EVER SINCE BORIS HAD shown up with the bruised eye, I had built Boris's father up in my mind to be some thick-necked Soviet with pig eyes and a buzz haircut. In fact--as I was surprised to see, when I did finally meet him--he was as thin and pale as a starved poet. Chlorotic, with a sunken chest, he smoked incessantly, wore cheap shirts that had grayed in the wash, drank endless cups of sugary tea. But when you looked him in the eye you realized that his frailty was deceptive. He was wiry, intense, bad temper shimmering off him--small-boned and sharp-faced, like Boris, but with an evil red-rimmed gaze and tiny, brownish sawteeth. He made me think of a rabid fox.