'A man should never say all that he knows—some details should remain obscure.' —Odyssey 11

She boarded the train at one of the overnight stops, at Yaroslav or Amir. I vaguely recall the subtle commotion of her settling in, a few seats ahead of me and across the aisle. When sunlight crept into the car I noticed her long black hair, intricately braided and pinned in place. The braids formed a geometric shape, something like a star, across the back of her nearly child-size head. She had a wrap around her shoulders that was a deep purple color, like the Urals in winter. The skin of her neck was as white and unblemished as porcelain, as a china teacup--no, as the snow on the peaks of the Urals. 

Indeed, her skin was so flawless and her hair so black and lustrous, I assumed she was little older than a child traveling alone to meet a guardian aunt for a holiday in the country. A few years earlier I might have concealed the ring on my finger and found some pretense for making her acquaintance. I might have tried to coax her to the dining car for a glass of sherry. I could have spotted some traveler in a threadbare suit, an old man with a tobacco-stained beard, a guiltless fellow on whom to affix some outrageous lie. "That man over there--do not look!--he bears a striking resemblance to . . . yes . . . the Butcher of Belgrade (or the Rapist of R--, the Murderer of M--). I am not certain of course. Not certain enough to alert the conductor. But perhaps it would be best if you accompany me to the dining car--if you are traveling alone. Our friend may disembark at the next station." And if I were lucky, the innocent old man would choose that moment to look at the poor girl; and if I were really lucky, the old man would not disembark: he would stay right there for the duration of the trip, a few feet away, hacking violently every so often into a frayed handkerchief, oily with phlegm. 

But there was too much white in my mustaches for such machinations. I twisted the plain silver band on my finger a quarter turn; and, out of habit, I checked my coat pockets for my notebook and leather pencil case. Then I set about rereading my newspaper, for perhaps the twelfth time. I had a by-line in that edition, a story about a vagrant in the city. The pitiful creature claimed to be the Prince of Ithaka. I thought at first I was pursuing a humorous story--but there was a sadness that shone through each outrageous remark he made, like the light of a candle's flame seen through a comic paper. 

I interviewed the strange fellow in the police's interrogation chamber. I got to him before the detectives, who were busy with their lunches. (Over the years I had made friends among the police--a bottle of vodka now and then for the young ones, cigarettes for the old ones--for the newlyweds, a pair of theatre tickets.) At first I thought the vagrant was older than I, then I soon realized the thinning hair was due to malnutrition and the rings under his eyes were more city dust than age. The room was an empty gray space, save for two straight-back wooden chairs which faced each other in its exact center. A single light bulb hung on a cord above the chairs; its intensity wavered with the electrical needs of the city. There was a pair of gas sconces on the wall where there were black halos on the gray paint, but gas was nearly as hard to come by as electricity. The floor showed the dark and permanent stains of past interrogations. The building had been the police headquarters of a dozen different regimes for more than a century. Petty thieves, murderers, political agitators--all manner of detainees had been questioned here. But probably none was odder than the Prince of Ithaka. 

As I began to interview the man, I noticed the framed painting on the wall: a lavender sea rolling onto a deserted beach dotted with colorful flowers. An inappropriately cheerful picture for the gloomy chamber. 

At first he was unresponsive, his eyes roaming erratically, his neck twisting in a violent tic now and again. His clothes were shabby, his shoes beyond worn; a hole in the top of one revealed they were also too big for his feet. Many things were scarce because of the war effort but shoes especially so. Nearly all of the material and know-how were used for boots. Apparently at the beginning of the war, the dead soldiers were buried in their uniforms, including their boots. The wastefulness soon became obvious, however, and the newly dead were stripped of their possessions before being interred. There were even rumors that the army had sanctioned grave robbing, that it had encouraged troops to exhume the bodies of the first-fallen for their boots and belts and whatever else was useful. Government officials denied the rumors of course. 

I asked the man his name again and this time he uttered a disturbing little laugh, a laugh more closely related to a wince of pain than an ejaculation of mirth. "My name?" His grin was a gash chopped through the crust of a frozen sea. "I am Nobody--is it possible you do not know?--I am Nobody." He laughed in pain again. He spoke with an accent I could not place. Why are you in the city? "I am traveling, forever the traveler. Perhaps that is my true name: Traveler." From where have you traveled? "From everywhere, from the ends of the earth--no, from beyond the ends--do my shoes not show it?" He uttered his broken-glass laugh as he made his feet dance upon the floor. I could not help but notice the light in the stranger's eyes and the play in certain features of his unshaven face as he spoke. The man had been handsome in his youth, that was certain. (Later, the police artist made a quick sketch of the man for me--it only cost me three cigarettes--but my editor decided he did not have space for it.) 

