A Bit on the Side by William Trevor
By William Trevor
William Trevor is really a Chekhov for our age, and a brand new number of tales from him is usually a reason for party. In those twelve tales, a waiter divulges a surprising lifetime of crime to his ex-wife; a lady repeats the tale of her parents’ risky marriage after a terrible tragedy; a schoolgirl regrets gossiping concerning the cuckolded guy who tutors her; and, within the volume’s identify tale, a middle-aged accountant deals his purposes for finishing a love affair. on the center of this lovely assortment is Trevor’s attribute tenderness and unflinching eye for either the humanizing and dehumanizing features of contemporary city and rural existence.
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Extra resources for A Bit on the Side
He asked. Sighing, the Chief poured cognac and gave Viktor an inhibited, arrested sort of look. “Bowed his head did our brave young Red,” he crooned softly: “Cruelly shot through his Komsomol heart … “As a newspaper, we’ve had our losses. This one’s our seventh. Before long we’ll be unveiling a pantheon … Still, no skin off your nose! ” said the Chief. Then, in quite a different, somehow weary voice, and looking hard at him, he added “And it’s not your business any longer. Just that you know a bit more than others do … OK …” Viktor regretted his curiosity.
My daughter,” he said. ” He stooped to unbutton her little coat of reddish fur. “Sonya,” she said gazing up at him. “And I’m four. ” “You see? And she’s hardly been here a minute …” He removed her coat and helped her off with her little boots. They went through to the living room. ” she asked, looking round. “I’ll go and see,” said Viktor, but first he fetched Misha-non-penguin the two new obelisks from the kitchen. “Misha,” he called, looking behind the dark-green settee. Misha, standing in his hidey-hole on a treble thickness of camel-hair blanket, was staring at the wall.
A door banged. He waited patiently for the doorbell. A short while later, instead of a ring, there was a guarded knock. A red-eyed, sleepy-looking man of about 50 handed him a large brown envelope. “I’m down in the car. Hammer on the door if I’m asleep,” he said, without coming in. Sitting at his typewriter, Viktor drew from the envelope a sheet of paper and a theatre programme. Parkhomenko, Yuliya Andreyevna, b. 1955. Since 1988, singer Nat. Opera. Married, two children. he read. 1991, mastectomy.