About the book: 1986 / “...He himself struck several matches at once and poked them into the thatched roof of the hut. The straw caught fire like gunpowder. Blue smoke rose and ran along the eaves. There was a smell of burning in the air... Prokhorov looked sadly at his burning hut, built for him by the diligence of good people, looked again and waved his hand. Soon the flames crackled, making their way along the resinous wood, and in a few minutes the whole hut was already on fire. The tops of the nearest trees began to rustle from the increased draft of air; along with thick clouds of smoke, a rain of sparks flew to the sky. The evening air, until recently so clean and fragrant, smelled of stench and soot... The shadows thickened in the forest…»