I tried again: Do you have friends or family in the city? This question seemed to stun him. His eyes stopped roaming the interrogation chamber; his head and his hands became as steady as a diamond cutter's. "No. There is no one. No one for Nobody." His wild eyes and his tic returned. 

The report I had from my friends in the police was that he was caught stealing from a second-hand store: a wine skin, a knotted rope, an oar and of all things--a silk opera cape. When the shopkeeper confronted him, the stranger hit him so hard that his jaw was broken. The commotion caught the attention of patrolmen in the neighborhood-probably drinking or seeing a prostitute, unlikely they were merely patrolling. He gave the police quite a chase. It eventually required the two officers and a dozen spontaneous vigilantes to subdue the stranger, who apparently sent a patrolman and another man to the hospital when the mob at last cornered him. 

I asked the Prince of Ithaka about the odd assortment he had tried to steal. "I am forever traveling," he repeated. The police said they suspected he had come from Iiloskova, which was fewer than fifty miles from the northern front. Very little normal citizenry remained in Iiloskova. There were taverns and brothels and gambling houses, and, of course, the infamous Iiloskova Sanatorium for the Insane. So if the stranger came from there he was probably a deserter, an escapee from the sanatorium, or a pawn of some black-market profiteer. Each seemed equally likely to me. 

My editor, Mezenskov, had been trying to coerce me to go to the front for some time. We received news in the form of official army dispatches but they lacked color--and, no doubt, accuracy. I had been putting Mezenskov off, but retracing the journey of the Prince of Ithaka attracted me. The publisher of our rival paper, The Nightly Observer, had been trying to seduce me to write for him for some time. The Observer specialized in lurid tales. Journalistically, it was inferior to Mezenskov's paper but there was no questioning its circulation. The Observer's publisher offered me five times the money, assuming of course the story was acceptably licentious. Obviously, I did not mention this as my true motivation when I spoke to Mezenskov about going north. He retrieved the lock-box from his desk and gave me traveling money. He reminded me to pack my warmest clothes and said that he wanted me to return in a fortnight. I felt a stab of guilt at using Mezenskov's money to pursue a story for his chief rival. But I thanked him and bid him adieu. 

I took the watch from my vest pocket and checked the time; it would be several hours before reaching Iiloskova, literally the end of the rail line. I decided to go to the dining car for a bit of breakfast. I wanted to be conservative with the newspaper's allowance--no telling how expensive things would be in Iiloskova. I stood and stretched. Several vertebrae popped. The train seats were thinly upholstered and quite uncomfortable for such a long journey. As I was gathering my heavy coat and my valise, someone brushed past: it was the woman who was traveling alone. I briefly saw her face in profile, and she was not a mere girl--though there was a youthful radiance about her fine features. She glanced over as she said, "Pardon me," and her eyes were a flash of deep purple, like electric current passing through amethyst. I nodded and managed a quick smile; I was too late, however. 

I took up my things and followed the braided woman through the aisle. The movement of the train made us both appear intoxicated. We passed between the cars, she and I, and the air was bracing. The next car was a sleeper. Most of the curtains were drawn tight--the few others revealed empty berths. The woman was nearly as tall as I--I glanced down to see if she wore a heel, but her gray muslin skirt touched the floor--and there was an erectness about her bearing I was not used to seeing. It seemed the weight and the weariness of war had stooped everyone: an entire population simultaneously carrying a heavy load. Yet there was nothing unifying about this burden. Each man, woman and child bore the weight in isolation. 

This made me suspect the woman was a foreigner, and when I thought of it, there was a hint of accent in the two words she spoke to me. 

The commodes were at the rear of the sleeper car. The woman stopped and knocked on the door of one of these little compartments, then entered. I decided such was a good idea and used the adjacent commode room. I finished quickly. When I stepped out, the woman was not to be seen. I continued to the dining car. 

A few passengers were having their breakfasts but several tables were still available. I chose one on the east side near a window, where the light would be good. The cook, in his white uniform jacket, came over and took my order: a slice of ham, a fried egg, and black coffee. I had had the ham the previous evening and it was very good. I opened the valise and removed a sheaf of papers tied together with plain string. The cook brought my coffee in a simple porcelain cup. To my surprise, it smelled rich and strong; I was used to everything being rationed and watered down, especially coffee. 

I drank the good hot coffee as I flipped through the papers. It was a group of poems I had been working on. Before the war began I published a few sonnets in the literary papers. At one time I hoped to publish a collection but very few books were being produced, due to the scarcity of paper and ink--and interest. A friend was planning to leave for Paris in the summer. He offered to take my poems there in hopes of finding a publisher but I was not sure I would be ready to part with them. They had grown from me so gradually they felt a piece of me, the way that a lover can. 

The cook brought my ham and fried egg. I continued to glance at my poetry as I ate. 

