Repelled, the child turned toward the nurse's bosom, wailing in terror. — Iliad 6

The days began to pass one like another. I did not go out, saying to myself the snow was too deep. When I was in my room, I stared at the blank leaf of paper. I had managed to doodle all kinds of designs around the Roman numeral – first geometric shapes, circles and triangles and even a rhombus, then birds and clouds, with a crescent-moon shape in one corner and a sun radiating from another. As a consequence, I did not spend a lot of time in my room. The parlor had become the heart of the pension, and the guests congregated there throughout the day and evening. Talking, playing games, reading – a trunk in the corner of the parlor turned out to contain all sorts of old books: romances, biographies, histories, folktales. The Strubels were the landlord and lady, but clearly felt as we all did that Helena was our queen. Not that we pampered her but she was the center of our world. We spun around her like moons in erratic orbits, sometimes bumping into one another in our efforts to be near her.

She did not act queenly. She seemed to see her role as more maternal. She had shown Mirska and Mrs. Strubel how to braid their hair. Theirs were not as elaborate as Helena's star-pattern braids (nor as fetching) but they were much pleased with them. And their corresponding hairstyles helped create a kinship between the three women. They chattered and laughed, and were even beginning to finish each other's sentences – like cousins who had grown up together. Helena and Mirska pitched in on the housework, so that they could spend more time with Mrs. Strubel, and so that she could spend less time working. I had the sense that life had never been like this for the landlady – that a childhood of drudgery had led seamlessly to an adulthood of the same.

Mr. Strubel did not seem to mind his wife's new friendships. He still had his chores out of doors, but the landlord found more time to sit with the men, talking about the weather and telling tales. The money I had paid for Helena's stay must have run out but Mr. Strubel did not bring up the issue. Then it occurred to me perhaps some of the others were subsidizing her stay with us. Or maybe it was because Helena had been helping Mrs. Strubel with housework.

For that matter, my own resources were diminishing. While I did not go out, I contributed to the fund that kept us supplied with vodka and wine. Mr. Strubel or Polozkov had ventured out and procured our refreshments. Mostly we drank the vodka straight but sometimes we would mix it with tea. The wine was for supper and our game playing afterward. We played late into the night: chess and cards, of course, but we had also added backgammon and charades to our repertoire. Helena was especially accomplished at charades. Her eyes were so expressive, it was almost as if she communicated her message through some extrasensory medium. By the same token, she could discern someone else's phrase with the slightest of clues. I got the impression that the only reason anyone else ever won at charades was because Helena let them.

Helena said she had come north looking for someone ... but she would not find him at the pension. Indeed, she was as slothful in her pursuit as I was in mine. The difference, of course, was that I would eventually go home. Whereas Helena's quest was indefinite. I wondered what she would do when I had to leave – but I did not wonder very often. I still had a few days remaining and I refused to spend them in worry.

It was on our fourth or fifth halcyon day that we heard the shrieks from the kitchen. It was midmorning, and Polozkov and I were enjoying a drink and a game of backgammon in the parlor. As in chess, we were fairly evenly matched – though Polozkov had won a few more backgammon games than I. The three women were in the kitchen, doing whatever it was they did in there throughout most of the day, and Mr. Strubel was out somewhere. Polozkov and I heard the screams, and we rushed from the parlor, my knee clumsily upsetting the backgammon board that lay on the sofa between us. Polozkov threw open the kitchen door and the three women were hugging each other and crying ... and laughing. Apparently the shrieks had been ones of joy.

"What is going on?" I said. "What is happening?"

It was some time before they could get hold of their emotions. They were quite a sight, the three women in braids and aprons, dancing around, breathless, tears streaming down their cheeks. Once again I was reminded of that Shakespeare tragedy and of the three strange sisters who began the conflict in the first place.

Helena finally calmed down enough to speak. "We will tell you, but you must promise not to say anything to Mr. Strubel. Do you promise?"

We agreed, irritated and anxious. What is it?

She continued, "Mrs. Strubel is with a child."

We were found dumb. With a child?

"You mean," said Polozkov, "she will be having a baby?"

The women shrieked again, and we took it as an affirmative response.

"Congratulations," I said. "That is terrific." Polozkov offered his good wishes too.

