'Lend me a hand, friends, for I am alone and afraid.' — Iliad 13

The pension seemed quite perfect for my needs. My room had a comfortable chair, a sturdy table for writing and eating, a coal-burner, and a large bed whose springs were not too noisy. It was on the second floor, so it was the beneficiary of the little heat rising from the building's lower half. Its only window, double-paned, looked across a narrow alley to a featureless gray wall. The pension's landlord guaranteed me a scuttle of coal every other day; of course, I could obtain more for an additional cost. He was a short fellow, but muscular, with unkempt mustaches that covered his mouth even when he spoke. I assured him I would make do with the basic allotment. An electric light fixture hung from a black cord in more or less the center of the room; however, I was told not to depend on electricity. There was an oil lamp on the table, along with an assorted handful of stubby candles. More were available from the landlord – for an additional cost.

I had picked up a small metal pail of turnip soup from the landlord's skinny wife, and I immediately placed it on top of the coal-burner, as some warmth would no doubt improve the soup.

The pension was a twenty-minute walk from the railway station, toward Iiloskova's central business district – what remained of it. The offices that once handled money and valuable commodities of trade now dealt in basic necessities: used clothing, alcohol, and pharmaceuticals. Or they were vacant altogether. At the rail station I had opened my suitcase and took out my fur hat and my heavy gloves. I wound my scarf about my neck and hefted the suitcase to my side. With it and my valise, my hands were quite full.

In spite of the cold, the air seemed stale. Frost formed on my mustaches, which felt as stiff as pig bristles. Snowflakes descended erratically, but I could not tell if they came from the leaden sky or were merely blown off the severely slanted rooftops. Great piles of snow, some twenty and thirty feet high, stood at every street corner, where they had been doggedly shoveled, scraped and swept by the citizens in an attempt to stay winter's steady avalanche. On my way to the pension I stopped at a store selling alcohol. Its front windows were nearly black with soot. I needed a break from my burden so I stepped inside and immediately placed my heavy suitcase on the floor. There was a man behind a glass display counter. He was probably close to my age but appeared older. He was mostly bald and had long gray side whiskers, giving his face a thin, protracted look. He wore a black horse-hair vest over a heavy fisherman's sweater.

"Hello, friend," I said. "What do you have for the cold?" Wooden crates were littered about the room, some open, many not. Straw and glass bottles protruded from the open crates; straw also lay in clumps on the filthy floor. The shelves and display cases were somewhat ornate. The molding which ran along the high ceiling was hand-carved wood. This place had probably once been an apothecary. Well-to-do businessmen, physicians and litigators were no doubt among its heyday patrons.

"Nothing for the cold like mother's milk, friend." He set a small bottle of vodka on the greasy glass counter. He wore black wool gloves with half-fingers. The tips of his nails were as black as the wool.

"Of course. I will take it." The price he asked was too high but I did not feel like haggling. I slid the bottle in the pocket of my big coat and took up my suitcase. I was quite certain that if I had asked for something more potent, I would have been supplied accordingly from the back of the store.

In my room at the pension I sipped the grainy vodka and held my hands near the coal-burner. I was beginning to feel warmer. My mustaches had thawed and I used my jacket sleeve to wipe at the moisture. Having no tableware, I drank the turnip soup. It was bland but probably nutritious.

The long train ride had taken its toll; I was suddenly very sleepy. I shed my jacket and my necktie and my shoes, then crawled under the blankets on the bed. The mattress was lumpy and smelled slightly of something unpleasant, wet poultry feathers perhaps, but overall it was heavenly to lie down. I balanced the bottle of vodka on my breastbone and took an occasional taste. The only light was the diffused illumination from the alley way. The little room grew gradually darker as the long boreal night approached. Half intoxicated, I imagined the night as a great black beast, plodding toward this remote city from the barren north. It came on – pigeon-toed and relentless as winter – without malice, but dangerous nonetheless. The great beast could gobble up a man before he knew it, I thought. One moment ignorant bliss; the next ... nothing.