The door of the dining-car opened and the braided woman entered with a gust of frigid air. She steadied herself on the back of the first chair she came to. She looked unwell: her fine skin was flushed and there was perspiration on her brow in spite of the cold. She appeared to be faint. I was the closest to her, so I put my fork down and went to her. "Here, please sit." I led her to my small table; she was too weak to protest. Her brilliant eyes said "thank you." I helped steady her in the chair, then took my own. "May I order you something?" It took her a moment to respond. Perhaps she was gathering the strength, or perhaps searching for the words. "Just tea please--tea would be lovely." I relayed her request to the cook. 

"May I order you something to eat?" I asked. 

"No thank you--but please eat your breakfast while it is still warm." She definitely carried an accent but I could not place it. 

The cook brought her tea in a moment. She sipped at it and the drink seemed to improve her. I wondered then if it was simply hunger that troubled her. Her face, though of a graceful structure, was unnaturally thin; her neck was the swan-like neck of which the poets of old wrote. Her blouse and long skirt were of good quality, but they were worn to the point of shabbiness and did not fit her properly, as if they were second-hand or as if she had lost a good deal of weight. I noted that she carried no pocketbook. 

"Please," I said, "may I order you some breakfast? It may help to restore you. My reward is that it will induce you to sit here with me a bit longer." 

"Yes, Mr. --" 

"Pastrovich." 

"Yes, Mr. Pastrovich, an egg and a slice of toasted bread would be very nice. Thank you." Some of the ruddiness had left her cheek. 

I signaled the cook and communicated her order, and requested more coffee also. For a time we sat in silence while I finished my breakfast and she drank her tea. The woman seemed lost in thought as she observed the passing countryside beyond the window. Now snow covered the ground and the barren tree limbs were laden in crystal. Compared to the city, with its shades of dirty gray, the country in winter almost seemed a fairyland. Briefly one could imagine the soldiers fighting the war with magic wand, incantation and pixie dust, instead of rifle, mortar-shell and bayonet. 

The cook brought her plate. She immediately broke the egg's yolk and soaked it up with a corner of toast. I sensed that she was profoundly hungry. The smell of my food and the sight of my eating it must have been maddening for her. 

I ordered her more tea. She was soon finished with the egg and toast. The cook took our plates when he brought her fresh tea. Her face was no longer flushed and the electricity had returned to her eyes. 

"Thank you, Mr. Pastrovich. I feel myself again." 

"I am glad. Traveling can affect one's health, especially traveling in winter." I wanted to ask why she was on the train alone, destined for such an inhospitable part of the country, but that would be prying. She would explain all in due course if she so intended. 

The sheaf of papers on the table drew her attention. "Are you a writer or a publisher?" 

"Journalism puts the bread on my table but I try my hand at poetry now and then." 

"A poet--how wonderful." Her delight sounded sincere. "May I have a look?" 

I nodded. She turned the title page of my manuscript so that she could read it; it took her a moment, no doubt translating. She said, "The Singing Poet--?" 

"Very nearly. Songs of the Poet. It is a working title." 

"By Hektr Pastrovich. Hektr: it is an uncommon name in this part of the world." 

"My father was a devotee of the Greek poet Homer." 

She smiled. "Your father was a scholar then?" 

"No, my father was many things but scholar was not among them. Mainly he was a fish monger." 

"Then how did he come to know Homer?" 

"My grandmother cooked and cleaned and sewed for the Orthodox priest in the village; in exchange the priest tutored my father. In addition to the Bible, the stories of Homer were his lessonbooks." 

"Did your father teach you to read them too?" 

"No. He told me the stories when I was very young. I am afraid I recall little of them." I had not thought of Homer for many years. "I remember the death of my namesake, how he was tricked by Athena outside the walls of Troy." 

The braided woman smiled; there was electricity in that too. "Ah yes, Pallas Athena, the goddess of wisdom, sprung from her royal father's head." Something like bitterness was in her voice. 

"You know classical mythology then?" 

"I have a . . . familiarity with its characters, yes." She sipped her tea and looked at the snowcountry. 

I had many questions but I still sensed that she would be reticent to answer. After all, she had not even offered her name. I tried one nonetheless: "What is your destination, madam?" 

She returned her gaze from the window. "The terminus of the line." 

"To Iiloskova then--that is the end of the rail. The train must turn around there." I could not imagine why a woman would be traveling alone to such a godforsaken place. "That is my destination as well." 

She nodded but did not comment on the coincidence. We had finished our coffee and tea, and suddenly there was nothing more to say. I paid the cook; the woman thanked me for her breakfast. We returned to our car and found that our respective places were still vacant. She smiled politely to me before returning to hers. I settled into my seat and prepared for the final hours of our trip.