His mother, who was half-reclining on the couch with her face buried in a cushion, was convulsed with sobs. In previous years he had often seen her cry, but then she had cried quite differently: while sitting at table, for instance, she would cry without turning her face away, and blow her nose loudly, and talk, talk, talk; yet now she was weeping so girlishly, was lying there with such abandon … and there was something so graceful about the curve of her spine and about the way one foot, in its velvet slipper, was touching the floor … One might almost think that it was a young, blonde woman crying. … And her crumpled handkerchief was lying on the carpet just the way it was supposed to, in that pretty scene.

Nikolay uttered a Russian grunt (kryak) and sat down on the edge of her couch. He kryak’ed again. His mother, still hiding her face, said into the cushion, ‘Oh, why couldn’t you have come earlier? Even one year earlier … Just one year! …’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Nikolay.

‘It’s all over now,’ she sobbed, and tossed her light hair. ‘All over. I’ll be fifty in May. Grown-up son comes to see aged mother. And why did you have to come right at this moment … tonight!’

Nikolay put on his overcoat (which, contrary to European custom he had simply thrown into a corner), took his cap out of a pocket, and sat down by her again.

‘Tomorrow morning I’ll move on,’ he said, stroking the shiny blue silk of his mother’s shoulder. ‘I feel an urge to head north now, to Norway, perhaps – or else out to sea for some whale fishing. I’ll write you. In a year or so we’ll meet again, then perhaps I’ll stay longer. Don’t be cross with me because of my wanderlust!’

Quickly she embraced him and pressed a wet cheek to his neck. Then she squeezed his hand and suddenly cried out in astonishment.

‘Blown off by a bullet,’ laughed Nikolay. ‘Good-bye, my dearest.’

She felt the smooth stub of his finger and gave it a cautious kiss. Then she put her arm around her son and walked with him to the door.

‘Please write often … Why are you laughing? All the powder must have come off my face?’

And no sooner had the door shut after him than she flew, her blue dress rustling, to the telephone.

Mini Modern Classics

RYŪNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA   Hell Screen

KINGSLEY AMIS   Dear Illusion

DONALD BARTHELME   Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby

SAMUEL BECKETT   The Expelled

SAUL BELLOW   Him With His Foot in His Mouth

JORGE LUIS BORGES   The Widow Ching – Pirate

PAUL BOWLES   The Delicate Prey

ITALO CALVINO   The Queen’s Necklace

ALBERT CAMUS   The Adulterous Woman

TRUMAN CAPOTE   Children on Their Birthdays

ANGELA CARTER   Bluebeard

RAYMOND CHANDLER   Killer in the Rain

EILEEN CHANG   Red Rose, White Rose