Gods by Vladimir Nabokov Here is what I see in your eyes right now: rainy night, narrow street, streetlamps

gliding away into the distance. The water runs down the drainpipes rom steeply sloping roo s. !nder the snake"s#mouth o each pipe stands a green#hooped bucket. $ows o buckets line the black walls on either side o the street. I watch as they ill with cold mercury. The pluvial mercury swells and over lows. The bareheaded lamps loat in the distance, their rays standing on end in the rainy murk. The water in the buckets is over lowing. Thus I gain entry to your overcast eyes, to a narrow alley o black glimmer where the nocturnal rain gurgles and rustles. Give me a smile. %hy do you look at me so bale ully and darkly& It"s morning. 'll night the stars shrieked with in ant voices and, on the roo , someone lacerated and caressed a violin with a sharp bow. (ook, the sun slowly crossed the wall like a bla)ing sail. *ou emanate an enveloping smoky ha)e. +ust starts swirling in your eyes, millions o golden worlds. *ou smiled, %e go out on the balcony. It"s spring. -elow, in the middle o the street, a yellow#curled boy works lickety#split, sketching a god. The god stretches rom one sidewalk to the other. The boy is clutching a piece o chalk in his hand, a little piece o white charcoal and he"s s.uatting, circling, drawing with broad strokes. This white god has large white buttons and turned#out eet. /ruci ied on the asphalt, he looks skyward with round eyes. He has a white arc or a mouth. ' log#si)ed cigar has appeared in his mouth. %ith helical 0abs the boy makes spirals representing smoke. 'rms akimbo, he contemplates his work. He adds another button. . . . ' window rame clanked across the way1 a emale voice, enormous and happy, rang out summoning him. The boy gave the chalk a punt and dashed inside. 2n the purplish asphalt remained the white geometric god, ga)ing skyward. *our eyes again grew murky. I reali)ed, o course, what you were remembering. In a corner o our bedroom, under the icon, there is a colored rubber ball. 3ometimes it hops so tly and sadly rom the table and rolls gently on the loor. 4ut it back in its place under the icon, and then why don"t we go take a walk& 3pring air. ' little downy. 3ee those lindens lining the street& -lack boughs covered with wet green spangles. 'll the trees in the world are 0ourneying somewhere. 4erpetual pilgrimage. $emember, when we were on our way here, to this city, the trees traveling past the windows o our railroad car& $emember the twelve poplars con erring about how to cross the river& 5arlier, still, in the /rimea, I once saw a cypress bending over an almond tree in bloom. 2nce upon a time the cypress had been a big, tall chimney sweep with a brush on a

wire and a ladder under his arm. Head over heels in love, poor ellow, with a little laundry maid, pink as almond petals. Now they have met at last, and are on their way somewhere together. Her pink apron balloons in the bree)e1 he bends toward her timidly, as i still worried he might get some soot on her. 6irst#rate able. 'll trees are pilgrims. They have their 7essiah, whom they seek. Their 7essiah is a regal (ebanese cedar, or perhaps he is .uite small, some totally inconspicuous little shrub in the tundra. . , . Today some lindens are passing through town. There was an attempt to restrain them. /ircular encing was erected around their trunks. -ut they move all the same. . . . The roo s bla)e like obli.ue, sun#blinded mirrors. ' winged woman stands on a windowsill washing the panes. 3he bends over, pouts, brushes a strand o laming hair rom her ace. The air is aintly redolent o gasoline and lindens. %ho can tell, today, 0ust what emanations gently greeted a guest entering a 4ompeian atrium& ' hal #century rom now no one will know the smells that prevailed in our streets and rooms. They will e8cavate some military hero o stone, o which there are hundreds in every city, and heave a sigh or 4hidias o yore. 5verything in the world is beauti ul, but 7an only recogni)es beauty i he sees it either seldom or rom a ar. . . . (isten . . . today, we are gods, 2ur blue shadows are enormous. %e move in a gigantic, 0oyous world. ' tall pillar on the corner is tightly swathed in wet canvases, across which a paintbrush has scattered colored whirlwinds. The old woman who sells papers has curling gray hairs on her chin, and mad light#blue eyes. !nruly newspapers stick chaotically out o her pouch. Their large type makes me think o lying )ebras. ' bus stops at its signpost. !pstairs the conductor ba#bangs with his palm on the iron gunwale. The helmsman gives his huge wheel a mighty turn. ' mounting, labored moan, a brie grinding sound. The wide tires have le t silver imprints on the asphalt. Today, on this sunny day, anything is possible. (ook##a man has 0umped rom a roo onto a wire and is walking on it, splitting with laughter, his arms wide#spread, high over the rocking street. (ook##two buildings have 0ust had a harmonious game o leap rog1 number three ended up between one and two1 it did not ully settle right away##9 saw a gap below it, a narrow band o sunlight. 'nd a woman stopped in the middle o a s.uare, threw back her head, and started singing1 a crowd gathered around her, then surged back: an empty dress lies on the asphalt, and up in the sky there"s a transparent cloudlet. *ou"re laughing. %hen you laugh, I want to trans orm the entire world so it will mirror you. -ut your eyes are instantly e8tinguished. *ou say, passionately, ear ully, :%ould you like to go . . . there& %ould you& It"s lovely there today, everything"s in bloom. . . .:

