'Seek for word of your lost father, even if nothing more than a traveler's tale.' — Odyssey 1

In the morning the landlord and his wife were at work serving breakfast for their lodgers with no hint of a change between them. He directed everyone to be seated with his usual reserved and requisite politeness, while his taciturn wife brought the meager fare from the kitchen. I had slept until past daybreak and did not hear my neighbor stir from her room. As with all couples, they must work things out themselves.

Breakfast was the northcountry's version of a potato pancake – mostly flour and a bit of shredded potato, served with a teaspoon of butter – and tea. Afterward, I set out for the Hotel Slopek, which I knew was near the rail station. The hotel was the site of a disturbance some months back, according to one of the reports at the news bureau. There were innumerable reports of disturbances, but the alleged perpetrator of the one at the Hotel Slopek sent three men to hospital.

It was a day much like the one before: sunny and cold with the promise of diminishing sun and increasing cold. I did not bother looking for a ride of some sort; it was not a long walk. En route I passed the brothel I happened across my first night. Of course it looked different in the light of day, much more like an accounting office or some such, which no doubt was its original purpose. It was quite close to my pension, and I thought about my foolish fear at being lost. Yet it was a city that inspired fear, or at least a lack of confidence in the world. The whole of the city, citizenry and all, seemed perched on the edge of some precipice, ready to topple into a black unknown. I imagined the snow and ice would quickly cover the spot where Iiloskova stood, leaving no trace of the once prosperous bastion of civilization.

It occurred to me that the army should allow its enemy to advance, allow it to march straight through the Great White Desert all the way to Iiloskova, unopposed. For surely when it arrived in the city and took stock of the place, its commanders would immediately give the signal to retreat. As they returned through the snow desert heaped with the dead, they would surely ask themselves what they had been fighting for all those years. The soldiers would return to their home country, put down rifle and bayonet, and take up the implements of farming, to try to scratch out a life amidst the frozen rock and earth.

It was a whimsical notion. Who could understand why armies engaged each other? I thought of the long-ago war in Troy – no doubt my conversation on the train sparked the recollection of such knowledge – fought over a woman. If two men can knock each other's brains out over a beautiful woman, why not two armies of men? I tried to imagine two armies of women clashing over a man but it was an impossible premise. If they did, it is certain the losers would get him.

The hotel was tall by Iiloskova standards and I saw its sharply pitched slate roof from some distance. Nearly all the buildings of the city had severely pitched roofs; it was not wise to allow snow and ice to accumulate. A winter storm could stave in a flat roof. Two men in black coats were shoveling and sweeping snow from the hotel's wide steps as I approached. They wore scarves around their mouths and noses, but their breath still came in puffs of smoke. The façade of the Hotel Slopek was cream-colored stucco, and there was a high pointed arch over its entrance. I went through the heavy doors and stamped the snow from my shoes.

The lobby of the hotel had a high ceiling, almost as high as the rail station's. Windows near the green-painted ceiling allowed in a copious amount of light, casting a verdant glow throughout the lobby area. It was similar to the light in a forest when a midday sun is shining through the leafy canopy. I breathed deeply, hoping the scent would be that of a forest, but of course it was the same stale, indoor smell I had encountered in all the buildings of Iiloskova. I also detected a whiff of pipe tobacco and at the far end of the lobby, in a crushed velvet chair, was a bald man in an old-style black suit having a smoke.

I removed my hat and gloves, shoving them inside my coat, and approached the wooden counter where the guest registry was spread open like the chest of a cadaver undergoing autopsy. I stood at the counter looking around for a hotel-man. No one was in sight except for the peaceful old fellow with his pipe. There was a small brass bell next to the registry, so I picked it up with my thick fingers and shook it. It emitted a delicate little jingle that was immediately lost in the high-ceilinged lobby. I shook it harder but my zeal had no effect on its volume. I imagined that I could hurl the bell against the wall and it would sound like a wad of wool hitting the plaster.

There was a door behind the counter and I was about to call toward it in hopes of conjuring a hotel employee, when the old man with the pipe rose from his velvet-covered chair and began to stroll in my direction. He kept the pipe between his teeth and a trail of smoke followed his leisurely path. There was so little purpose in his gait it did not occur to me he was answering my summons until he removed the pipe from his mouth and said, "Yes, may I assist you?" His voice was gravely, as if he had been sitting and smoking without interruption for some time. He was bald except for a half ring of white hair around the back of his head. Dark age-spots stood out on his pate.

