'It was I who rescued him from the sea god's cruel clasp.' —Odyssey 5

I was sound asleep face down in the covers when I realized that the tapping I was hearing was not simply my racing heartbeat against my pillow. Someone was at my door. There was still some daylight leaking into my room. I guessed that it was around three or four o'clock. "Just a moment," I called to my visitor but my throat was thick. My head ached and I rested for a moment at the table, feeling that I might fall down. My visitor lost patience and slipped a piece of paper under the door. I heard footsteps retreat in the hall.

In a moment I picked up the paper and discovered it was a crudely printed handbill. I took it over to the window to read it without lighting the foul smelling lamp. It was advertising a meeting of the Society of Forensics and Poetics, featuring a reading of classical verse by Doctor Wittinski. The meeting was that very evening at six-thirty, at a place called the Luminarium. I had not heard of it, or the Society for that matter. It was difficult to believe some shred of culture remained in this corrupted city. On the one hand, attending the meeting was quite attractive but on the other I did not feel well. In addition to my sore head, my stomach was queasy, perhaps from the consistent pain or from the foul vodka I drank when I finally reached my room. I carefully touched the bump on my head. Maybe the swelling was somewhat less, but it was very tender.

I wondered who might have brought the handbill to my attention. It had to be my landlady for she was the only one in the pension who knew of my interest in poetry. She would probably like to attend the meeting; her husband, of course, did not seem the type. They were as mismatched in that way as Tasha and I. I often attended readings at the local debate club. I had even read some of my own work from time to time. Tasha had never heard me. I found her lack of interest in my writing something of a relief. It left me free to explore our relationship truthfully without fear of offending or upsetting her. She would not understand the artist's need to probe under the surface, to press on the sore tooth to see just how great the pain could be.

I knew that my landlady would be in the kitchen by now preparing the evening's meal. It was to be flatbread with some sort of bean soup. I pulled myself together, knowing that I still looked very rough. I had not shaved since arriving in Iiloskova but I did not have a beard yet – I merely looked like a madman. I was certain my skin was ashen and my eyes sunken from the headache and the sour stomach.

I put my vest on over my white shirt but not my jacket. I left the vest undone and did not button the collar of my shirt. I had pulled my collar together but it seemed to constrict my throat and intensify my urge to vomit. I went downstairs and as I approached the kitchen I heard the sound of work. I opened the door and there was my landlady preparing the flatbread at the butcher-block. A large stockpot was beginning to steam on the stove behind her. Her husband was not in sight.

"Hello, madam," I said, trying my best to smile. "I am not feeling well – I slipped on some ice and struck my head – could you prepare a pot of tea and provide me with a slice of bread or two? It is all my stomach can take I am afraid." I leaned against the frame of the door, truly feeling a bit faint.

She came forward wiping the flour from her hands on her apron. She took me by the arm and directed me to a chair in the corner of the kitchen near the stove. "Rest here," she said. "Just a moment and I will fix your tea." She completed the pan of flatbread she had been preparing when I entered the kitchen, then she slid the pan into the oven and immediately filled the kettle from a bucket of water she had no doubt pumped earlier. I did not realize how chilled I had been until I sat next to the stove for a few minutes and it began to warm my bones. The pains in my head and stomach eased a bit. I found that closing my eyes helped too, so I dozed in the chair while my landlady went about filling my request. I was glad my landlord stayed away; I would be embarrassed to be found in such a sickly state and would feel obligated to act well.

Soon the tea and bread were prepared. My landlady had produced a small serving table from somewhere and placed it by my chair. Just the smell of the tea helped to make me more alert. It smelled good but unusual. I must have had an inquisitive look on my pale face for my landlady offered an explanation: "Honey and tiger-root."

"Tiger-root?"

"It is a local herb. It probably has other names elsewhere. It will cure your aching head. You look like Death hisself."

"Yes, I am sure." I sipped the hot tea; the taste was not medicinal at least. The bread was stale but dunking it in the tea made it quite palatable. I began to feel better almost immediately, so much so that my appetite was encouraged. However, I did not want to push my luck by consuming too much. I hesitated to drink the last drops of tea. "Thank you, madam, you have put me quite in order again." My landlady was busy with preparing the meal and had paid little attention to me. "I will be going out this evening, I believe, so there is no need to hold my place at supper."

"I am glad you are so much improved," she said, hurrying to stir her pot.

"One more favor, madam – can you direct me to the Luminarium? It is there I must go this evening."

She stopped stirring but did not look at me. "The Luminarium? You should ask my husband; he will be in shortly I am sure."

