The last story in his last collection, and very much concerned with death. This story, based on the death of Chekhov and its immediate aftermath, segues seamlessly from fact to fiction; you just cannot see the join. I’m endlessly intrigued by the way that something made-up can shed light on the real world.
First published in 1987 in The New Yorker, and available to subscribers to read here; included in Where I’m Calling From, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1988
A Personal Anthology 