/ertainly it"s all in bloom, certainly we"ll go. 6or aren"t you and I gods& . . . I sense in my blood the rotation o une8plorable universes. . . . (isten##9 want to run all my li e, screaming at the top o my lungs. (et all o li e be an un ettered howl. (ike the crowd greeting the gladiator. +on"t stop to think, don"t interrupt the scream, e8hale, release li e"s rapture. 5verything is blooming. 5verything is lying. 5verything is screaming, choking on its screams. (aughter. $unning. (et#down hair. That is all there is to li e. They are leading camels along the street, on the way rom the circus to the )oo. Their plump humps list and sway. Their long, gentle aces are turned up a little, dreamily. How can death e8ist when they lead camels along a springtime street& 't the corner, an une8pected whi o $ussian oliage1 a beggar, a divine monstrosity, turned all inside out, eet growing out o armpits, pro ers, with a wet, shaggy paw, a bunch o greenish lilies#o #the#val . . . I bump a passerby with my shoulder. . . . 7omentary collision o two giants. 7errily, magni icently, he swings at me with his lac.uered cane. The tip, on the backswing, breaks a shopwindow behind him. ;ig)ags shoot across the shiny glass. No##it"s only the splash o mirrored sunlight in my eyes. -utter ly, butter ly, -lack with scarlet bands. . . . ' scrap o velvet. . . . It swoops above the asphalt, soars over a speeding car and a tall building, into the humid a)ure o the 'pril sky. 'nother, identical butter ly once settled on the white border o an arena1 (esbia, senator"s daughter, gracile, dark#eyed, with a gold ribbon on her orehead, entranced by the palpitating wings, missed the split second, the whirlwind o blinding dust, in which the bull#like neck o one combatant crunched under the other"s naked knee. Today my soul is illed with gladiators, sunlight, the world"s din. .. . %e descend a wide staircase into a long, dim underground chamber. 6lagstones resound vibrantly under our steps. $epresentations o burning sinners adorn the gray walls. -lack thunder, in the distance, swells in velvet olds. It bursts orth all around us. %e rush headlong, as i awaiting a god. %e are packed inside a glassy glitter. %e gather momentum. %e hurtle into a black chasm and speed with a hollow din ar underground, hanging on to leather straps. %ith a pop the amber lamps are e8tinguished or an instant, during which limsy globules burn with a hot light in the dark##the bulging eyes o demons, or perhaps our ellow passengers" cigars. The lights come back on. (ook, over there##the tall man in a black overcoat standing by the car"s glass door. I aintly recogni)e that narrow, yellowish ace, the bony hump o his nose. Thin lips compressed, attentive urrow between heavy brows, he listens to something being e8plained by another man, pale as a plaster mask, with a small, circular, sculpted beard.