Her reaction was enigmatic. She may have been the deliverer of the handbill, or not. I finished the rehabilitating tea. I was reluctant to leave my corner of the kitchen; it was a pleasant enough place. I was about to ask my landlady to let me know when her husband had returned when I heard him at the backdoor. He entered with a canvas tote of firewood. He had a dark hat pulled down low, and his cheeks were scarlet on either side of his too-long mustaches. Perhaps he had been somewhere chopping wood, though I had not heard the sound of the axe. I sensed that he did not like finding me in his kitchen again. Alone with his wife again.

I rose from my chair. My balance was not completely returned and I nearly knocked over the little serving table. "Hello, sir. I have been waiting for your return." Did the landlady glance at me in my lie? "I must go to the Luminarium tonight. Can you direct me?"

He was taking off his mittens and hat; his thinning hair was damp with perspiration. "The Luminarium," he repeated. "Yes, it is not far, only a few blocks." He gave me clear directions, assuming he was being honest. Perhaps he was sending me into the lair of robbers and cut-throats. What would my murder matter to him? One less guest to care for, one less man prowling around his house at night. Yet I must trust his directions.

I excused myself to my room and dressed for the evening. The tea had worked marvelously, almost miraculously. The knot on my head was still tender of course, but the pounding had ceased. I opted for a red necktie instead of the brown wool one I had been wearing since I left home. Tasha did not like my "work tie," as she called it, but it was my favorite in winter. I thought of changing my shirt. It was clean enough, however. While I dressed, I thought about what to read at the meeting in case there was the opportunity. One of the poems from my manuscript no doubt. Yet my new poem about the braided woman on the train came to mind; perhaps I would share that with the audience.

Suddenly the lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling on a serpentine black cord came to life and its harsh light filled my little room. I held my hand up to shield my eyes as they were unused to such brightness. The bulb faltered for a moment then went dead entirely. I cautiously reached out and poked the bulb with my finger, which started it gently swinging but produced no light of course.

I exited the pension through the front door and set off for the Luminarium, which my landlord described as a domed-structure of moderate size (I am paraphrasing). The evening was cold of course. I felt cheered at the prospect of meeting with others who appreciated culture. I imagined that all such people had left Iiloskova long ago, that there must have been a mass exodus of poets, writers, painters and musicians, that they had fled south in search of a saner place to practice their arts. Perhaps they had – and the homeless and depraved had taken their positions in society. Or, at best, second-class poets and other hacks had moved up in the ranks.

My mood was becoming gloomier, though not by much.

It struck me again how dark the nights were in this northern city. The shortages of electricity, coal and oil accounted for much of the darkness, but beyond that it seemed that the city itself absorbed light, that the buildings took in all that the heavens offered and did not allow it to shine on the streets, on the boardwalks, on the populace. I wished that I had some sort of lantern, even an old-fashioned bull's-eye that did little more than illuminate the tops of one's shoes. It, at least, would be a comfort.

In spite of the dark, I found the Luminarium just as my landlord had described. Its silvery dome reflected a trace of early moonglow. Perhaps that is where it derived its name. There were several dark shapes on the street making their way to the uniquely shaped building. Perhaps the Society would have a good turnout, perhaps the good citizens of Iiloskova were starved for culture.

I entered the structure through tall double doors and stamped the snow from my shoes on worn purple carpeting with an ornate scroll of yellow running through it. There was a woman just inside the door wearing a shabby gown of golden silk. Her face was over made-up with rouge and red lipstick that only emphasized her age and hardships, rather than masking them. Her hair was dyed black, blacker than a gypsy's. "Hello," she said, "and welcome." She handed me a program on a single sheet of paper. Like the handbill, it was cheaply produced. "Please seat yourself. The program will begin in a quarter hour." She smiled as she motioned me toward the auditorium doors. There was a smudge of crimson lipstick on her yellow teeth.

I nodded and said thank you. As I approached the auditorium, I heard her repeat her greeting to another visitor. A mishmash of lamps and candelabras lighted the lobby, which was no doubt a showplace in an earlier day. Its printed wallpaper was probably once vibrant; the brass doorknobs and fixtures probably shone brightly. The auditorium itself was a traditional design with the rows of seats curving around the stage, which was about two thirds surrounded. The back of the stage was a long curtain of purple velveteen. There was a podium on the stage along with several straight-back chairs. Like the lobby, an eclectic assortment of candles and oil lamps provided light in the high-ceilinged room.

