The Man Who Remembered Ch 01
Lev Davidovich carefully dripped one spoonful of honey into his tea. On the checkerboard tablecloth, the glass sat like a bull’s-eye, the drops of honey hitting the exact center of the target. “Ah,” he thought, “I was a marksman at the academy, but I never got to shoot in the field. Just as well.” A CD player, a holiday gift from his son the fairly honest businessman in St. Petersburg, played music he bought the day before when his pension check arrive. “Papa, you like that old music, now you...