"Yes, hello, my name is Pastrovich. I am here for some information. Are you in the hotel's employ?"

The fellow drew from his pipe, as if considering a difficult question, then said, "I am the proprietor, Golokov." He offered his hand, which was icy and arthritic. "Would you sit, Mr. P –"

"Pastrovich – yes, thank you." We slowly made our way to the velvet-covered chairs. I unbuttoned and removed my coat, then folded it over the back of one of the chairs, which was low to the floor on thick, dark-wood legs. I sat and located the sketch of the Prince in my valise without removing it. Meanwhile, the old fellow was smoking peacefully in his chair. I suspected he would not care if I never got to the point of asking him questions; he would probably soon forget I had mentioned it. I began: "Mr. Golokov, it appears the hotel is not overrun with guests."

With the pipe in his teeth, he said, "No, sir, I would not describe it as 'overrun,' not for many a year now. There was a time when one could not obtain a room without having some little in with the family. Fine gentlemen, gentlemen of business, and their wives filled the hotel."

"The family?"

"Yes, the Slopek family." He removed the pipe for a moment and exhaled a great cloud of smoke, then returned it to its place. "A fine family indeed – pillars of the city. There was a day when Vlad Slopek had the ear of every noteworthy official." I had the impression these were thoughts that often ran through old Golokov's head, sitting here in his velvet chair in the abandoned lobby, but I had given him the opportunity to speak them aloud. I had noticed on a wall of the lobby the portrait of a regal-looking gentleman in a blue coat of military cut. The figure had an aristocratic brow and an intricately trimmed beard. It must have been an oil painting of Vlad Slopek.

"Do any Slopeks remain? Do they still own the hotel?"

He glanced down at the floor, as if the answer could be found there. "A single Slopek," he said, "Vlad, like his grandfather, but not his grandfather." He held the bowl of his pipe and chewed the mouthpiece for a moment.

"Does this Vlad Slopek live at the hotel?" I asked.

"He has some rooms – there are plenty of rooms these days."

I thought perhaps Vlad Slopek may be worth interviewing, if I was in the market for lurid details. I switched to the business for which I had come: "Mr. Golokov, do you recall an incident of some four months ago? A man who was arrested at the hotel?" I had nothing in hand still, no notebook, no pencil; I wanted to keep the mood conversational.

"A man arrested," he repeated, smoke seeping from his lips. "The police are not a presence any longer; they too have gone elsewhere."

"Yes, but four months ago, or longer – perhaps my information is not accurate – the police were here, and they arrested a man because of a disturbance. Do you recall it?"

The old fellow was lost in thought, as it were. He sat smoking, his eyebrow drawn down almost covering his eyes. I had nearly given up on him when he said, "There was an episode. It involved a woman, if it is the incident of which you inquire." He stopped suddenly, recalling something. "I think I should not discuss it."

"A woman? A guest at the hotel?"

Golokov worked on his pipe more quickly, the little puffs of smoke a barometer of his agitation. He did not look at me.

I took a stab at the truth: "Was this woman a prostitute?"

His pipe stem was suddenly a tit and Golokov a famished babe. The chill air around us became thick with tobacco smoke. It seemed I would get nothing more from the old man. I looked around the empty lobby thinking there must be someone else I can interview. I recalled the workmen on the steps but was skeptical of the help they could provide. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I removed the sketch of the Prince of Ithaca from my valise. I held it out for Golokov to see. "Was this man involved?"

At first it did not appear that Golokov even saw the drawing. I wondered if I had chosen a lunatic to question, if he had fabricated his recollection of the incident, if there was no Vlad Slopek at all. I was about to return the sketch to my valise when some emotion began to form on Golokov's wrinkled face – slowly, like frost forming on a window pane. It started with an increased furrowing of his brow, then spread to his eyes, to his mouth. Yet it was not precisely recognition that I saw on the old man's countenance. "You know this man?" I said, half question, half statement.

He took the pipe from his mouth and reached out with his other arthritic hand toward the drawing. I assumed Golokov was going to take hold of it but he merely touched the Prince's rough likeness with his trembling fingers. He said in his raspy voice, "You know this man?" – half question, half statement.

I considered my complicated connection to the Prince. "Yes," I said, and it did not feel like a lie. "How do you know him?"