With this black thought I took a last drink and set the bottle on the floor. Instantly I was asleep. My brain soon caught hold of a familiar dream of my wife: Tasha is the young girl I courted, before sorrow had imprinted itself around her eyes. She wears a knitted cap and pushes a noisy baby carriage along a cobblestone street. She appears quite content. It is a lovely day; it must be springtime. Then a wheel of the carriage strikes a dislodged stone, nearly upsetting the carriage. Concerned, Tasha checks her baby, only to find she has been pushing an assortment of rotten fruit. Tasha becomes despondent; she has known all the while there was no baby in the carriage, that she has deceived herself into contentment. Tasha's face of despondency is the wife with whom I was familiar – the woman who cooked my meals, who laundered my clothes, who dusted my books, who lay with me at night – all out of wifely obligation. She cooked bland meals, she removed only the least tenacious of soil from my clothes, she ran her duster along just the spines of my books allowing great quantities of dust to collect on the edges. And she lay with me like a corpse, silent and rigid. Only the dampness between her legs implied any sort of desire.

In sum, I had nothing with which to be dissatisfied – and yet everything too. Often, at the conclusion of the dream I arrive at the scene and devour the rotten fruit, as blissful and as ignorant as swine at trough.

Perhaps this was in part why I was fascinated with the Prince of Ithaca. Between the lines of his lunatic ramblings, I read that he had, if nothing else, truly lived life. He had eaten meals exquisitely prepared, he had worn clothes finely tailored, and he had slept with women expertly trained. Maybe I was merely projecting my own wishes onto an anonymous canvas.

When I awoke it was quite dark and cold in the room. There was barely a discernible orange glow within the coal-burner. A band of spectral light entered through the curtainless window. I had the sense that it was very late, that I had slept for some time – but it may have been only an hour or two. I was comfortable under the blankets, except for a strong urge to urinate. There was a pot under the bed but I did not want to smell it for the remainder of the night.

I rose from the warm covers and used a box of matches to light the oil lamp on the table. It was filled with whale or even seal oil and smelled very badly. However, it did illuminate all but the corners of the room. I slipped on my shoes and fished the heavy key from my pants pocket. Taking the lamp, I stepped into the hall and locked my door. Mezenskov's money was in my wallet jammed under the mattress. There was a commode on the first floor; I hoped it was not occupied. The pension was quiet as a crypt – perhaps most of its rooms were vacant. I descended the stairs as stealthily as possible. While I am not a huge man, I tend to be heavy-footed. Several of the steps creaked but there was nothing to be done about it. I found that first-floor commode was available. I took the lamp inside and was finished quickly. Returning to the hall, the crack of breaking glass startled me, over-loud in the silent pension. I realized there had been voices all along but almost below hearing. I assumed it was the landlord and his wife, possibly arguing about something.

I placed the lamp upon the floor and crept along the darkening hall toward the landlord's rooms. Light shone through the keyhole. Just outside their door now, I was not certain their voices were tinged with anger. They could have been just as plausibly engaged in lovemaking. I bent to one knee and peered through the keyhole, an odd sort of genuflection. I could see a cluttered table and a shattered cup on the wooden floor, but there was no one in view. I heard their two voices but could distinguish no words. I plodded quietly back to the lamp then to my room.

Hearing the couple, possibly violent, possibly amorous, had put ideas in my blood. I thought of the place where I had purchased the vodka. Surely there was a shopkeeper who peddled more than "mother's milk" – but the tit and all, I mused. My room was cold and I felt a lonesomeness I had not known for some time.

I had told myself I would not be unfaithful on this journey away from my wife; therefore, I also told myself I was not going out to solicit a whore as I prepared to leave my little room. I merely wanted some air. I was in a quandary about what to do with my money. On the one hand, I did not want it all on my person, but I did not care to leave it in the room either. I put my two largest bills in each sock and an equal amount of money in my valise with my manuscript, stuffing the valise behind the bed, then I kept the remainder of the money in my wallet. I put on my vest and suit coat but not my tie, then my big coat, scarf, beaver hat and gloves. I carried the oil lamp downstairs, extinguished the flame, and placed it by the pension's side-door, which I left unlatched.

