A deathlike night was cast over the field of battle. —Iliad 16

Among the first businesses I noticed was a coffee and tea shop. The smells were very potent and reached me before opening the heavy shop door. A brass bell tied with a red ribbon tinkled shrilly when I entered. The shop appeared mainly to sell its products in bulk as shelves along each wall displayed canisters and paper packages tied with string. The shelves were mostly vacant, however. Either the shop had recently been overrun with enthusiastic customers, or the shopkeeper's suppliers had been niggardly of late – I figured the latter. There were a couple of marble-topped tables in one corner of the shop along with some wooden benches, which indicated one might have a hot drink here. In the center of the shop was a black stove emitting a modicum of heat and a hint of woodsmoke.

In spite of the bell on the door, no one came immediately, though I thought I heard some faint noises from the room behind the shop's glass-case counter. The scents were overpowering at first and I felt a bit light-headed, but I was quickly getting used to them. Browsing along the shelves, I read the names of the various teas and coffees – mostly teas – which were hand-printed on little cards. Some of the cards had turned yellow with age; I hoped the product itself was not so antiquated.

Finally, after I had nearly perused the entire shop, an old woman came from the backroom. She was dressed all in black, as if in mourning, even with a black scarf over her white hair. She breathed through her mouth like walking was an exertion and I noticed she was nearly toothless. "May I help you?" she asked with a strangely deep voice, her words a bit mushy with so few teeth for articulation.

"Yes." I came towards her. "I am hoping for something hot to drink. Coffee perhaps." I had had mainly tea or vodka since arriving in Iiloskova.

The old woman glanced over her shoulder as if she could see through the wall into the room behind. "Coffee would take some time to prepare. I have a nice ginger-root tea available now. It would definitely warm you."

"I am in no particular hurry; I am happy to wait for the coffee."

She glanced over her shoulder again, perhaps expecting someone to emerge from the backroom. "I am afraid I must charge you excessively for coffee – it is a rare commodity these days."

I had no desire to be robbed as if by highwaymen, but I felt myself in something of a competition with the old shop-woman: my will versus her stubbornness. And winning out was suddenly important to me. I said, "I will pay you its worth, understanding that your coffee supply is one of the casualties of war."

"Make yourself comfortable then. I will bring it as soon as it is ready." She was not happy and made no pretense of rushing to fill my order. I really came to ask her about the Prince's sketch but had forgotten once the game between us began. No matter. I would have time when she brought my overpriced coffee.

I removed my heavy coat and gloves, and I sat at one of the marble-topped tables. The story Golokov told me was still fresh in my mind, so I took pencil and paper from my valise and, using my notes, set about recording the incident in full narrative. I titled it "Queen on the Stair" and began:

It was to be an evening like any other, unforgettable. Local boss Vlad Slopek and his cronies took up residence in the lobby of the hotel Vlad's grandfather had established half a century earlier. Then, it was a showplace of elegance and sophistication. Every well-to-do person in the North Country stayed at the Hotel Slopek at one time or another. Men of business, men of politics – all men of power. But over time the hotel declined along with the city, until its dilapidated interior reflected the moral decline of its current owner, Vlad Slopek. Vlad was tall and thin, an aristocratic stork among the mud-flapping birds who were his friends. A robust weed among rocks. His side whiskers and mustaches connected to form a sharp, black "V" on each pale cheek. "V" for Vlad; "V" for violent; "V" for vermin.

Vlad's party began early, while the summer sun was still peeking above the horizon, so it was well underway by nighttime. The cronies ordered grotesque amounts of food, wine and vodka. Quantities which only black marketeers could provide in a city run down by war. The "businessmen of the night" – as they are sometimes called – also supplied Vlad's gang with "ladies of the night" – as they are often called. Young girls and women of middle age who had in common a desperation for money and a dependence on drink and drugs.