We left the women to their celebrating and returned to the parlor. There was no hope of setting up the backgammon board as it was before I knocked it, so we agreed to put it away until later and start afresh. I took my vodka-spiked tea and went to the porch. I did not bother with my heavy coat. The day was relatively warm and the sun was out. In fact, I heard the sound of water running in the house's eaves. The snow was melting; spring would come yet to the northcountry. I wanted a smoke, but I had left my tobacco and papers in my big coat. No matter. The tea would suffice. I wondered if the Strubels had been trying for a child long – probably their whole marriage, I guessed. If so, this pregnancy was like a miracle. I thought of Tasha. Did she still pray for a child, or had she given up on prayer? If one gives up on prayer, is that not the same as giving up on God? I wanted to talk with Tasha about these things but it was inconceivable. We could not have a civil conversation about supper, let alone theology.

To my right was a crash. An icicle longer than my leg had dislodged from the roof and fallen to the ground. It protruded upright from the snow, like a spear in its victim. I noticed Mr. Strubel coming down the walk carrying a crate. It was a crate he always took with him to hold whatever he acquired while out. Recently, the crate had contained empty bottles when he left the house. Apparently glass bottles were in short supply in Iiloskova and returning the empty ones allowed you a discount on new purchases. "Good morning," he called when he noticed me on the porch. I returned his greeting then waited so I could hold the door open for him. As he passed, I noticed two bottles of wine in the crate along with several brown bags – probably dried beans. I thought of the surprise that was in store for him.

I anticipated a new vigor in Mr. Strubel's step when I saw him again. Certainly, if the couple had been trying for a child for many years, they had long since reached the point of wondering whose fault their infertility was. Was the wife incapable of carrying a baby, or was the husband's seed too thin? I knew the question well. I took a drink of my tea and wished that I had seasoned it with more vodka.

I was getting cold in spite of the warmer weather, and I suddenly felt very tired. I was thinking about going in and returning to my bed when the door opened and Helena joined me. She stood next to me and breathed the air. "It is becoming a wonderful day, is it not, Hektr?"

"Yes," I said without emotion, "a wonderful day."

"What is the matter?" she said, looking up and piercing me with her eyes.

I shrugged. "Nothing is the matter. I was just out here thinking."

"Ah," she said, turning her head to look toward the street and the world beyond it. "Thinking can be bad for us. It can cause depression." She seemed to consider her own statement for a moment, then added, "We are better if we can live in the moment. It is the Past and the Future that tend to cause us worry."

"I suppose, but they are with us – all three – whether we think of them or not." It seemed to me her philosophy would have carried more weight if she was not someone who could just as easily be dead, if not for the generosity of strangers. I wanted to say something to the effect but it was too unkind. And I did not feel like being unkind. In fact, I wanted to hold her again but feared being rebuffed. There I was, recalling the past and worrying about the future, secretly proving her point.

Helena returned to her gay mood. "We must do something for the Strubels. This is a joyous day."

"Is it? Another mouth to feed, another soul living at the end of the earth, so near the front."

I could not deter her. "Yes, a new life is joyous – no matter the circumstances. Hektr, I did not suspect you of being a ... cynic."

"Perhaps just today." I swallowed the last of my tea.

"Then I shall look forward to tomorrow," she said and took my arm. "Have you had baklava?"

"No, is it a drink?"

"A drink? No, it is a dessert, a wonderful dessert. I will not be able to make it precisely, but I think with some dried fruit and the correct ... dough, I can come very close. Let us speak with the others, and 'pass the plate,' as you say here. Then we can go out and buy what we need."

Helena discreetly went to each of the boarders with her plan and collected coins from each. The Strubels were in their rooms. Undoubtedly, she was breaking the news to him. Then Helena and I put on our coats and hats and went out to buy the needed ingredients. I had been in Iiloskova long enough to know where certain commodities could be had. If I did not know the exact businesses, I knew the streets where to look. Mrs. Strubel had the basics – flour and cooking powder and lard – so we needed only the exotic ingredients.

The day was pleasant, a true harbinger of spring weather, but the boardwalks and streets were messy with melting snow and ice. At first, Helena held her dress to prevent its hem from becoming too wet but it soon was a lost cause. Many people were out, some in a hurry to get somewhere, others just standing about talking. Of course, they were older men, and women and children; Iiloskova's young men were gone, as if taken by some selective plague. In a sense, the war was a plague. It spread, it killed, its origin was unknown. Unlike a plague, however, no one seemed to be working toward a cure.

