About the book: 1964 / I drove my old Ford up the highway to the hill so that I could see the Bannerman property, located near the bay and illuminated by moonlight. The mansion cast bizarre shadows, and a colonnade resembling the arms of a giant skeleton was clearly visible in the night. Compared to the last time I saw him, the estate was much neglected and everything was overgrown with grass. The cast-iron gate in the brick wall was, however, still in place, but the brick itself was already all dried out and cracked, and the hinges on the gate were barely holding on. But there was no time to dwell on such details now. The potholes on Highway 242 required great driver caution, but nevertheless, I kept glancing around, and it was so natural when a person lived here for the first twelve years of his life before he thrown to be torn to pieces in this cruel world. And he, of course, wants to look at his father’s house, at its scars and scratches that have appeared over the past years.