But one among the "ladies" was unusual. She was not native to the city. She had come in search of her lost love, a young infantryman sent to the front. They had corresponded for over a year, then suddenly his letters ceased. The army was no help, nor the government. Her young man had simply disappeared. She had taken the train as far north as the rails would allow. Then, penniless, she threw herself on the mercy of the city. It was not kind.

Soon she found herself in this den of debauchery, far from home and from the man she loved. Vlad Slopek noticed the girl of course. All the men did. She was tall, statuesque, with the bearing of a goddess. Her hair golden. Her skin as pure as the snow that covers the skating pond every morning in winter. Vlad, the bent stalk who grew from good seed, could be charming. He was indeed as he invited the girl to escape the crude crowd gathering in the lobby of the hotel. The host of the party did seem a cut above his guests and she was fearful of the rowdy, drunken men. She had been raised by her mother and an aunt, so therefore knew very little of men and how they behaved when full with alcohol. She accepted his invitation and he escorted her up the stairs, which only hinted at the hotel's long ago splendor. The carpet on the stairs was threadbare, and along the hand-rails long strips of gold paint curled like serpent tongues.

Vlad unlocked the door to his private apartment on the second floor. He encouraged her to enter with a gentlemanly little bow. She hesitated for a moment, thinking about her choices: this secluded room with a strange man, or the riotous party downstairs, or the dark, unfamiliar streets. She stepped inside Vlad's chamber.

Meanwhile, the party continued in the lobby ....

The old woman in black brought my coffee in a large glass. She used her shawl to protect her hands from the heat. Still, she shook them as soon as she had placed the glass on the table. "Thank you," I said. She named her price. It was high but not as expensive as I had imagined. I fished a silver coin out of my pocket and two koppers. It was a bit more than she had requested but I hoped the extra would encourage her to take my inquiry about the Prince of Ithaca seriously. "Just a moment, Madam," I said while I opened my valise and removed the sketch. "Have you seen this man within the last few months? I believe he was observed near here."

At first it appeared she had trouble focusing on the sketch and I wondered if she suffered from cataracts. I looked closely at her eyes trying to detect a cloudiness within them. Instead, I saw teardrops form at the corners and leak onto her white cheeks. She used her shawl to wipe at the tears. I waited for her to speak. "Are you an inquisitor, with the police?" she asked, glancing at the table top, trying to determine if pencil and paper were the tools of a police inquisitor. They could have been.

"No, I have no connection with the police whatsoever."

"I, I do not recognize this man. I thought at first I did, but my eyes are old." She had regained her composure.

"Please – I only wish information about him. I am a journalist; I am writing a story." It occurred to me a police inquisitor might tell just such a lie.

"I know nothing. Truly I do not. Now drink your coffee while it is hot." Her deep voice was broken with emotion. She moved toward the backroom with alacrity I would not have guessed possible.

I was not sure what to do. Clearly she recognized the face in the drawing and had some emotional connection with it. The aroma of the coffee drew my attention. It had a slightly nutty smell, and when I sipped it, a slightly nutty flavor – but it was very good. I placed the Prince's sketch on the papers I had been writing, then focused my attention on the surprising coffee. I considered returning to my story about Vlad Slopek but the spell was broken for the time being. Hopefully, back in my room later, I could conjure it again with little effort.

I wondered if everyone in this district of Iiloskova had had an encounter with the Prince, or was it just dumb coincidence? I sipped the coffee, which was cooling quickly in the cold shop. I kept both hands on the glass to warm my fingers and to impede the drink's dissipating heat. I heard voices in the backroom though the words were indistinct. It sounded like two men having a heated discussion but probably one speaker was the old woman in black.

The sound of the voices stopped abruptly and in a moment the door to the backroom opened. I expected the old shop-woman to appear but it was a man about my age, though thinner and with more white in his hair. I noticed dark circles under his icy blue eyes. He approached me directly; he seemed to favor his right leg but in the short distance it was hard to be sure. "Good day, sir," he said. His eyes were quickly drawn to the sketch on the table. "May I?" He picked it up and studied the Prince's picture. I watched his expression for some sign but his face was of stone.