Helena led our expedition, as she knew what we needed. From place to place, she inquired about inventory, made decisions regarding possible substitutions, haggled with the shopkeepers, then bought the item or not. I carried the canvas bag that held our purchases. Vanilla proved to be the trickiest commodity to obtain, and eventually the most costly. Fortunately, we only needed a few drops of it. Salt was also difficult. The army had used incalculable amounts to preserve the meat shipped to the front. We heard this tale from several proprietors.

I did not know its exact cause – getting outdoors after days spent inside, the sunny sky, the anticipation of making something special for the Strubels – but Helena was positively radiant with happiness. Her skirt was soaked and must have seemed to weigh many pounds and we had spent literally everything she had collected from our fellow lodgers, including a pocketful of Mezenskov's coins I had contributed – yet nothing deterred her good mood. She even deviously made fun of people who passed us on the boardwalk, either contorting her face to exaggerate some feature or mocking the manner of their walk. I chided her insensitivity but it was only part of the game, and we both knew it.

Not just people were out, but animals too. Several horse- or mule-drawn wagons passed in the streets. I noted that most of the animals looked old or tired or sick, which was true of the people also. It had been a long difficult winter, and a long difficult war. The animal traffic added manure to the slushy mess in the streets. Helena was pointing out one especially poor creature, a badly sway-backed old horse, when a look of great surprise came over her face and her mood instantly changed, like the sun being taken over by a stormcloud. "Hektr," she said, pulling at my arm, "let us go in here." There was urgency in her voice. I glanced toward the street and beyond to the other boardwalk but I saw nothing to explain her sudden change in mood. It was only as the door was shutting behind me that I realized where Helena had dragged me: the whorehouse I had encountered on my first night in Iiloskova, when I was lost and afraid in the strange city.

Helena did not notice where we were, or care. As soon as the door was shut she turned and peered outside from behind the heavy shade covering the door's glass.

"Helena, what is it? What did you see?"

She had no interest in discussing anything at the moment. Meanwhile, I looked around inside; my eyes were having trouble adjusting to the subdued lighting. There were a couple of women sitting on sofas in a room just off the foyer. The whores may have been sixteen or sixty – my eyes could not tell yet. A man came forward in a dark-colored business suit; his heels were loud on the foyer floor. "Good day, may I help you?" he asked. I had the feeling it was Doctor Zitch from the sanatorium but it was not. It was just that this man also had dark hair, a goatee and eyeglasses. My brain made the combination form a picture of Doctor Zitch.

I glanced at Helena. She was still peeking outdoors. "My friend and I," I said, not knowing how I would finish the sentence, "are looking for the candlemaker." The sentence itself did not make perfect sense.

"The candlemaker?" he repeated.

"Yes, we are in the market for candles."

"This is not a candleshop."

"I see." And I did see better; my eyes were adjusting. This was a much older man that Doctor Zitch, and heavier. The two whores watching us, glad for a diversion perhaps, were fairly young women – in their twenties – but it was still difficult to tell because of their painted faces. "I apologize," I said, wanting to leave; however, as I looked at Helena, she did not appear on the verge of stepping outside. "Is the candlemaker next door?"

"I know of no candlemaker," the man said, beginning to sound irritated.

"That is strange. We were informed there was a candlemaker in this street. Were we not, dear?" I had introduced Helena as my friend, and now she was my wife: Lying was not my greatest strength. "Dear?" I continued.

Helena made some noise – affirmative or negative, it was impossible to say – but at least I knew she was paying some attention to the situation.

One of the women spoke without getting up from the sofa: "In the next street over, there is a wax-man, I believe." She pointed nebulously with her red-painted finger.

"That direction?" I too motioned ambiguously.

"No; that way."

The man's irritation was mounting. His cheeks were becoming as red as the whore's fingernails. "Yes, that way," he said. "Now I recall, one street over, that way." He would say anything to make us leave the premises.

