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"The Piano Teacher's Pupil"

What a lovely surprise: in The New Yorker, a short story (previously unpublished, I assume) by the late William Trevor.

In the dark she pushed all that away, not knowing where it came from, or why it seemed to belong with what was happening now, but always it came back, as if a truth she did not understand were casting its light over shadows that had beguiled her once. Was theft nothing much, the objects taken so small, and plenty left behind? If she spoke, her pupil would not come again, even if she said at once that she forgave so slight a misdemeanor. Knowing so little, at least she was certain of that, and often did not look to see what was no longer there.

June 19, 2017 | Permalink