Laughter in the Dark by Vladimir Nabokov, John Banville Page A

a sigh she told him what he wanted to know.
    “They used to be after me, too, in the old days,” she muttered, nodding her head, while she let him out, “that they did.”
    It was half past seven. Lights were being put on, and their soft orange glow looked very lovely in the pale dusk. The sky was still quite blue, with a single salmon-colored cloud in the distance, and all this unsteady balance between light and dusk made Albinus feel giddy.
    “In another moment I shall be in paradise,” he thought, as he sped in a taxi over the whispering asphalt.
    Three tall poplars grew in front of the big brick house where she now lived. A brand-new brass plate with her name was affixed to her door. A huge female with arms like lumps of raw meat went to announce him. “Got a cook already,” he thought lovingly. “Walk in,” said the cook, coming back. He smoothed down his sparse hair and went in.
    Margot was lying in a kimono on a dreadfulchintz-covered sofa, her arms crossed behind her head. On her stomach an open book was poised, cover upward.
    “You’re quick,” she said, languidly extending her hand.
    “Why, you don’t seem surprised to see me,” he murmured softly. “Guess how I found out your address.”
    “I wrote you my address,” she said with a sigh, raising both elbows again.
    “It was rather amusing,” Albinus continued without heeding her words—just gloating over the sight of the painted lips which in another moment … “Rather amusing—especially as you’ve been pulling my leg with that ready-made aunt of yours.”
    “Why did you go there?” inquired Margot, suddenly very cross. “I wrote you my address—in the top right-hand corner, quite clearly.”
    “Top corner? Clearly?” repeated Albinus, puckering up his face perplexedly. “What on earth are you talking about?”
    She shut the book with a bang and sat up on the couch.
    “Surely you got my letter?”
    “What letter?” asked Albinus—and suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and his eyes opened very wide.
    “I sent you a letter this morning,” she said, settling down again and gazing at him curiously. “I reckoned you’d get it by the evening post and come to see me straightaway.”
    “You didn’t!” cried Albinus.
    “Of course, I did. And I can tell you exactly what it was I wrote: ‘Darling Albert, the wee nest is ready, and birdie is waiting for you. Only don’t hug me too hard, or you’ll turn your baby’s head more than ever.’ That’s about all.”
    “Margot,” he whispered hoarsely, “Margot, what have you done? I left home before I could possibly get it. The postman … he doesn’t come until a quarter to eight. It’s now—”
    “Well, that’s no fault of mine,” she said. “Really, you are hard to please. It was such a sweet letter.”
    She shrugged her shoulders, picked up the book and turned her back to him. On the right-hand page was a photographic study of Greta Garbo.
    Albinus found himself thinking: “How strange. A disaster occurs and still a man notices a picture.” Twenty minutes to eight. Margot lay there, her body curved and motionless, like a lizard.
    “You’ve shattered …” he began at the top of his voice; but he did not end his sentence. Heran out, rushed downstairs, jumped into a cab and while he sat on the very edge of the seat leaning forward (winning a few inches that way), he stared at the back of the driver and that back was hopeless.
    He arrived, he jumped out, he paid as men do in films—blindly thrusting out a coin. By the garden-railing he saw the familiar figure of the gaunt, knock-kneed postman talking to the short stout hall-porter.
    “Any letters for me?” asked Albinus breathlessly.
    “I’ve just delivered them, sir,” answered the postman with a friendly grin.
    Albinus looked up. The windows of his flat were brightly lit, all of them—an unusual thing. With a tremendous effort he entered the house and began to go upstairs. He reached the first