"Ah ... that way. It is that way, dear," I said to Helena, who let go of the shade and opened the door. "Thank you," I said to the man and the helpful whore as we returned to the boardwalk. While one part of my brain was occupied with the ludicrous story about the candlemaker, another part was trying very hard to discern the meaning of Helena's actions. My suspicions of her being in trouble with the authorities came back to me full force. Then again, there were those missing days, between the time the train arrived in Iiloskova and Helena turned up at the Luminarium dead drunk, nearly literally. Had she made an enemy or two in Iiloskova in that little time? Of course, there is no requisite amount of time for making an enemy. Friendship usually takes awhile, days or even years; but enmity can develop in an instant.

Of the two possibilities, trouble with the authorities seemed more likely. The only problem with my conclusion was that I had not encountered a policeman during my entire time in Iiloskova. Therefore, whom had Helena seen on the street? Outside again, and making our way back to Division Street, her mood had definitely been affected by the episode. Instead of carefree and comical, Helena was nervous. Her brilliant eyes darted back and forth. She rushed along, often bumping into people, her apologies quick and quiet. I wanted to ask what had happened but it was clearly not the time.

Then I realized her quandary. On the one hand, she was looking for someone; on the other, someone was looking for her, or so she believed. To accomplish the one, she must leave the sanctuary of our pension, but to avoid the other, staying off the streets was necessary. I suddenly felt we were not equal in our slothfulness.

We were soon returned to Division Street. As we got to the pension's walk, I said, "What happened back there? Who was after you?"

At first it appeared she was going to ignore my query altogether, but then said, "I thought I saw someone from my past. It could not be, however. I am at the 'edge of the earth,' as you say. How could he be here too? It is just my imagination; I am more fatigued than I realized."

"If you are in trouble, I can help." It was more wishful thinking than truth. What could I do? Write a poem about her problems?

Helena smiled and patted my arm. "Thank you, Hektr, but I am fine."

We entered the pension. The others, except for the Strubels, were in the parlor. They asked if we were successful, and I held up the bag. Helena immediately went upstairs to change out of her soaking skirt. I went and sat by the coal-burner, propping my feet up close to the heat. Polozkov brought me a drink, which I appreciated. The others returned to their games and conversations; meanwhile, I thought about Helena. It was remarkable that she had traveled all this way, with no resources to speak of. Then I realized she did have a resource, a very valuable one: herself. The way she had captivated us must have been how she survived. She had arrived penniless and underdressed for the climate; now she had a roof over her head and food on her plate and proper clothing.

And in return, she had given us ... a life, instead of mere existence. She had given us joy. All in all, it was a fair trade.

Shortly, the Strubels emerged from their rooms and came into the parlor. They were holding hands, looking as shy as newlyweds. Everyone congratulated Mr. Strubel. He blushed beneath his big mustaches. Helena appeared behind them, then she called Mirska and Mrs. Strubel into the kitchen. She could purchase the ingredients for the dessert in secret but she could not make it in secret. The three women would have great fun trying to coax the mismatched ingredients into baklava. We were all so starved for sweets that whatever they concocted would be much appreciated; besides, only Helena would know how close they came to the genuine article.

While the preparations were going forward, Mr. Strubel joined the men in the parlor. He and Polozkov played chess. I watched the landlord surreptitiously. How did a newly expectant father act? Pregnant women were said to have a certain radiance. What about fathers-to-be? Mr. Strubel did not seem especially happy. Of course, he was losing badly to Polozkov. He was drinking more energetically than usual, and the heat was rising to his face – providing him a certain rosiness, if not radiance, after all.

I too was feeling warm. And sleepy. I thought of going upstairs for my nap but I also thought of the task awaiting me in my room, of the leaves of paper void of my words. I decided dozing in my chair in the parlor until supper time was a good plan. And I must have done just that, as in no time Mirska was shaking my arm and telling me to wash before going to the table. My neck and back were stiff, reminiscent of my interminable train ride to Iiloskova. I did not look forward to the laborious return trip.

Supper was good: twice-boiled potatoes and a soup of turnips and carrots in a chicken-fat stock. Everyone ate heartily, but also quickly and did not ask for a second portion – we were all anticipating the dessert, which had filled the whole house with a lovely aroma in the late afternoon. When the dinner plates were cleared, Helena and Mrs. Strubel brought in the baklava on two large platters. I was not sure what to expect – something like a pie perhaps – and the dessert was not wholly dissimilar. It was a pastry with a pie-crust-like shell filled with sweetened fruit and nuts. It was topped with a glaze of some sort.

"It is not perfect," Helena said as everyone received a portion.