The night was exceedingly frigid. I looked up expecting to see a clear sky but the stars were not visible. In a moment I saw a dull semicircle among the clouds that was the moon. I anticipated the Iiloskova street to be teeming with people of the night but I saw very few people at all. And those who were out were huddling within themselves against the severe cold. I presumed they were men who roamed the dark streets; however, it was difficult to say for certain.

I walked in general toward the rail station. The dark streets seemed entirely unfamiliar and I could not recall precisely how to find the vodka dealer. I was suddenly afraid I would not be able to find my way back to the pension. I retraced my steps in my mind and was reassured. The darkness allowed me to think of the buildings as they must have been in the city's heyday. I imagined brightly painted store fronts, cornices and window frames highlighted in gold leaf, and trimmed hedges along the boulevards, and even colorful flowerbeds in the summer months. I thought of the well-dressed businessmen and the socialites traveling the streets in fine carriages and motor-cars.

But a downturn in the economy changed all that more than a decade before, and the war hastened the city's demise. In the dark, it smelled of decay and desolation.

My fingers were growing cold even inside my big gloves and stuffed inside the pockets of my coat. My nose was numb and my mustaches had turned to pig bristles again. I must return soon, regardless of whether I found what I was searching for. What was I searching for on these strange and lonely streets? I could not think of a reasonable reply.

Four dark figures crossed to my side of the street and were walking toward me. Their silence alarmed me; I would have felt more at ease if they had been crooning some bawdy drinking song. I imagined they meant to rob me. I suddenly scolded myself for stashing money in my socks: with the war shortages, my shoes and socks would probably be the first items they would take from me. I had a vision of myself hobbling in the dark on frostbitten feet trying in vain to locate my pension. It occurred to me I had not seen a police station or, for that matter, one police man since arriving in Iiloskova. Perhaps it had become a place of lawlessness. I considered turning and fleeing – but they would no doubt overtake me: I was no longer a young man. Too, some bit of pride, some part of me that did not want me to be a coward, kept me moving forward, albeit unsteadily.

Only a few paces before we were to meet on the boardwalk the four figures stopped in front of a building and entered through its double doors. Light from the building's windows spilled onto the boardwalk and street. It was incandescent light and the building shone like a beacon upon a dark sea. The proprietor must have had significant civic clout to keep so much electricity flowing to his establishment. I came to the building – it was tall, at least three stories rising into the gloom – and I peered through the windows. At first the light dazzled my eyes. There was no question as to the nature of the business: the lobby of the building, once an accounting office perhaps, was decorated like a parlor, and a dozen painted whores set about on silk sofas and footstools smoking and drinking from china teacups, but probably not tea, and chatting with the men who had just arrived from the night. The whores wore formless dresses of gray and red and blue; they wore stockings but no shoes.

I stood on the boardwalk and watched until my breath on the icy windowpane completely obscured the view. I turned and began retracing the route to the pension. Now the streets were deserted except for the bitter wind and an occasional pricking snowflake. I wished that I had brought the bottle of grainy vodka; I yearned for a warming swallow.

I could no longer feel my feet. The impact of my steps seemed to travel directly to my knees. I tried to hurry but I did not want to stumble on the invisible boardwalk. I realized I was a little afraid – but the fear quickened my heartbeat and warmed me: a cozy blanket of fear: I appreciated the irony and made plans to use the image in a poem. Suddenly and irrationally I had the sense I was being followed. I had not heard the echo of footsteps, nor noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Yet I wondered if one of the men from the whorehouse had followed me. No, they were otherwise occupied. Some other night wanderer then?

I came to a corner where I had to turn right, and when I did so I glanced behind. I saw nothing in the dark. It was not perfect darkness. Here and there lamplight shone from a window, or the ruddy glow of burning coal. The sky itself was very slightly illuminated – the tiniest bits of moonlight and starlight fell through the filter of snowclouds. I had gone several yards when I realized something was not right. Ahead a group of people huddled around a barrel keeping warm by a fire. Their bodies at first hid the flames. I had not passed such a gathering on my excursion. I was lost; I had made a wrong turn.

