets broke and foamed around the boat.

  “Actually, it’s my last day,” said Dreyer, energetically rowing.

  That tragic pronouncement left Franz unmoved; there was already nothing in the world that could shock him. Martha, however, gave her husband a curious glance. Premonitions, eh?

  “I have to leave for the city early tomorrow,” he explained. “I just had a call.”

  The rain was growing stronger. Martha glanced around, then looked at Franz. They could begin.

  “Listen, Kurt,” she said quietly, “I feel like rowing a bit. You take Franz’s place, and Franz will steer.”

  “No, wait, my love,” said Dreyer, trying to do as Franz was doing—to flatten his oars over the water, swallow-like on the backstroke. “I’m just getting warmed up. Franz and I have got our rhythm synchronized. His form is improving. Sorry, my love—I think I splashed you.”

  “I’m cold,” said Martha. “Please get up and let me row.”

  “Five more minutes,” said Dreyer, trying again to feather his oars, and again failing.

  Martha shrugged. The sensation of power was ecstatic; she was willing to prolong that sensation.

  “Eight more strokes,” she said with a smile. “The years of our marriage. I’ll count.”

  “Come on, don’t spoil it. We’ll let you row soon. After all, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  He felt hurt that she was not interested to know why he had to go. She must think it was just a routine trip, some ordinary office business.

  “An amusing surprise,” he said casually.

  She was moving her lips with singular concentration.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “I’m making a hundred thousand dollars at one stroke.”

  Martha, who had got to the end of her count, raised her head.

  “I’m selling an extraordinary patent. That’s the kind of business we are doing.”

  Franz suddenly laid down his oars and began wiping his glasses. For some reason he thought Dreyer was talking to him and as he wiped the sweat and the rain away, he nodded and cleared his throat. Actually he had reached a stage at which human speech, unless representing a command, was meaningless.

  “You didn’t think I was so smart, eh?” said Dreyer, who had also stopped rowing. “At one stroke—just think!”

  “I suppose this is one of your jokes,” she said, frowning.

  “Word of honor,” he said plaintively. “I’m the sole owner of a miraculous invention, and
I’m going to sell it to Mr. Ritter, whom you know.”

  “What is it—some kind of trouser press?”

  He shook his head.

  “Something to do with sports, with tennis?”

  “It’s a big glorious secret,” he said, “and you’re a goose not to believe me.”

  She turned away, biting her chapped underlip, and stared for a long time at the inky horizon, where a gray fringe of rain hung against a narrow light-colored band of sky.

  “You’re sure it’s a hundred thousand dollars? Is that definite?”

  It was not, but he nodded, and pulled at the oars, hearing that the rower behind him had resumed his work.

  “Can’t you tell me a little more?” she asked, still looking away. “You’re sure it won’t drag on? You’ll have that money in a few days?”

  “Why yes, I hope so. And I’ll come back here and we’ll go rowing again. And Franz will teach me to swim.”

  “It can’t be; you’re deceiving me,” she cried.

  Dreyer started to laugh, not understanding why she chose not to believe him.

  “I shall return with a great bag of gold,” he said. “Like a medieval merchant back from Bagdad on a donkey. Oh, I’m pretty certain I’ll clinch that deal tomorrow.”

  The rain would stop one moment and the next start pouring again, as if practicing. Dreyer, noticing how far out they had gone, began turning the boat with his right oar; Franz mechanically backed water with his left. Martha sat lost in thought, now consulting the filling of a back tooth with her tongue, now running it over her lips. Presently Dreyer offered to let her row. She gave a silent shake of her head.

  The rain now came down in earnest, and Dreyer felt its soothing coolness through the raw silk of his shirt. He tingled with vigor, this was great fun, with every stroke he rowed better. The shore appeared through the mist; one could make out the flags and the striped shelters; the long pier was beginning slowly and carefully to take aim at the moving target of their boat.