All rivers were diverted into a single great flood. —Iliad 12

After breakfast, I set about finding the news bureau office. I had an address, given to me by Mezenskov, but I needed directions from my landlord. He said it was about three miles to the bureau office, and that I might be able to procure a cart or even a carriage going the right direction. He doubted that a motor-car could be found as the army had already commandeered virtually all of them in the city. The day was cold but sunny, and after fresh biscuit with butter and honey, and good strong tea, I felt up to the walk – should it prove necessary. I had my valise with me, and it could easily grow heavy. The streets of Iiloskova were almost bustling and my fears and forebodings of the previous night seemed distant and foolish. I was a child afraid of bogeymen under his bed. In the light of day, being well fed and well enough rested, I felt the city offered a certain charm, like an elderly woman who retains the hint of her girlish beauty, though she be bent and crippled now. Many of the former municipal buildings revealed their architecture's ornate Turkish roots. In between were more brutish structures, built solidly and lower to the earth, ready to withstand a northcountry winter. They were often constructed of red brick and heavy timbers, the windows small and square.

Deep ruts, frozen hard, were cut into the city streets. Pedestrians, both two- and four-legged, had to mind their steps or risk a broken ankle. Snow as fine as face powder blew in swirls through the ice-covered streets. I kept my eye out for a horse-drawn conveyance of some sort but none came rattling along. Every so often a child or small woman would pass me on the boardwalk and I thought of my young roommate of the night before. I wondered where the streetpeople went when the streets were filled with daytime folk. I imagined them to be nocturnal creatures, like vampires, who had to retire to dark places while the sun was out. Perhaps they slept in alleyways and ate from garbage bins while Iiloskova went about what remained of its business.

I heard squeaks and rattles behind me. A rickety cart drawn by an aged sway-back horse was navigating the treacherous street. I hailed the cart's driver, a man with a graying beard and worn coat. The cart continued to move at its same pace while I spoke to the man and requested a ride to the news bureau. I offered to pay a pair of koppers and he consented with a nod to let me hop onto the back of his slowly moving cart. I concluded I would not reach the bureau any faster but the ride would save my legs and feet some hardship. As I found a place on the cart among wooden crates and a rolled up carpet and sour smelling milk cans, I thought of the Prince of Ithaca and his wornout shoes and shabby clothing. I wondered how many miles he had walked and if in fact he had traveled these same streets. I had no proof of it but it seemed to me that he had. I looked at the people on the boardwalks and could imagine him there, moving hunched through the crowds, as silent and separate as an assassin among bishops.

I arranged myself on the old carpet, which smelled of pine pitch and ammonia. I asked my driver where he had been headed when he came along but he either did not hear me or decided to ignore my query. I removed paper and pouch from my coat and made myself a cigarette. I struck a match on a milk can lid. It was cold riding in the back of the cart and the smoke in my lungs warmed me. There was no reason to be in a hurry, so I leaned back and enjoyed my smoking and the bright day. I was carefree only for a moment, however. My thoughts turned to Tasha, at home alone except for her washing and mending and cooking, which only half occupied her. She went through her days in search of other activities. It was the labors of motherhood she desired, to prepare meals for and tidy up after children that were not to be. I once suggested that we take in children – there were orphans in plentitude thanks to the war. Tasha did not respond, which was often her way. She went about her pretend housework, sullen, like a cow licking her still-born calf.

After a time, the horse-drawn cart entered a section of the city with no ornate buildings whatsoever; they were all of the squat working-class type. Without warning, my driver halted the cart and pointed to a building with a gray façade and window shutters of peeling black paint. A wooden sign with tarnished metal letters confirmed that this was the news bureau, so I climbed down from the cart and gave my man the two koppers I had promised. He put them in the pocket of his coat and got the old horse moving again with a shake of the reins. The sunny skies were giving way to clouds, snowclouds no doubt.

Fewer people were on the streets here. I walked up to the door of the news bureau and thought about knocking: it looked closed-off and uninviting. But, after all, it was not a private residence, so I turned the knob and went inside. I expected to feel a rush of warm air but it was nearly as cold as outside. There was a long hallway lit only by a window near the ceiling at the far end. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Meanwhile, I heard the clack of a typewriter from somewhere in the gloom. There was an overlarge desk shoved into the corner of the foyer. I suspected a receptionist once occupied the desk but had probably been let go for want of work and salary. There was a disheveled stack of newspapers atop the desk, and a felt writing pad, and a nearly empty bottle of black ink, probably half frozen.