The turnout seemed only fair in such a large auditorium and there were plenty of open seats. I chose one more or less in the middle on the aisle. If the meeting proved to be a bore, I wanted to be able to abscond without causing a fuss. I removed my coat and hat and gloves, placing them on the adjacent seat, then I sat with my valise in my lap. The air was chill. I read through the short program. There would be a few welcoming remarks from the president of the Society, who would then introduce the featured speaker, Doctor Wittinski. Afterward, questions and answers, and an opportunity for what the program called "open readings from the audience." On the back of the program was an announcement for the Luminarium's next event, an operetta titled "Ulas Ulasovich." Apparently someone had set the old folkhero's stories to music; I hoped it was not intended to be serious theatre.

I turned my thoughts to the question of what to read. I unlatched my valise and brought out my manuscript tied in string and several other sheets of paper. I thought of a sonnet about the Urals, based on an experience when camping in the mountains as a boy. An earlier version of the sonnet had been published, so it was a safe reading. I did not particularly want to untie my manuscript to remove the Urals poem. I sifted through the loose papers until I found the hand-written poem about the braided woman on the train. "Lovely Traveler" I had tentatively titled it. Glancing through it, I was suddenly insecure about some of the phrasing. The images seemed trite, the rhythm plodding.

The grating sound of wooden chair legs being dragged across a wooden stage broke my concentration. An elderly fellow with a yellow-white goatee and a very old-fashioned reddish brown suit was rearranging the chairs on the stage. Actually he was not affecting them whatsoever as he would move one a bit to his right, then left, then back, then forward – thus arriving at its original spot. But he did this with each of the four chairs on the stage, and even gave the podium an ineffectual little nudge. He was remarkably thin and the odd-colored suit hung on him like a relaxed sail waiting for a gust of wind. Then the fellow carefully sat in the chair to the immediate left of the podium as if his bones might snap if he seated himself too roughly.

I glanced around me and was surprised at the number of Iiloskovites who had come out on such a frigid night. The men generally wore dark suits and the ladies evening dresses, some in black while others were in gayer colors. All appeared shabby and well-worn to me. It was as if the entire audience was poking fun at theatre-goers and their fancified dress. I wondered if I would be a match with my fellow audience members to an outside observer. My suit was not new but I believed its cut was still in style. I was suddenly self-conscious of my red tie and thought of taking it off.

Fortunately the program began and there was no more time to dwell on my appearance. The thin fellow in the baggy brown suit was joined on stage by a short, round-bellied man in black wool coat and trousers and a blue silk scarf; the newcomer's wispy white hair was combed straight back revealing a ruddy over-wide forehead. But his eyes were a startlingly bright green – even viewed from the middle of the auditorium – and his grayish mustaches were neatly trimmed. He sat and held a leather document case to his chest, resting it on his belly like a shelf. The thin man in brown stood up to the podium and cleared phlegm from his throat:

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the quarterly meeting of the Society of Forensics and Poetics. I am vice-president of the Society, Grigory Yanov. As you may know, our esteemed president, Mr. Shaferavich, has taken quite ill and has been bedridden from some weeks. We pray that he will recover soon and be able to join us for our summer meeting ..."

It occurred to me then that this must be the Society's spring meeting; I thought of the frozen world around me and it did not seem possible that it was springtime. When I left home, spring was in the air: the earliest flowers were beginning to bud; geese were returning from their migration to the sea; the earth showed signs of thaw. But Iiloskova appeared deep in winter's grasp still, a miser holding onto his last frozen coins. In a few weeks the gardens would be ready for planting back home. I always enjoyed sowing the wax beans, carrots, turnips, and summer squash, the lettuces, onions, and parsnips. I used to think gardening would be something Tasha and I could share, sowing and weeding and reaping together, but she always left the vegetables to my doing – even the cleaning of them when they were harvested. Once ready, Tasha would steam or boil them, or cook them with a soup bone – kitchen activities from which I was excluded. Tasha seemed intent on making us live the most difficult kind of solitary existence: together.

Mr. Yanov, reading his prepared statement, continued from the podium. "... it is my great honor to welcome our distinguished scholar, Doctor Lek Wittinski, recently Lecturer-in-Antiquities at Rotterdam University, but between posts at the moment, and just arrived, I understand, in the last few months from the Mediterranean ..." Doctor Wittinski nodded in confirmation from his rickety chair on the stage. "... where he was researching his current book, tentatively titled Classical Verse Form of the Aegean Isles." Mr. Yanov cleared his throat again and squinted myopically at the paper in his trembling hands. "We are honored that he will read newly translated verse, and discuss 'Language in Metamorphosis.' Please, assist me in welcoming our speaker for this evening, Doctor Lek Wittinski." The audience joined in politely applauding Doctor Wittinski's ascension to the podium, while Mr. Yanov took a chair to the doctor's left.

