The fate of the Russian intellectual is sad — especially if his surname is Koifman and he is a professor of philology, who has just exchanged his sixth decade for the early days of financial pyramids, vouchers, and “Lyonya Golubkov.” His young wife, who is also his former student, no longer wants to be near him, neither in joy nor, especially, in grief. And in illness, the professor is needed only by old, trusted friends — and by no one else.
How can one live after all this? Where to find joy and comfort?