I stood stock still and squinted at the nondescript buildings on either side of me. My eyes watered in the cold. Nothing looked familiar, or rather everything did. Why had I left my room? What brand of stupidity had precipitated it? Think, Pastrovich! What do you do? Maxims about being lost in the forest or in the mountains came to mind – worthless globs of words. My heart pounded. I felt warm, even my feet.

I could try to find my way back to the brothel and begin again. But I had no confidence at all in my sense of direction. I imagined becoming even more lost – hopelessly lost. Then I must speak to the nightpeople around the barrel; I must ask for their assistance. My natural fear of strangers was suddenly acute. However, there was no help for it. I approached the nightpeople slowly, straining all my senses – even, I hoped, a sixth sense – to detect if they were malignant or benign. But they were as unreadable, as unpredictable as a pack of feral dogs. In their layers of clothing, with a strange contrast of firelight and total darkness, I could not even tell their sexes. Five androgynous figures were around the barrel.

At the instant that I might have spoken, my trepidation surged and I walked past them, mute and trembling. I was only a few steps beyond when one of the streetpeople spoke in a feminine voice: "May I accompany you, sir?"

I halted but did not respond. She repeated, "May I accompany you, sir?" I turned; she was a black form against the crimson light.

I spoke, my words shivering in the cold air. "I am en route to my pension." She waited; I supposed all the streetpeople did. "I am en route to my pension but I am disoriented."

She stepped forward, closer but not clearer. "I know this part of the city, sir. May I accompany you?"

May I accompany you? – it must be an Iiloskova prostitute's solicitation. I put that aspect of her question out of mind. I clearly needed a guide. I could not wander the black streets all night. Dawn would be slow to come in this northern city.

I considered her age. She sounded youthful and she seemed small in spite of her winter layers. "Yes ... please."

We left the circle of light together.

Presently she took my arm as if we were sweethearts out for an evening stroll. Her touch was light; in fact, I could barely sense her at all. Seeing her was difficult. I half suspected that even if we passed a lighted window she would cast no shadow upon the boardwalk. I sniffed in hopes of detecting some trace of cologne. The hairs of my nose were as stiff as pine needles and I smelled nothing, not even a trace of smoke from the fire. I listened for her quick steps but heard only my own heavy plodding. I spoke just to provoke her voice: "The pension is on Division Street, I believe."

"Yes, it is in the next street, to the left." There was a hint of accent in her voice – different from the other northcountry folk I had met.

She was an able guide and we reached the pension shortly. "Yes, this is it," I said standing at the walk which led to the side entrance. Her hand was still on my arm. "Thank you for your service. Let me give you something for your trouble." I reached into my coat pocket for some coins.

"You are kind, sir, but could I not warm myself a bit at your fire? It is a deathly cold night."

I tried to see her countenance, to see if she was playful or sincere, but the street was too dark. I glanced around, fearful that some of her companions had followed us. I saw no one of course. I was too chilled to consider the issue any further. "Yes, come in for a bit. To warm yourself."

We went to the side entrance of my home away from home and entered. I latched the door behind us and lighted the lamp I had left there. I kept the wick low, so I still did not have a plain view of her face. The pension was perfectly quiet as we ascended the stair. My cold fingers fumbled with the key but at last I unlocked my door. The coals had all but died and the room's temperature was not a vast improvement over the city streets. My companion went immediately to the coal-burner to work up the heat. I set the lamp on the table and increased its illumination, anxious to see her face and determine her age. Her back was to me as she knelt at the burner. She was experienced with fire and soon a flame danced among the fresh coals she had applied.

She took off her mittens and was wearing half-finger gloves beneath. She held her hands near the heat. "That is better," she said, speaking toward the warmth so that I could barely hear her.

