Mr. Pyotr was his name, a man who was 70 when I was still just encountering the world. His face had as many wrinkles as an elephant, each wrinkle unfolded like a book for each wrinkle told a day in his life. A life, I must add, more rich than you and I will probably ever have. His eyes were grey and watery, with eyebrows as only a Russian can have! For his eyebrows were thick and wide and stretched across his face without a break. Mr. Pyotr had no teeth and when asked why he never put in false teeth, his reply was always, “If God would have meant man to have teeth until we die than we shall have to accept being barbarians for the rest of a life.” Even though I don’t believe in God and I did not fully understand what he meant, I respected what he said all the same.
For a man of Mr. Pyotr’s age, his body was as strong as an ox with muscles that always told who was in command.
He always sat when telling me stories of his adventures except when getting deeply involved, then he would pace up and down in his room.
His room looked like one big antique piece, for in the back of the room was a big Grandfather clock which always gave the room a feeling of seniority. The ceiling was cracked in numerous places as the last relics of paint clung on, rather like a leaf in fall.
His bed was nothing much more than a mattress and a course grey blanket. Beside his bed was a half-used candle and behind the candle the bed, and to the right of the Grandfather clock lay more books than the stars at night. Though one thing I did notice was that every book was on people such as Marx, Lenin and Stalin.
Mr. Pyotr always was very philosophical with me, for he used to tell me how wrong the Russian government is and yet told me it did work in a sense.