He returned the sketch to the table and said, "You must excuse my mother-in-law. My son is at the front and has not been heard from for some time. This picture bears a slight resemblance to him but it is not."

It seemed that he was about to return to the shop's inner sanctum until I stayed him with a question: "If I may ask, why did your mother-in-law fear that I was an inquisitor for the police?"

He did not respond at first, perhaps wondering if it was prudent, perhaps wondering if I was indeed an inquisitor. Finally he said, "There were malicious rumors in the neighborhood that my son had deserted his unit. They were quite false of course. But the burden of the unfounded accusation has only added to our worry for his safety. If you have a son, you understand surely." The rings under his eyes seemed to darken as I watched his haggard face.

"Yes, of course." It was only partly a lie. Though I did not have a son, I did understand.

"Please, enjoy the rest of your drink," he said and began his return to the backroom. He did, in fact, walk with a slight limp.

"Sir," I said, almost surprising myself, "what is your son's name? I am going to the front in a few days – perhaps I could make some inquiries."

He turned, leaning his hands on the glass counter. "He is Anatoly ... Anatoly Shatrov. His friends call him Toly." I anticipated that he would thank me for my unexpected offer but he merely continued on his way and disappeared behind the door. I opened my notebook to a blank sheet and scribbled the young man's name. I wondered how many families were in a state of pre-mourning, wasting away in ignorance, not knowing if their sons, brothers and fathers were alive or dead. Perhaps that would make an interesting story, for Mezenskov's paper of course, not The Observer.

I finished my coffee, now merely tepid, then gathered my things and headed out to the street. The day was still young, though I felt I had been working for a long time already. Snowflakes floated down irregularly from the white sky. I was not sure what to do with myself. Just ahead, a bench, which someone had dutifully cleared of snow, was on the boardwalk next to a building of tan brick. I was feeling warm from the coffee and decided I could spend a few minutes sitting and watching the people in the streets of Iiloskova.

I placed my valise next to me on the bench and went about making myself a cigarette. Soon I was smoking and observing the passersby, few though they be. It was quite pleasant. In my mind I continued my story of Vlad Slopek and the queen on the stair, so that when I had a chance to write it would be as much recollection as invention. Snow appeared to be increasing in the air but I did not mind. In a moment I thought of a particular turn of phrase that I liked, so I began going through my coat pockets for my notebook and pencils, fearful that I would forget the exact wording if I did not jot it down.

My gloved fingers had just touched my pencil case when someone delivered a sharp blow to the back of my head. The sudden pain pitched me off the bench and onto my knees. I held my head with both hands trying to orient myself with what had just happened, then I noticed a mittened fist snatch my valise from the bench and the thief began running down the boardwalk. I got to my feet and began following the dark-coated figure as best I could. I believe that I called to him to stop but my words may have only been internal, like a silent prayer.

The thief was very fast and I very slow. I thought of my precious manuscripts and my notes and my pens and ink bottles, and also of the money. And tears clouded my vision. Perhaps it was the sharp blow to my head, or the cold air that caused them. Several blocks ahead I saw the thief turn in somewhere and vanish. I was getting my legs back and made it to the approximate spot fairly quickly. There was a narrow alley and I supposed that the bastard had retreated there. The alley appeared to end at a brick wall, three- or four-hundred paces ahead. But there were a few doors and several windows in the alley, not to mention all sorts of rubbish partly covered in snow: crates and great piles of newspaper, rotting scraps of food and God knows what else. It all smelled terrible, and it was winter – I could not imagine its summertime fetidness.

I began moving cautiously through the alley. I desperately wanted to retrieve my things but I had no desire to be murdered in the process. I realized there was something in my mouth; I spat it onto the brick pavers. It was tobacco and paper that I must have bitten off my cigarette when I was struck on the head. I wondered what had been used for the operation, a rock, a club, the butt of a gun?

