THE PLAYERS
The investigation found Stepan Mikoyan an old man, gray-whiskered, a small brush under his nose, wearing a short brown shearling coat. He was small as a boy, and he waited for me at the entrance to an unidentifiable aircraft component factory. He did not have a place to receive guests, and we sat down on squashed chairs, joined in threes, opposite a little window with the sign “Cashier” above it; Stepan Anastasovich resorted to a whisper whenever an employee walked past us.
What I had before me was a handful of dust, mere remains. Yet there had been a time when this diminutive, eagle-nosed old man had been a master of life and had inspired holy fear by the mere mention of his father’s name. One old woman had told me that the strongest impression in her life was when Stepan Mi
