“As he came into the hallway again, the kettle was singing on the stove. In the living room he found his mother setting the table for breakfast. “You’re up bright and early,” he said. “Your father is in one of his moods,” she replied. “He wanted to get up early and make a day of it.” Frits looked at her closely. Her face was without expression.
His father came in from the kitchen in his vest and trousers; the braces dangled to the floor. His face was still wet.
“Good morning, Father,” Frits said. To speak these words, he felt as if he first had to clear his windpipe of a stone, which now fell at his feet. “Good morning, my boy,” his father replied.
They sat down at the table. “I must not let my attention flag,” he thought, “I must observe closely.” From the moment his father began to eat, he kept his eyes on him. “He chews without a sound,” he thought, “but the mouth opens and shuts each time.” He looked at the back of his father’s neck and felt rage rise up. “Seven warts,” he said to himself, “why hasn’t he had them removed? Why not get rid of them, at least?”
His mother poured tea. She slurped softly as she drank. His father raised the cup only halfway to his mouth, then stretched his neck, puckered his lips and drank loudly. “Have you had a look at the fire, dearest?” his father asked. “Yes,” Frits’s mother replied, “it’s sputtering away.”
When they were done his father went to the bedroom to finish dressing, then returned, book in hand, and sank into a chair by the fire with a deep sigh. Frits watched him as he sat down. “Why such an enormous sigh?” he thought. “Why act as though you’re a pair of bellows?” He looked at the head of black hair, combed back and drab in spots, the thick lips curled in a tired smile, and the brown hands with their short, thick fingers which, after some tentative fumbling, slowly turned a page.”
— Courtesy of Pushkin Press