I am certain they are speaking in ter)a rima. 'nd your neighbor, that lady in the pale#yellow coat sitting with lowered lashes##could that be +ante"s -eatrice& 2ut o the dank nether world we emerge anew into the sunlight. The cemetery is on the distant outskirts. 5di ices have grown sparser. Greenish voids. I recall how this same capital looked on an old print. %e walk against the wind along imposing ences. 2n the same kind o sunny, tremulous day as this we"ll head back north, to $ussia. There will be very ew lowers, only the yellow stars o dandelions along the ditches. The dove#gray telegraph poles will hum at our approach. %hen, beyond the curve, my heart is 0abbed by the irs, the red sand, the corner o the house, I shall totter and all prone. (ook, 'bove the vacant green e8panses, high in the sky, an airplane progresses with a bassy ring like an aeolian harp. Its glass wings are glinting. -eauti ul, no& 2h, listen##here is something that happened in 4aris, about 9<= years ago. 5arly one morning##it was autumn, and the trees loated in so t orange masses along the boulevards into the tender sky##early one morning, the merchants had assembled in the marketplace1 the stands illed with moist, glistening apples1 there were whi s o honey and damp hay. 'n old ellow with white down in his auricles was unhurriedly setting up cages containing various birds that idgeted in the chilly air1 then he sleepily reclined on a mat, or the auroral og still obscured the gilt hands on the town hall"s black dial. He had scarcely gone to sleep when someone started tugging at his shoulder. !p 0umped the oldster, and saw be ore him an out#o #breath young man. He was lanky, skinny, with a small head and a pointed little nose. His waistcoat##silvery with black stripes##was buttoned askew, the ribbon on his pigtail had come undone, one o his white stockings was sagging in bunched wrinkles. :I need a bird, any bird##a chicken will do,: said the young man, having given the cages a cursory, agitated glance. The old man gingerly e8tracted a small white hen, which put up a lu y struggle in his swarthy hands. :%hat"s wrong##is it sick&: asked the young man, as i discussing a cow. :3ick& 7y little ish"s belly,: mildly swore the oldster. The young man lung him a shiny coin and ran o amid the stands, the hen pressed to his bosom. Then he stopped, turned abruptly with a whip o his pigtail, and ran back to the old vendor. :I need the cage too,: he said. %hen he went o at last, holding the chicken with the cage in his outstretched hand and swinging the other arm, as i he were carrying a bucket, the old man gave a snort and lay back down on his mat. How business went that day and what happened to him a terwards is o no concern to us at all, 's or the young man, he was none other than the son o the renowned physicist /harles. /harles glanced over his spectacles at the little hen, gave the cage a lick o his