I called hello and received no response. I started moving toward the sound of the typewriter. I noticed the dust on the floor of the hallway and cobwebs in each of the corners. Clearly, the cleaning woman had been dismissed along with the receptionist. The typing sound was coming from an office at the far end of the hall. The door was ajar and my first view into the room was of just the typewriter itself and its carriage jumping along with the energetic bursts of the typist, who was smoking a pungent cigar. A puff of smoke hung over the paper in the typewriter's carriage like a stormcloud.

I knocked on the door and stepped inside the office. "Hello," I announced.

The man looked up startled and a second later his fingers finished their flurry of letters. He wore half-finger gloves. At first he appeared nearly my age but I quickly realized it was his furrowed brow and unshaven cheeks; in reality he was probably a good deal younger than I. He also wore a shirt of dingy white, the collar almost yellow, and an undone black tie hung lank from his neck. His sleeves were rolled up revealing a heavy gray shirt underneath. He wore a black vest with silver piping on the shoulders; it was part of a naval uniform. The cigar protruded from his lips like a misplaced organ.

"Hello," I said again. "I am Hektr Pastrovich. My editor, Mezenskov was to have wired you about my coming." I went to the man's desk and extended my ungloved hand. I had a letter of introduction from Mezenskov in case telegraphy failed us.

"Pastrovich," he repeated through the smoldering cigar as he shook my fingers. "Pastrovich." He pawed through paper strewn across the desk and produced a little yellow sheet. "A boy brought it only within the hour." He reread the short message to himself. "Says you are here to investigate the front."

"Yes ... that is true...."

"What? My dispatches are not sufficient?" He laughed and emitted a thick cloud. "It is all right. As you can see, I am understaffed." He had a southeastern dialect.

"Are you alone here in the bureau?"

"No – I have two writers, if they can be called such, but I told them to only come to work when they are sober, which leaves a very narrow window of opportunity." He jerked open the bottom drawer of the desk. "Can I pour you a drink?"

It seemed early to me but I did not want to offend. He pulled an unlabeled bottle of vodka and a pair of mismatched glasses from the drawer. He half filled the glasses and I took the shorter of the two. The vodka was tart; I imagined that in the whole of Iiloskova there was not a drop of liquor more than a few hours old.

"Please, pull up a chair," he said. "I am Bushkov, by the by – editor, star reporter ... navy lieutenant, errand boy, publican – you name it." He removed the cigar long enough to drink down most of the vodka in his glass.

I took hold of the nearest chair and turned it toward Bushkov. The chair had an uneven leg.

He continued, "What exactly do you want to accomplish, Mr. Pastrovich, now that you have come all this way?"

"To be frank, I do not have specific objectives. I am hoping to gather background for a piece or two on the city, how the war has affected it. And I should like to get to the front, to report the war with my own eyes – that is what my editor has in mind, I know."

"I see." Bushkov puffed on his foul cigar. "I can help you arrange transportation, perhaps point you in the right direction. Trucks come from the front irregularly, once every week or two – sometimes less frequently in winter. I can provide you work space, as you can see. Where are you staying?"

"At a pension, near the rail station. It is reasonably comfortable and affordable."

"It is some distance from here then. In the room across the hall are some cots with blankets. If you find yourself nearer this part of the city some evening. There is always a key above the front door frame."

"Thank you." I supposed there were pensions closer to the news bureau but I felt the need to keep my distance, from Bushkov, who at some level represented the government. "There is another matter," I said as I reached into my valise and retrieved the sketch of the Prince of Ithaka. "Does this man look familiar to you? Has he been in the news?"

Bushkov angled the picture to catch the light from the window. "Who is he?"

"I am not sure. I suppose I was hoping you could tell me."

"He is from Iiloskova?" Bushkov continued to study the drawing.

"I believe he spent some time here, yes." I sensed some suspicion in Bushkov.

"No, he does not look familiar. I could ask my writers when they come in."

"That is all right." I reached out and reclaimed the drawing. "Do you have a paper morgue? Perusing some old reports may be a good way to begin."

"Such as it is." He got up from the desk chair and shifted the position of the cigar in his mouth. Carrying my valise and glass of bad vodka, I followed Bushkov to the hallway and two doors down to a larger room with a pair of windows and three tall bookcases, from floor to ceiling. Each bookcase contained shelf after shelf of leather-bound papers. Bushkov pointed to the bookcases from right to left: "City, the war, and everything else. The oldest starts in the bottom right, the most recent top left. And over there – " He indicated a table against a wall. " – are about six months's worth of dispatches that have not been organized." Stacks of disheveled papers covered the table top. I knew then how long ago the receptionist had been dismissed, or had evacuated herself. "You may peruse to your heart's content. Let me know if I can be of further service." He left behind a cloud of smoke. I noticed that his black pants had silver piping up the leg to match the vest. Cleaned and pressed, it could have been a smart uniform. I supposed it was some government official's idea of a joke to post a navy-man in the news bureau in Iiloskova, a thousand miles from the nearest coast line. The River Hadz that ultimately connected Iiloskova's lake to the ocean was so clogged with chunks of ice one could make the journey by foot just as easily, or uneasily, as by boat.

