Men of Winter

Chapter III

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

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

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

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

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