yellow ingernail, and said, :6ine##now we have a passenger as well.: Then, with a severe glint o his eyeglasses, he added, :'s or you and me, my boy, we"ll take our time. God only knows what the air is like up there in the clouds.: The same day, at the appointed hour on the /hamps de 7ars, be ore an astonished crowd, an enormous, lightweight dome, embroidered with /hinese arabes.ues, with a gilded gondola attached by silken cords, slowly swelled as it illed with hydrogen. /harles and his son busied themselves amid streams o smoke blown sideways by the wind. The hen peered through the wire netting o her cage with one beady eye, her head tilted to one side. 'll around moved color ul, spangled ca tans, airy women"s dresses, straw hats1 and, when the sphere lurched upward, the old physicist ollowed it with his ga)e, then broke into tears on his son"s shoulder, and a hundred hands on every side began waving handkerchie s and ribbons. 6ragile clouds loated through the tender, sunny sky. The earth receded, .uivery, light#green, covered with scudding shadows and the iery splashes o trees. 6ar below some toy horsemen hurtled past##but soon the sphere rose out o sight. The hen kept peering downward with one little eye. The light lasted all day. The day concluded with an ample, vivid sunset. %hen night ell, the sphere began slowly descending. 2nce upon a time, in a village on the shore o the (oire, there lived a gentle, wily#eyed peasant. 2ut he goes into the ield at dawn. In the middle o the ield he sees a marvel: an immense heap o motley silk. Nearby, overturned, lay a little cage. ' chicken, all white, as i modeled out o snow, was thrusting its head through mesh and intermittently moving its beak, as it searched or small insects in the grass. 't irst the peasant had a right, but then he reali)ed that it was simply a present rom the Virgin 7ary, whose hair loated through the air like autumn spider#webs. The silk his wi e sold o piecemeal in the nearby town, the little gilded gondola became a crib or their tightly swaddled irstborn, and the chicken was dispatched to the backyard. (isten on. 3ome time elapsed, and then one ine day, as he passed a hillock o cha at the barn gate, the peasant heard a happy clucking. He stooped. The hen popped out o the green dust and hawked at the sun as she waddled rapidly and not without some pride. %hile, amid the cha , hot and sleek, glowed our golden eggs. 'nd no wonder. 't the wind"s mercy, the hen had traversed the entire lush o the sunset, and the sun, a iery cock with a crimson crest, had done some luttering over her. I don"t know i the peasant understood. 6or a long time he stood motionless, blinking and s.uinting rom the brilliance and holding in his palms the still warm, whole, golden eggs. Then, his sabots rattling, he rushed across the yard with such a howl that his hired hand thought he must have lopped o a inger with his a8e. . . .

2 course all this happened a long, long time ago, long be ore the aviator (atham, having crashed in mid#/hannel, sat, i you will, on the dragon ly tail o his submerging Antoinette, smoking a yellowed cigarette in the wind, and watching as, high in the sky, in his little stubby#winged machine, his rival -leriot lew or the irst time rom /alais to 5ngland"s sugary shores. -ut I cannot overcome your anguish. %hy have your eyes again illed with darkness& No, don"t say anything. I know everything. *ou mustn"t cry. He can hear my able, there"s no doubt at all he can hear it. It is to him that it"s addressed. %ords have no borders. Try to understand, *ou look at me so bale ully and darkly. I recollect the night a ter the uneral. *ou were unable to stay home. *ou and I went out into the glossy slush. (ost our way. 5nded up in some strange, narrow street. I did not make out its name, but could see it was inverted, mirrorlike, in the glass o a streetlamp. The lamps were loating o into the distance. %ater dripped rom the roo s. The buckets lining both sides o the street, along black walls, were illing with cold mercury. 6illing and over lowing. 'nd suddenly, helplessly spreading your hands, you spoke: :-ut he was so little, and so warm. # . .: 6orgive me i I am incapable o weeping, o simple human weeping, but instead keep singing and running somewhere, clutching at whatever wings ly past, tall, disheveled, with a wave o suntan on my orehead. 6orgive me. That"s how it must be. %e walk slowly along the ences. The cemetery is already near. There it is, an islet o vernal white and green amid some dusty vacant land. Now you go on alone. I"ll wait or you here. *our eyes gave a .uick, embarrassed smile. *ou know me well. . . . The wicket#gate s.ueaked, then banged shut. I sit alone on the sparse grass. ' short way o there is a vegetable garden with some purple cabbage. -eyond the vacant lot, actory buildings, buoyant brick behemoths, loat in the a)ure mist. 't my eet, a s.uashed tin glints rustily inside a unnel o sand. 'round me, silence and a kind o spring emptiness. There is no death. The wind comes tumbling upon me rom behind like a limp doll and tickles my neck with its downy paw. There can be no death. 7y heart, too, has soared through the dawn. *ou and I shall have a new, golden son, a creation o your tears and my ables. Today I understood the beauty o intersecting wires in the sky, and the ha)y mosaic o actory chimneys, and this rusty tin with its inside#out, semidetached, serrated lid. The wan grass hurries, hurries somewhere along the dusty billows o the vacant lot. I raise my arms. The sunlight glides across my skin. 7y skin is covered with multicolored sparkles. 'nd I want to rise up, throw my arms open or a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible

crowds. I would start like this: :2 rainbow#colored gods . . .: