As the noise of the shotgun blast reverberates around the courtyard he is aware of a ringing in his ears, as if a small shrill bell is being vigorously shaken somewhere close at hand, and he suddenly realizes – with absolute, cold clarity; with absolute, cold certainty – what Lika was trying to tell him in her letter.
Supper proves to be another silent meal but he doesn’t mind as he has no inclination to talk. Masha remains furious with him. His father still enjoys his children’s wordless animosity and picks his teeth with particular enthusiasm for over a quarter of an hour. His mother has gone to her bed with a migraine.
After the meal is cleared away he takes a tumbler of vodka into his study and settles down to try and complete his short story. He writes a page or two and begins to relax: it’s going well. He calls for another tumbler of vodka. He knows he shouldn’t drink too much but an agreeable mood of creative endeavour is on him and he wants to encourage it. That evening he hardly thinks at all about Lika, Potapenko and their impending child. Hardly at all.
William Boyd, Fascination: Stories
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