Mr. Strubel came from the kitchen with two steaming pots of coffee – another surprise on this day of surprises. The coffee was a bit weak but still a perfect addition to the baklava, which was very delicious. After so much time without sweets, the dessert was nothing short of ambrosial. We were all torn between the competing desires to bolt down the baklava and to slowly savor it – not unlike, I thought, the twin desires of the sex act. To proceed with gusto, or to hold back and prolong the pleasure.

Afterward, the metaphor continued, as I was overcome with a sense of euphoria. Bandits could force their way into the house and make off with all our valuables, and I would not care at all. We all thanked Helena profusely for the dessert. She actually blushed at the accolades.

In the parlor, later, we all played charades. Helena appeared off her game as others won time and again. I suspected she was allowing others to be first. I very much appreciated her deceit. We were drinking the last of the wine in the house. Helena had cautioned Mrs. Strubel against drinking too much. We thought her silly because we all knew the medicinal benefits of good wine. Perhaps expectant women avoiding wine was a custom of her strange homeland – wherever that was. Nevertheless, Mrs. Strubel heeded Helena's warning and drank very little. Mr. Strubel, on the other hand, was drunker than I had ever seen him. He was trying to teach us bawdy songs from his teenage years and hugging everyone, especially Helena, whom perhaps he considered like a sister-in-law.

Helena was good-natured about his pawing her, though she was starting to look a bit disheveled, like she had been wrestling with a bear cub. She excused herself from his grasp to use the washroom but then stopped at the parlor doorway. We were all looking at her. What?

"Listen," she said, raising her hand to silence us.

I thought perhaps she was hearing the cannonade of artillery again, then I heard it too – like a sputtering engine. The sound grew louder and louder until it was in the street in front of the house. We went to the front door, except for Mr. Strubel who had slid to a sitting position on the floor. We stepped out onto the porch and saw a truck in the street. It came to a full stop with a noisy backfire and puff of smoke. In the moonlight, the contraption might have been a funeral hearse. A dark figure came down from the steering compartment. The figure appeared to have a single red eye ablaze in the night.

The figure saw us on the porch, a group of silhouettes. "Hektr? Is Hektr Pastrovich among you?" he called.

I did not respond for a moment, though the voice was familiar. "Lieutenant Bushkov?" I finally said.

"None other," the navy-man responded, coming into the weak light that spilled from inside the house. The single red eye was in fact his ubiquitous cigar. He had on a heavy coat and hat which looked black but were probably blue. Piping on the coat appeared to be the color of moonlight. "True to my word, I said I would let you know when I had means to convey you to the front. I have means." He motioned toward the truck. His words came out in a cloud of smoke, as if spoken by a dragon. "Some dispatches arrived this afternoon."

I felt Helena's hand slip into mine.

"Will you not come in," said Mrs. Strubel. "You must be froze."

"Thank you, madam, but it is best not to let the Daimler rest for very long – it may never come to life again."

I noticed that there was someone else in the steering compartment, an assistant of Bushkov's no doubt.

The lieutenant said, "The driver is returning to the front tomorrow. You are welcome to join him, but I cannot say when you might be able to come back to Iiloskova."

Yes, I want to go – then I realized I had not said it aloud: "Yes, I want to go." Helena squeezed my hand.

"I am afraid I cannot come round to get you. The truck will be loaded with supplies. Can you get to the bureau office by midmorning?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Remember to be prepared for a considerable stay. And I am told winter is still very much in control at the front."

Lieutenant Bushkov touched his hat to the ladies and began to depart. He stopped in the moonlit yard and turned. "I nearly forgot, Hektr. I received a message from your editor this afternoon as well. He inquired of your well being – I can now say you are fine – and one other thing, but the telegrapher must have gotten it wrong. The boy who brought the message said the wires were fickle because of the snow."

"What is that?" I said to Bushkov's darkened figure.

"It merely stated, 'prince out.' Does that make any sense at all?"

"No," I lied. "It must have been garbled." Helena's hand was trembling, and felt like a chunk of ice in my palm. It was only a partial lie – why would Mezenskov bother with such information?

"Well, I will see you tomorrow." He reached the wagon and pulled himself into the steering compartment. The motor belched to life, and in a moment Lieutenant Bushkov and his assistant were gone. Only the putrid smell of the Daimler's smoke remained.