Chapter 40 Chapter Six

Now let's talk about Gaston Godin.I gladly—or at least comfortably tolerated—associating with him, chiefly because of his generosity, which gave me absolute security of privacy.It wasn't that he knew everything; I had no particular reason to reveal it to him, and he was too self-absorbed and detached to perceive or suspect circumstances that might lead him to ask frankly and I frankly answer.He had good things to say about me to the Beardsley people, and he was my good messenger.Even if he found out about mes gots and Lolita, all he was concerned about was a little awareness of the bluntness with which I treated him, which smacked of neither politeness nor Obscene insinuations; for, with all his mediocrity and dim recollection, he probably knew that the citizens of Beardsley did not know his case as well as I did.He was a flabby, doughy-faced, melancholy bachelor, broad at the bottom and slender at the top, with narrow, asymmetrical shoulders and a conical, pear-shaped head with glossy black hair on one side. , and only a few strands on the other side, clinging to the scalp.The lower part of his body was bulky; he walked with a strange, clumsy stealth on two amazingly thick, muscular legs.He always wears black clothes, even his tie is black.He seldom takes a bath and speaks absurd English.Still, everyone thinks he's a really cute, lovable and quirky guy!The neighbors were pretty tolerant of him; he knew the names of all the boys and girls in our neighborhood (he lived just a few blocks from me) and had a few of them come and clean the sidewalks outside his house and burn fires in his backyard. The dead leaves, brought firewood from his shed, and even did some simple chores in the house.He always gave them fancy liqueurs with real liqueur in them—he had a den in his basement furnished in an oriental style, with some funny daggers hanging on a musty, tapestry-decorated wall and pistols, surrounded by disguised hot water pipes.Upstairs he has a studio--he paints a little too, the old liar.He uses the brooding André Gide, Tchaikovsky, Norman Douglas, two other famous British authors, Nijinsky (only thighs and fig leaves), Harold Doublenem (a bleary-eyed left-wing professor at a Midwestern university) and large photographs of Marcel Proust adorn the sloping walls of the studio (which was really just a loft).All these poor creatures seem to be pouring over you from the sloping walls.He also had a photo album with pictures of all the little boys and girls in the neighborhood, and when I flipped through that photo album and made random comments, Gaston always pouted at him. His thick lips pursed longingly and pursed, "Oui, ils sont gentils." His brown eyes also scanned the surrounding sentimental, artistic knick-knacks and his own banal toiles (traditionally childish eyes, a disassembled guitar, blue nipples, and modern geometric patterns).He would gesture vaguely to a stained wooden bowl or a textured vase and say: Prenez done une de ces poires. La bonne dame den face men offre plus que je nen peux savourer.Or: Mississe Taille Lore vient de me donner ces dahlias, belles fleurs que jexere. (Melancholic, sad, full of world-weary undertones.)

We always play chess two or three times a week, which I like to play at home for obvious reasons.He sat there with his fat hands on his knees, staring at the board as though it were a dead body.He really looked like a smashed old idol at times like this.Gasping for breath, he thought for ten minutes—and then made a move that led to failure.Or, after a longer thought, the good man will shout, auroi!It sounded like the deep bark of an unresponsive old dog, with a guttural grunt in it that made his jaw tremble.When I pointed out to him that he himself was being generaled by me, he always raised his crooked eyebrows and sighed deeply.

Sometimes, from where we sat in the cold study, I could hear Lo practicing dance techniques in his bare feet in the downstairs living room, but Gaston's external perception was rather dull, and he didn't notice the rhythm of those bare feet— —one, two, one, two, shift the weight to the straight right leg, lift the leg, out sideways, one, two; The other leg outstretched, floated, and landed on tiptoe—only then would my pale, smug, sullen opponent scratch his head or his cheek, as if mistaking the distant thud for A mighty blow from my majestic queen on the chessboard. Sometimes we'd be thinking about the chessboard, and Lo would walk in languidly—it was a joy to see Gaston in that way; his elephant-like eyes still fixed on his pieces, just out of courtesy He stood up and shook hands with her, then let go of her soft fingers, without even looking at her, he sat down in the chair again, and fell into the trap I set for him.One day around Christmas, when I hadn't seen him for about two weeks, he asked me, "Et toutes vos fillettes, elles vontbien?" The one and only Lolita reappeared time and time again in blue jeans, skirts, shorts, and a lined dressing gown, so that his downcast, melancholy gaze glimpsed the various garments, With the number of clothing types, he regarded Lolita as many people.

I hate to spend so long talking about the poor fellow (unfortunately, a year later, during a trip to Europe, he happened to get involved in a sale histoire in Naples and never returned).I would never have mentioned him at all if it had not been for the strange connection between his life at Beardsley and my case.I need him to defend me.There he was, devoid of talent of any kind, just an ordinary teacher, a puny scholar, a morose, repulsive, old fat homosexual, with contempt for the American way of life, And proudly ignorant of languages--he was in prim New England, comforted by the old and loved by the young--oh, he lived very happily and fooled everybody.And now I'm stuck here.