The Uses of Russian Literature

Hergesheimer, in reverie, discovers Nabokov ailing on a Swiss slope, slipped or tripped in pursuit of a butterfly, boyishly bare-kneed in old-man baggy shorts, unable himself to rise. Lean on me, says Hergesheimer, balancing, bracing, taking the aged fellow’s fortunately downhill considerable weight. It’s not far, he reassures them both. Nearly there. Stop if you need to rest. Hergesheimer can see already his sporty red Peugeot only a few steps more, has the door for Nabokov open at once, hurries the passenger seat to its furthest back position—big man, little car—assists, composes, folds and fits the full measure of largely inert man somehow in. Wait, wait, says Hergesheimer, the butterfly net, trying it first in the boot, no good, the handle, puzzles out a position steeply angled across the back seat, is all set to switch on the engine when a glance at his passenger’s pallor swivels him to reach and fetch from behind in offering or suggestion the plaid rug, opening it, spreading it, just a little, perhaps, at least the pitifully vulnerable knees, which done, oh one more thing, thinks now to rush around, the adjusting wheel on that side, in quick turn, his passenger’s upright seat to lower more comfortably some degrees in recline.

You won’t die.

Now Hergesheimer is driving. He asks, in courtesy, in disingenuity, in feigned proper protocol of occasion, his passenger’s name. Nabokov, says Nabokov. Julius Hergesheimer, Hergesheimer in turn introduces himself. I’m a famous writer, he further supplies. Adding quickly, with a laugh, Unknown. In which cheeky atmosphere of private privilege, the one knowing more about the other than the other about him, Hergesheimer without intrusion of additional event or incident completes the journey to Nabokov’s celebrated place of residence, the Montreux Palace Hotel.

You’re not dying.

Hergesheimer, in reverie, simultaneously sees and summons white-haired Vera, crisp staff, an instant stretcher, the necessary expert attention, all this in full and rounded requisition from his living room sofa where this past silent hour he motionless sits. I’ll call in tomorrow afternoon four o’clock, see how he is, he says to Vera, and drives away past the trim hotel hedges towards and then alongside the bordering lake, the Alps cross-folded in fading sun.

Oh, a detail.

I addressed him as Senor Nabokov.

To mock him?

In envy?

Senor Nabokov, said Hergesheimer, driving.

Imagine.

To make light of the situation?

To ease him?

You’re not going to die.

Whichever.

Whatever.

The audacity.

The bravura.

To posit such a personage to your entrusted care.

So here is Nabokov, four o’clock the following afternoon, as stated, as promised, propped against pillows in his surprisingly plain certainly unpalatial bed, not exactly sitting, nor quite lying either, as Hergesheimer, in continuing reverie, visiting, as agreed, as arranged, in uncannily identical position is now in his.

Vera admits, departs.

Hergesheimer draws up a chair, sits.

And at first merely looks.

Smiles.

Some small talk of reassurance, perhaps, then ensues.

Well, you don’t look too bad, Senor Nabokov.

That kind of thing.

A good rest, Senor Nabokov, up and about.

Perhaps even a light laugh.

The usual things.

As Nabokov also looks.

Making no answer. Nothing in response.

Merely at Hergesheimer looks.

And Hergesheimer to understand from this, as he will, on bedside Montreux chair, which he does, in his own ordinary bed, that something else is desired of him, of unspoken summons, that something more is required.

But Nabokov is gone.

Hergesheimer moves his eyes this way, that way, eyes open, eyes closed.

No longer necessary.

The nightmare lights that flooded his vision in alarming constellation, in hour-long fearful frightening array.

Not there.

Hergesheimer in marvelling acknowledgement.

By ploy of constructed purpose.

Calmed.

In reverie of Russian aid.

Sustained.

Thank you.

Hergesheimer sleeps.