There was a rolltop desk in the morgue-room with the top up and a bit of clear space to work. So I removed paper and pencil, and went about looking through the old dispatches and taking notes. I did not want to go back further than six months, so I began with the table of papers. I found that they were not completely disorganized; there was a kind of method to the madness, and I was able to sort out "city" stories from "war" stories. I was not certain what I was looking for. I figured that I would read for general information and if anything seemed related to the Prince of Ithaka, no matter how obliquely, I would make note of it.

Outside the morgue windows, the day had turned from bright to overcast white. And it was becoming more difficult to read the dispatches, some poorly typewritten, others scribbled in cursive. There was an oil lamp on the floor near the roll-top desk, so I lit the stubby wick and hung the lamp on a nail protruding from the wall that was there for just such a purpose. I also fixed myself a cigarette and used an ash bucket that I found in the corner of the morgue-room. There was something cozy and comforting about sitting alone in the cold room amid the dispatches, smoking and sipping the bad vodka, hunting for some clue to a mystery I could not yet articulate.

I accumulated a few notes. Among the city reports were ones about petty thievery and troublemaking vagrants. I recalled the incident that landed the Prince in jail at home, his stealing from the secondhand shop, and it seemed that any of these reports might have to do with the stranger. I found nothing about escapees from the asylum, or army deserters. In fact, it occurred to me there were no reports of serious crimes whatsoever. Iiloskova had to have its share of murders and beatings – more than its share – yet after two hours I had read no dispatches regarding homicides, brutal robberies, or rape; nor bootlegging or prostitution for that matter. Could it be the government-controlled press reported nothing so unseemly? We had long suspected government censorship, but we imagined – I imagined – it only pertained to issues of national import, like the progress of the war. What would be the point of polishing Iiloskova's image? Perhaps officials were hoping for the return of trade after the war. To me, such thoughts were beyond hope: they were of the realm of fantasy, of fairies and elves, witches and dragons.

The city's death rattle was on the cold breeze.

It was after mid-day when Lieutenant Bushkov stepped into the morgue and invited me to dine with him at his landlady's. He was without his disfiguring cigar for the first time and he had lost ten years from his face. I was hungry and beginning to get a headache, from the poisonous vodka and the close reading. We donned our heavy coats and went outside, where nearly invisible pellets of snow were cutting the air. We talked very little as it was difficult into the wind. He asked how my researches were coming; there might have been a touch of sarcasm in his voice but it was difficult to tell with the wind. I said they were coming along.

It was only a few blocks to his landlady's house, yet my face was numb by the time we arrived. I thought of how one would not last long exposed to the elements in the northcountry. I wondered what sorts of hardships the troops were enduring to keep the enemy at bay.

The landlady's house was a two-story brick edifice with a white-painted rail fence and a spacious porch. It was the first homey home I had seen in Iiloskova. Inside, it was actually warm. A fire roared in the livingroom hearth. I removed my winter things in the foyer and soaked in the heat, like a toad taking in the rays of the sun on a cold morning. Madam Ilychka was stately in her elderliness; gray-haired, yes, but tall and willowy. She wore a touch of rouge on her cheekbones. Her hands were long and white beneath her lace cuffs. A blue-eyed Siamese cat moved around her feet, which were hidden under a long, striped skirt.

Madam Ilychka told Bushkov he was the only boarder to return for supper, so a guest was no trouble, "welcome, in fact," she said.

We went to a table in the diningroom, where another fire was alight, and soon the landlady brought us steaming bowls of red bean and ham soup, with wheat bread and mugs of black coffee. I had not felt this warm and comfortable since boarding the train for Iiloskova. Once we were served, Madam Ilychka sat at the head of the table drinking coffee with cream from a china saucer, the Siamese draped across her lap. She encouraged us to eat heartily and to spread butter to the point of excess on our thick slices of bread. Bushkov was used to such treatment and readily complied, whereas I was more timid.

"Is this how all southerners eat, like sparrows?" she chided me. I supposed that to the northcountry people, all visitors were southerners, though I certainly did not consider myself such.