I removed my hat and gloves and coat. The fire was making a difference already. We stayed there in that way for some time. I did not know what to say or do. It was a great relief to be back in my room and secure – that was enough for now.

Yet the silence grew heavy. I was about to speak, something about her parents or her friends on the street, when she said, "Is that turnip soup I smell?" The pail was still atop the coal-burner. "May I have a taste, sir?"

"Yes, please, finish it. I am sorry but I have no tableware."

She took up the pail in her small hands and began gulping down the cold soup. She must have been very hungry. Even when the soup was gone she held the pail tipped to her mouth letting the last few drops of milky broth run out. She finally replaced the pail to the burner. "Thank you, sir; I had not eaten today." Her face was in profile. She looked pleasant ... and young. "I do not mean to be forward, sir, but do you have anything to wash it down?"

I hesitated before offering her the bottle of vodka, which was still on the floor by the bed. I bent over and picked it up and she took it from my hand. She sat on the edge of the unmade bed and removed the cork. Her steadily increasing familiarity unsettled me. She took a long drink and I expected her to choke, but she did not: she was accustomed to hard liquor.

"Please," I said, "you have gotten something to eat and drink to warm you. You must go. You must return to your friends."

She looked puzzled. "But I have not thanked you properly, sir. Do you not want my thanks?" She untied and removed her cap, then shook free her thick dark hair. She appeared older then, perhaps not the child I had guessed.

"It was I who was in your debt, miss, for guiding me back to my room. Thank you for that."

She stared up at me. I looked at her but I tried not to think of the shape of her face, of her eyes, her mouth. I reminded myself she was a stranger from a strange street, that she might be a thief or a murderess even.

"Though you do not want my thanks, sir, could I not stay here until morning? Your room is comfortable and the streets are so cold in winter." She watched me closely for a sign. "I promise to leave when the sun is fully up and you will not be burdened with me anymore."

She seemed earnest. And the cold was severe. I recalled the profound lonesomeness I had known earlier – it was gone now. This strange girl had exorcised it from my room, from my heart. Like a priest casting out evil.

"I will sleep here on the floor in my coat," she offered. "I will be fine."

I thought of her sneaking off with my things while I slept like an old bear in his den. "You may take the side of the bed nearest the wall. But be certain to keep your promise in the morning."

"Thank you, sir, indeed."

"It is late and I am exceedingly tired."

She removed her boots and heavy coat and crawled to the far side of the large bed. I took off my shoes and lay beside her, turning my back to her and pulling the blankets over us both. I dozed off quickly but not before I heard her sleep rattle.

It was one of those sleeps that seems over in an instant. I had no dreams – I do not believe I even moved – but I was suddenly awake. Light streamed in from the window. And just as suddenly I knew she was gone. It was not for my money or my winter coat and hat that I was immediately concerned. I reached across the bed where she had lain and pulled up my valise. I unlatched its top flap and dug past my poems and money until I found the sketch of the Prince of Ithaca. I breathed with relief when I found it in its place. I looked for a moment at the Prince's eyes (the artist had captured them exactly). Traveler, he called himself. Was he often unnerved in his travels? A foreigner upon foreign soil or seas. There were tales he could tell but he kept them locked within, like a priest's bread inside his tabernacle. Christ's body closely guarded, and doled out sparingly and mysteriously.

I put the sketch away and secured my valise. I stepped over to the window in my stocking feet. I had the sense that my visitor left via the window. It was a foolish idea as it was a full two-story drop to the brick-paved alley. I checked the window nonetheless and it was firmly shut and latched. It annoyed me that she had left me asleep in an unsecured room. In the instant that it took for me to glance at the door, I imagined that it was latched, making a mystery of the girl's egress – but it was in fact undone.

She either had great faith in humankind that I would not be robbed or murdered in my sleep, or she simply did not care. The latter seemed most probable.

The landlord's wife had promised me tea with warm milk and biscuit for breakfast. There was also a washroom off the kitchen at my disposal. I decided that I should clean myself and eat, then go about the business that had guided me to this godforgotten place.