By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.
He’s a man who seems older than he is as he stoops over a broom and pushes dried leaves and debris off the street. His task is never-ending. Day or night, you will find him cleaning the square under the shadow of the castle.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.