I hoped that Wittinski's translated poems would be decent and that his discussion would be brief. I mainly was interested in reading my own poetry to an audience; it was a self-centered streak that sometimes complicated my marriage – but it was a deep-set part of my personality, like another man's drunkenness, or another's womanizing – a curl of dark color in the marble not easily expunged.

The scholar unbound his document case, arranged a pair of eyeglasses with oval lenses on the end of his stubby nose, and gathered his thoughts for a moment by surveying the papers in front of him, which were out of view behind the lip of the podium. Candlelight danced on his glistening pate in two patches like squares of bandages slipping on new wounds. The stage, the whole of the auditorium, was drafty; and the candleflames snapped to and fro, always on the cusp of being extinguished. I thought for a moment of the whorehouse and its radiance of electric light, and of what it said about a society in which only whorehouse proprietors had the clout to bring power to their businesses.

Doctor Wittinski addressed his audience with a distinct accent, one perhaps generated by the knowledge of too many tongues. "I echo Mr. Yaslov's welcome and thanks to you all. I am honored to be here, in Iiloskova, so near the war but still a member of civilization." His opening was no doubt intended as some sort of compliment to the Iloskovites, but it sounded more like a farewell. The final remarks of a captain to his crew while he watches the water-line rising in his ship. "It is my deepest pleasure to recite for you some lines I have recently translated from an indigenous Aegean language – ancient Greek, if you will allow me to employ a crude generality. While there is no definitive proof in the matter, it is my thesis that these are lost verse of the great poet Homer. I have colleagues who disagree with my assessment, but to my eye and my ear, the cadence and syntax, the diction and imagery are unmistakable. Moreover – "

A loud spasmodic sigh from the audience interrupted Doctor Wittinski. It sounded like something between a whimper and a laugh, and maybe feminine too. I glanced behind me, toward the sound, but gained no knowledge of its source. The doctor continued,

"Moreover, I believe the verse, though fewer than ten poems, or two-hundred lines, represent a bridge between the famous poet's epic works, and will thus end centuries of debate as to the origins and order of said works." I felt my shortage of formal schooling quite poignantly at that moment as I had no idea about the debate to which the scholar referred. My father, in his recitations of the ancient stories, spoke of no mystery about their origins. If he had, it would have piqued my curiosity and I no doubt would have been more attentive to the details. I assumed the other audience members, sitting there not stirring in their shabby clothes, were fully aware of the mystery of Homer. I had second thoughts then about reading my poetry; I felt unworthy.

Doctor Wittinski was letting his earthshaking hypothesis settle in the auditorium a moment before continuing. He opened his small, finely mustached mouth to speak and was again interrupted by the whimper or laugh, this time louder. It was followed instantly by the sound of many people turning to locate the position of the rude audience member. I was not certain if anyone did; I did not, though I looked around.

A trace of annoyance mixed with his distinct accent, Doctor Wittinski said that he would read the first verse translation.

Sunrise creeping over the peak of pink; –

Stunning Apollo flashes his bold arrows

From the Heavens, Father Zeus' golden throne.

Morning's charioteer clutches the reins,

And his subjects know of his lordly presence.

Athene, too, basks in Apollo's glow –

"Fine, white bitch!" The woman's voice, full of alcohol, was slurred from the back of the auditorium. Doctor Wittinski slammed shut his leather case; three candles near the podium went out in a column of smoke; his eyeglasses went askew at the end of his nose. He blurted out something in his mother tongue – whatever that might have been – then remembered himself: "What is the meaning here? Who is this woman?"

"Fine, fucking, white bitch!"

Several members of the audience were moving in on the rabble-rouser. I heard murmuring in the back of the auditorium. I decided it was unseemly to be too interested in the spectacle of the drunken woman, but as a journalist I had a professional responsibility to at least see what was happening. So I stepped into the aisle and made my way toward the gathering crowd, which I soon discovered was made up of mainly women and old men; thus I had little trouble forcing my way to its center. Onlookers were in the aisle and in the space between rows in front of and behind the focus of their attention. I saw a very thin woman stretched across three or four seats; her face and throat and hands were so ashen she actually appeared to glow in the dim light at the rear of the auditorium. A purple shawl was draped haphazardly across her body, and she wore a blouse and skirt of summer weight. The reek of sour vodka surrounded her like a cloud. The old woman who greeted everyone at the door, the old woman with red lipstick on her yellow teeth, was taking the pulse of the listless younger woman. "Like ice," said the greeter, "her hands are quite like ice." The listless woman's head rolled so that she could look up at us all through half-closed eyes. And I suddenly knew her: the swan-like neck, the amethyst eyes. It was the woman from the train. I thought of my poem in my valise about her; the one I thought of reading to this audience, "Beautiful Traveler." She was not beautiful now; unless, of course, one could consider a corpse beautiful. The old woman said, "Who is this woman? Is she alone here?"