I wondered about my decision to remain in my current pension – perhaps Madam Ilychka had room – but the strong coffee was making me clear-headed if nothing else, and keeping my distance from Lieutenant Bushkov still seemed wise. Not to mention, the cost was probably well beyond the allowance Mezenskov had provided. While we ate, Madam Ilychka asked me about my family back home; I told her I was married. She asked about children; no, I said. My tone, I am certain, made her drop the line of inquiry. Soon the landlady went to the kitchen with our bowls and spoons, and returned with bread pudding on saucers with cream. The desserts were steaming as if recently from the oven. I was convinced I could not afford her rent.

After the dessert, Bushkov offered me a cigar in Madam Ilychka's parlor, but I declined. "I should probably gather my notes from the bureau and begin making my way back to the center of the city," I said. "I may have to walk the entire route and your days are short here." I stepped into the kitchen for a moment and thanked Madam for her excellent meal; I offered to pay her but she said it was already taken care of by her tenant.

Bushkov and I returned to the cold day. The boardwalk was a bit slippery with the new-fallen, powdery snow. We were passing a low brick structure when the lieutenant said, "Come in for a drink before you are off, Pastrovich." We paused at its entrance.

"I probably should go."

"Pish. It will warm you for the journey. You said you wanted local color. This establishment is positively vibrant."

Still wary, but still not wanting to offend – Bushkov could prove useful here – I accepted and we walked into the tavern. It was surprisingly busy for the middle of the day but it was mainly old men. The war had taken most of the men who were in their prime. There was a long oaken bar along one wall but no stools. When I looked closer, I realized there were dark squares on the floor where stools had once been anchored. At almost the same moment I noticed an empty frame on the wall behind the bar that looked as though it might have held a mirror in place. Perhaps the tavern had sat empty for a time and had been looted. In fact, once I considered it, it seemed likely.

Bushkov and I went to a table near the center of the tavern, and an old man in a dirty apron came to take our order. Bushkov ordered a vodka. I asked the old man if he had beer and he did. Bushkov removed a cigar from his coat, clipped off the end with a little pair of scissors he kept in his vest pocket, and lighted it. "So," he said through a cloud of smoke, "tell me about your home, Hektr. What is it like?"

I thought for a moment. "I never considered it special; yet having spent some time here, it seems to have improved in my esteem."

"Yes, Iiloskova is a real rat hole. I have been here nearly eighteen months. Imagine that – when a year is like a life sentence." The old man brought our drinks. There was no exchange of currency; perhaps Bushkov ran a line of credit. "What else?"

"There is a river, a branch of the Vulpa, not far from my house. I often go walking there in the mornings. It is very pleasant." I knew these responses were not what Lieutenant Bushkov had in mind but I felt like being abstruse. The thought of painting him a vivid picture of my home seemed like a violation of privacy. Had he not represented the government in my mind, I might have responded differently. I drank my beer, which was a bit flat, but an improvement over the vodka I had had since arriving. "And you, Lieutenant, where is your home?"

"I too have a river," he said, "and I have been walking there myself."

Touché, I thought. We drank in silence for a time. Suddenly two men in a corner of the tavern broke out in a noisy disagreement. Just as suddenly, they were on their feet grabbing each other by their lapels. Both men were as dark-skinned as gypsies. A chair was knocked over; the drinks on their table spilled. I was frozen by the spectacle. I watched as the old tavernkeeper walked up behind one of the men and hit him in the back of the head with a small wooden club. The old man hit him hard, hard enough to stun him into submission while he reached for the back of his head and felt the blood-sticky wound. He mumbled some words in an unfamiliar language – probably something like "you old bastard." But the tavernkeeper lifted the club as if to strike again and both men began hurrying toward the door. As they left, the old man hurled a phrase at them in their own tongue, perhaps "and do not return."

"Say what you will about the rat hole, but there is always something to break the monotony," said Bushkov through his cigar.

As he returned to the bar, the old man wiped the club on his white apron and left a streak of blood that looked like a backward "L."

We finished our drinks and I stopped at the news bureau long enough to collect my valise, which contained the notes from the morning's researches. I thanked Lieutenant Bushkov for his help and generosity, then I began the trek back to my pension. The snow had stopped but the night was already creeping toward the city, and with it the bitter cold. I walked briskly to keep up my internal heat. Bushkov promised to send me a message when a truck had arrived from the front. In truth I had little desire to go there, farther north, deeper into the relentless winter and whatever grim realities of war resided there. I imagined some great beast, chimera-like, who hoarded corpses as other monsters of myth hoarded treasure. I pictured the beast's great talons wrapped around bloodied soldiers, its great rump resting on a pile of bones. The northcountry had fanned my creativity but not necessarily in a productive way.