"He was here." He moved his fingers away from the drawing and pointed toward a shadowy corner of the lobby. I looked, almost with a sense of anticipation, as if I might see him there – not lurking in shadow, but rather standing erect in a beam of sunlight. Truly like a prince. He was not of course. Golokov resumed, without prompting: "No one knew him, so it was said after." He lowered his arthritic paw to his lap but continued to stare at the phantom Prince in the corner. I discreetly returned the sketch to my valise. "It was summertime. People were in the hotel, eating, drinking. Friends of Vlad Slopek. Plates littered the lobby, plates with discarded food. Chicken bones with meat still upon them, crusts of bread, melon rinds. And bottles of wine and of vodka, so many bottles."

Golokov remembered his smoldering pipe and placed it in his teeth. He took a long draw and I was worried that the tale was finished. "What about the man?" I said, pointing to his phantom in the corner.

A long moment passed before Golokov said, "They noticed him there, picking through their food, through their garbage. Vlad Slopek's friends became angry, or they simply wanted to be angry. He desired only to take the scraps and leave but they had him in the corner. Drunk, they were quite drunk. I thought, 'I must call the police,' but policemen were there, among the friends of Vlad Slopek." Golokov rubbed the wrinkles in his brow as if trying to remove them, or perhaps he was attempting to purge the memory. He puffed on his pipe but was nearly out of tobacco. "The stranger's eyes, darting to and fro, like the eyes of a caged animal. I did not know what to do, then there was the crashing...."

"Crashing?" I scolded myself for interrupting.

"Yes, upstairs...." I looked at the wide staircase, once grand no doubt, at the far end of the lobby.

"Vlad Slopek and one of his ... one of his ... ladies. She was half down the stairs, clinging to a sheet to cover herself. She held something in her hand. A broken bottle. Vlad Slopek was at the top of the stairs laughing. He held his sides he laughed so hard. He had no modesty. She pointed the bottle at him. She warned him." Golokov mimicked her motion with his withered claw. "The man...." He looked to the phantom's corner. "He could have escaped at that moment. The friends of Vlad Slopek had found new amusement. But he did not. He pushed through them, he went to the lady on the stair. She was not frightened of him, she accepted his protection immediately ..."

Golokov's voice had trailed off. I wanted more but I was patient. Golokov's eyes wandered the empty lobby, perhaps much as the stranger's had that summer night. I realized my toes were numb with cold. I wiggled them to try to regain some circulation. I could imagine the end of the story, of course, assuming the news bureau dispatch was at least partially accurate: a fight ensued, the stranger did some damage, but was ultimately overwhelmed by their numbers. Yet I wanted something more from Golokov, some detail that was not in the official report.

I noticed there was spittle on the old man's stubbly chin. Perhaps all this was only half-remembered, bits and pieces of childhood recollections, sewn together with rumors. I was on the verge of giving up when he said: "Like a queen ... like a queen."

"What? I am sorry – did you say something about a queen?" I ached to take my notebook from my pocket and jot down some of these details but I did not want to spook old Golokov.

"Yes, like a queen. The stranger took the sheet from the lady and spread it about her shoulders like a queen's robe. She stood on the stairway looking like a queen. The broken bottle glittered like a jewel. Green, like an emerald." Golokov realized his tobacco was completely gone. His face was suddenly at peace again, as if the incident had been exorcised from his failing memory. He fished in his suit pockets for his pouch and matches. My journalist's instincts told me there was nothing more to be had from him. I thanked the old man and took up my coat. I thought I might wander about the hotel for a few minutes and gather some details of setting.

I went to the stair and found that the carpet on the steps was threadbare, and the gold paint on the rail was peeling in long curls. I reached the second floor, where the hall seemed wide compared to my pension's upstairs. In one corner of the hall was a stack of eight or ten wooden chairs, all worn and chipped. The carpet in the hall was probably supposed to be red, but dirt and neglect had given it a dun color. A foul odor permeated the chill air, like bile and sex. I took down a chair from the top of the stack; I wanted to sit and record some of my thoughts and impressions. I removed my notebook from my coat and my leather pencil case. I was already getting used to the foul smell.

Even if Golokov's recollections were only half true, they could be the basis for a sensational tale for The Nightly Observer. I scribbled the details in a notation system I had invented, then I went about describing the Hotel Slopek. I wrote about the men in black coats shoveling snow from the entrance and the pointed arch, about the green-tinged lobby and the smell of the old man's pipe tobacco, of the velvet furniture and the threadbare carpet. I tried to imagine the "lady," as Golokov called her, and a clear picture would not form in my head. I wished that the old fellow had given some specifics, like the color of her hair or the shape of her body. His use of the word queen made me imagine her tall and golden-haired – a goddess. But probably she was not. I had seen very few people with light hair in the northcountry; like their architecture, the northerners seemed to be of Turkish descent. It bothered me that I had no true details of the lady on the stair. It was silly to be troubled: No one would know or care, as long as I provided a description that was plausible. The story did not have to be true – but it had to seem true. It was a writing maxim I had adopted from somewhere. Its origin would not come to me.

