Pale Fire

by Vladimir Nabokov

“All one could do at short notice,” said Odon, plucking at his cheek to display how the varicolored semitransparent transparent film adhered to his face, altering its contours according to stress. “A polite person,” he added, “does not, normally, examine too closely a poor fellow’s disfigurement.” “I was looking for shpiks [plainclothesmen]” said the King. “All day,” said Odon, “they have been patrolling the quay. They are dining at present.” “I’m thirsty and hungry,” said the King. “There’s some stuff in the boat. Let those Russians vanish. The child we can ignore.” “What about that woman on the beach?” “That’s young Baron Mandevil—chap who had that duel last year. Let’s go now.” “Couldn’t we take him too?” “Wouldn’t come—got a wife and a baby. Come on, Charlie, come on, Your Majesty.” “He was my throne page on Coronation Day.” Thus chatting, they reached the Rippleson Caves. I trust the reader has enjoyed this note.