Chapter 13
NABOKOV ARRIVES
I recall how wild, yes, let’s put it like that, how completely wild my father grew in anticipation, as the date of Nabokov’s arrival neared. At the time, we were still living in that big apartment on Augustinská St, which abutted the high wall enclosing the Augustinians’ monastery garden. Of course, when the communists took over, they renamed the street Jaselská.1
It was in May 1937 — a very warm May it was — and at my father’s request I hurried home from Olomouc. At the time I was putting the finishing touches on my first independent project — a villa in the suburbs for the automobile racer Nusek. And I had the strong, pleasant feeling of satisfaction at having succeeded in bearing to Olomouc the torch of functionalism — which was slowly beginning to grow dim