The buildings were tall on both sides of the alley, thus casting its entire length in shadow. Each door that I passed appeared secure and I saw no signs of entry at any of the windows. As I said, the alley ended in a brick wall that must have been thirty feet in height. I was about half way along the alley when a window opened somewhere above me. I looked up to see a pair of arms pitch the contents of a piss-pot into the air. I moved in time to avoid being struck directly but the splatter soiled my shoes and the cuffs of my pants. "Damn, damn, damn!" I uttered into the air. No wonder the alley reeked so. Now I reeked too.

I continued toward the dead-end of the alley, with less caution than before. Anger and frustration can cure you of your fears. I checked the final door. It was made of heavy boards and iron hardware, and was quite secure. Suddenly there was a rustling in a pile of debris, and a lad in a blue coat bounded out – with my valise in his hand! He was several paces from me and I had no hope of catching the fleet-footed little rascal. "Hey!" I called stupidly and began my heavy plodding.

The fellow's shoes found the mess from the piss-pot and he completely lost his footing. In fact, for an instant his feet were literally over his head before he landed on his back in the foul puddle of excrement. Even I was not too slow to catch him now. I was quickly there picking him up by the shoulder of his coat. With my other hand I retrieved my valise, which had landed on a pile of rotten pears a stride away from the mess. I shook him hard in spite of my one-handed grip for he weighed nothing. "What now, thief? What now eh?"

His sock-hat fell from his head, and greasy hair spilled to the thief's waist: The culprit was a girl. She was as wispy as a nine- or ten-year-old, but she could have been a malnourished adolescent. Her cheeks were dark with soot. The discovery startled me and soured some of my taste for vengeance. I realized my head was throbbing from the blow and exertion.

"What did you strike me with?" That is what came from my mouth but even as I said it I wondered what difference it made.

She had eyes as green as a summer meadow. I expected them to well with tears but life on the street had hardened her no doubt. Yet there was a trace of fear in them, like a rabbit's eyes when caught in a snare. She slowly reached into the pocket of her coat in response to my query. She removed a wad of pink stocking. When it was completely out of her pocket, the toe of the stocking sagged to the ground as it was filled with stones. Clever little scamp, I thought. Her nose was beginning to run profusely due to the cold, so she used the end of the pink stocking to wipe it. Then she put the make-shift weapon back in her pocket. I considered relieving her of it, but she no doubt needed it on the street.

I let go of her coat and removed two koppers from my side pocket. I handed them to her. "Try asking for assistance before whacking someone on the head," I said, quite certain my advice was falling on deaf ears. She closed her mitten around the coins while at the same time retrieving her wool hat from the puddle of filth, then ran off without a word of thanks. I removed my beaver hat and felt the back of my head. There was a large knot but my gloved fingers showed no trace of blood. She either delivered a glancing blow or simply struck with the impotency of a hungry child; her weapon had the potential to kill a man. I put my hat back on and, holding my valise tightly, I began making my way to my pension. Perhaps a drink and some rest would dull the pounding in my brain. Snow was falling more thickly now, and my room felt like it was at a great distance. I thought of my real home for a moment, and it seemed to be in another country altogether. No, more than geography separated me from Tasha and our little cottage. We occupied different spheres – as if somewhere between home and Iiloskova the train left the world I knew and entered an entirely different one.

The literary papers would sometimes publish tales about impossible events. Such fantastic stories were not to my taste so I usually did not read them in earnest. Yet there was one I recalled about a man who went to bed and awoke the next morning as a dung-beetle or some such thing. It was titled "Transformation" I believe. I glanced down at my legs – I knew it was foolish – to make certain they were still quite human and I wiggled the fingers of my free hand. Everything was in order, except for my throbbing head and my valise, which felt as if it had tripled in weight. In spite of my difficulties, I had a profound sense of relief – the relief of someone who has narrowly avoided some great calamity. In a word, I was happy.