The stories in New Yorker rarely disappoint me, and given a chance I try to read them. It doesn't happen often, unless a flu confines me to bed at the right moment and in the right time. This was the case last week when a Jan 25, 2016 issue of the magazine found its way into my hands. The name of the author grabbed my attention – Tatyana Tolstaya. Slavic writers are not frequent guest on its pages, and I was curious to read it.