She serves us ice-cream in small frosted glasses. Strawberry rippled. A sliced berry pokes its fleshy, sour-sweet head above the top.
'Oh, yummy,' Lolita's voice rings out, a confused symphony of awe, delight, and impatience. The inflections of her words ring out in the silence of my frosted-glass mind, their awkward childishness echoing in the virginal, white vanilla ice-cream her mother sets in front of us - with, of course, the obligatory streak of red.
We sit on the stone steps of the patio in the back garden of the house. It is a hot summer's day, and Lo wears a white cotton shirt and blue-jeans, her feet naked and dancing on the hot stone of the steps. The trees in the back of the garden are barely visible - the summer haze fades them to dull violet watercolour and stunts our senses.
Lolita takes her glass in her hands and flinches from the cold of it. I blink stupidly and my own glass magically appears in front of me.
'Oh, hold on.' her mother's self-amused voice cries out in the confused, hot fog. 'I forgot the spoons.'
The clink of Charlotte's glass against the step; the pad of her feet into the kitchen; the clatter as she searches for her spoons, and suddenly everything is clear.
The haze lifts.
The arch of Lolita's back; her brown skin through her boy's shirt; blonde hairs on her forarm; one crooked finger, delving into the red, red, red ripple (corrupted, corrupted, Dolores Haze), the vanilla-white oozing, melting on her little finger, the finger between her lips, and -
'Here we are.' The ring of metal against stone as Charlotte sets down three spoons.
Lolita foregoes the spoon for her trusty little finger, still flinching every time she delves into the (interminably freezing) ice-cream. I offer her the spoon once more, am greeted with a 'no, thanks,' that angers her mother immeasurably; her plucked eyebrows furrow and her lipsticked mouth opens, but I stopper it with some comment on her ice-cream. Her features soften and she swells with pride.
'Why, thank you, Monsieur Humbert. I have always had a flair for la cuisine. Why, this par-tick-ular recipe was taken from Ramsdale's own journal pour la femme, yes...' Her cat's eyes spy Lola's ice-cream. 'Oh, Lo, do be a darling - be a lady - and use a spoon, s'il vous plait?'
Lolita is as deaf as I am. Her mother, finding my gaze affixed to the watercolour trees in the background. Though one crafty eye often wanders to my nymphet, as does one hand, creeping up her back like any good father figure is entitled to do. But still, Humbert is second fiddle to her ice-cream, as sour and unripe those strawberries may be.
We sit in order on the steps - the perfect American family. Good-natured little Lo, the nymphet daughter with her honey-brown skin and her ice-cream coated finger, womanly, poised Lotte, with her posed spoon and pinned hair - and me. The father, the lover, the gigolo, the priest.
'Oh, yummy,' Lolita's voice rings out, a confused symphony of awe, delight, and impatience. The inflections of her words ring out in the silence of my frosted-glass mind, their awkward childishness echoing in the virginal, white vanilla ice-cream her mother sets in front of us - with, of course, the obligatory streak of red.
We sit on the stone steps of the patio in the back garden of the house. It is a hot summer's day, and Lo wears a white cotton shirt and blue-jeans, her feet naked and dancing on the hot stone of the steps. The trees in the back of the garden are barely visible - the summer haze fades them to dull violet watercolour and stunts our senses.
Lolita takes her glass in her hands and flinches from the cold of it. I blink stupidly and my own glass magically appears in front of me.
'Oh, hold on.' her mother's self-amused voice cries out in the confused, hot fog. 'I forgot the spoons.'
The clink of Charlotte's glass against the step; the pad of her feet into the kitchen; the clatter as she searches for her spoons, and suddenly everything is clear.
The haze lifts.
The arch of Lolita's back; her brown skin through her boy's shirt; blonde hairs on her forarm; one crooked finger, delving into the red, red, red ripple (corrupted, corrupted, Dolores Haze), the vanilla-white oozing, melting on her little finger, the finger between her lips, and -
'Here we are.' The ring of metal against stone as Charlotte sets down three spoons.
Lolita foregoes the spoon for her trusty little finger, still flinching every time she delves into the (interminably freezing) ice-cream. I offer her the spoon once more, am greeted with a 'no, thanks,' that angers her mother immeasurably; her plucked eyebrows furrow and her lipsticked mouth opens, but I stopper it with some comment on her ice-cream. Her features soften and she swells with pride.
'Why, thank you, Monsieur Humbert. I have always had a flair for la cuisine. Why, this par-tick-ular recipe was taken from Ramsdale's own journal pour la femme, yes...' Her cat's eyes spy Lola's ice-cream. 'Oh, Lo, do be a darling - be a lady - and use a spoon, s'il vous plait?'
Lolita is as deaf as I am. Her mother, finding my gaze affixed to the watercolour trees in the background. Though one crafty eye often wanders to my nymphet, as does one hand, creeping up her back like any good father figure is entitled to do. But still, Humbert is second fiddle to her ice-cream, as sour and unripe those strawberries may be.
We sit in order on the steps - the perfect American family. Good-natured little Lo, the nymphet daughter with her honey-brown skin and her ice-cream coated finger, womanly, poised Lotte, with her posed spoon and pinned hair - and me. The father, the lover, the gigolo, the priest.