I heard someone plodding up the long stairway. His or her steps were heavy on the nearly bare wood. I put my notebook and pencil away, and I quickly and quietly replaced the chair to the stack. Though I was doing nothing wrong, I did not want to be caught there. I imagined it might be old Golokov or Vlad Slopek the younger or, impossibly, the queenly lady from Golokov's story. I was standing there, I suppose stupidly, when one of the men who had been cleaning off the hotel's steps appeared at the end of the hall. He had undone the scarf from around his mouth and his face was crimson from the cold and exertion. He had long black mustaches and a heavy black eyebrow.

I was off to the side, near the chairs, so at first he did not see me; then his peripheral vision took note of me. He stopped and stared. I felt I owed him some explanation, though I did not know why. I said, "I am a newspaper-man," as if that made everything clear. He did not respond at first. I thought he might be catching his breath, although his wide chest was not heaving. He spoke with a thick dialect, his words seemed caught in his throat: "You are here about the woman." I wondered if there was a question mark at the end of his statement, but he had emphasized all the syllables wrongly so it was difficult to tell his exact meaning.

"The woman." I waited for more from him then added, "The woman on the stair."

Now it was his turn to be puzzled. He gave up on language and motioned for me to follow him as he resumed his plodding gait. We went to a room at the opposite end of the hall. He knocked gently on the door, surprisingly gently for his size, but there was no response. He slowly turned the knob and called hello with his clumsy tongue. We stepped inside a spacious room with flowered wallpaper and a tall wardrobe whose doors were left open revealing nothing inside. The bed was made but there was an impression in the middle of it as if someone had been napping recently. He removed a mitten and felt the woolen bed cover. So did I. It was cold to the touch; the bed had not been slept on for some time.

The man went to the wardrobe and soaked in its emptiness for a moment, then took two paces to the room's only window. A lacey blind was half drawn over the window's double panes. Using his hand still in the mitten, the man lifted the blind aside and peered down to the street, perhaps looking for the absent woman.

"Who was she?" I said from behind him. He did not respond, possibly not comprehending my meaning, but I had the impression he was not in the mood to speak, in his or any other language. I knew it was not the lady from old Golokov's story who had occupied this room. But who then? And why did he think I might have anything to do with her? I tried one last time: "Perhaps she will return."

He said something to himself, a mumble of his native tongue, without turning around. That is how I left him there, staring out of the second-story window, perhaps continuing his quiet soliloquy after I had gone.

I returned to the lobby, which was completely vacant now. Even old Golokov had taken his pipe elsewhere. I exited the hotel's doors and went down the steps to the boardwalk. I began walking back toward my pension. I looked up to the second-floor windows but with the daylight's glare I could not pick out the one behind which the black-coated man watched the street. Years before, I wrote a juvenile poem about a ghost sentry who stood watch atop a castle all night. I recalled the poem just then and a line from it: "The spirit spied the battleground once soaked in blood." I wondered what had become of the poem, awful as it was. Probably Tasha had thrown it out, in one of her tirades. No doubt that is why I carried so much of my work with me. In my valise it was safe from Tasha's pendulous mood.

Clouds were gathering but the sun still had the upperhand. I thought my trip to the Hotel Slopek had been a success. I was confident now that the so-called Prince of Ithaca had been in Iiloskova and not so long ago. Yet his behavior here made him no less enigmatic to me. Where else had he been? He also called himself "Traveler" and "Nobody." Perhaps a soldier deserting battle would think of himself as such.

The day was still young. If the Prince had been at the Hotel Slopek, he no doubt had visited other places in the district. A simple canvassing may yield some information. It was good, old-fashioned newspapering. And even though I was in pursuit of something lurid for The Observer, it was invigorating to take the role of the hunter again. The story was a game fox, flushed from the wood and on open field. Luck was no longer involved: It would only take effort and concentration, and the prey would be mine.

These were my thoughts as I moved along the city's street, my valise feeling light in my hand and my breath smoking before me. It was becoming a good day indeed.