Like the other onlookers, my eyes glanced from one to another. I hesitated a long moment before volunteering, "I am her acquaintance of sorts. We arrived on the train together." The Iiloskovites no doubt noted my southern dialect and were immediately suspicious of me, a stranger in their increasingly strange city.

The old woman with yellow teeth continued to lead the inquiry: "Do you know where she is staying? Is she staying with you? She is near dead from exposure." Her statement seemed to imply I was somehow to blame. I, a bear-like man – not a ferocious denizen of the wood bear, but rather a performing circus bear – a bear-like man in my red tie. Perhaps I looked a little guilty, felt a little guilty. I recalled reading that Oriental actors who wear masks learn to concentrate their thoughts on an emotion to such a degree that the emotion is transferred to the face of the otherwise sterile mask and thus communicated to the audience. "No," I said, though no longer certain what I was negating. "I can secure her lodging and food. Does she require medical attention, do you think?"

The old woman, who had not removed her fingers from the stranger's seemingly paper-thin wrist, pondered the question carefully. "Perhaps, if food and warmth have not brought her round in short order, then a doctor will be necessary." An onlooker, an old man with but one front tooth, said, "Best of luck finding one."

I said, "I must convey her several blocks to my boarding house, and she is obviously not dressed for the travel." I was wondering how on earth I was going to get her to Division Street when someone touched my arm and said, "I shall help you transport her." It was Polozkov, the glass salesman with the hooked nose. I wondered then if it was he who had put the handbill under my door and not my landlady after all.

The old woman said, "Bring her and follow me." Polozkov assisted me in lifting up the woman – she weighed nothing – and I removed her from the auditorium. The doors closed behind us when we reached the lobby, and I assumed Doctor Wittinski continued his presentation. I felt a twinge of relief that this bizarre happening had prevented me from possibly making a fool of myself reading my undercooked poetry.

"Wait a moment," said the old woman as she disappeared behind a previously closed door. Polozkov and I sat the listless stranger in a chair with torn upholstery in the lobby while we waited. I thought of making small talk with Polozkov but did not know what it would be. Most of the lanterns and candelabras that had lighted the lobby previously had been removed to the stage and auditorium, so the lobby was very poorly lighted. The old woman returned in a moment with a bundle in her arms. Polozkov helped her to deposit the bundle on the floor near my feet; I steadied the stranger in her chair, her head rolling back and forth as if it might just fall off.

"I have raided the prop room," said the old woman, and I noticed the lipstick on her teeth. She knelt on the thinly carpeted floor and sorted out the bundle. The largest item was an old bearskin coat that was missing large patches of fur here and there and smelled of mildew and mange; there was an equally ratty woman's hat, of some long-haired gray fur, perhaps goat. And there was a lengthy swath of golden-yellow cloth; the old woman proceeded to tie a knot at each corner. I got the idea that this cloth would be used as a stretcher or hammock in which to carry our charge to the pension. "It is the best I can do," said the old woman who had welcomed us all to the Luminarium not an hour before.

Polozkov and I wrapped the woman in the massive bearskin coat then lowered her onto the hammock. "Just a moment," I said; I returned to the auditorium long enough to retrieve my things at my seat – Doctor Wittinski was reading another poem, this one about the god of the sea. In the lobby again, I put on my own coat, hat and gloves. I placed my valise in the hammock next to the woman, then slid the goatskin hat over her head. Her hair was still neatly braided in the star pattern I had first noticed on the train. Her head was so small, like a child's, the hat could have been pulled down to her chin, but I stopped at her thinly arced eyebrows, making sure her ears were protected from the cold.

Polozkov took the feet-end of the hammock, his back to me, while I lifted the head-end at the same time. The old woman held the door for us as we carried the stranger into the raw night. The woman opened her eyes for just a moment and looked at me, upside-down of course, in the fading light from the Luminarium, and her lips seemed to form my name – Mr. Pastrovich – before she slipped from consciousness again.