Men of Winter

Chapter IV

Sing the singular story once again. — Odyssey 1

My landlord served turnip stew and biscuits left over from breakfast, not the fare of Madam Ilychka but nutritious and welcome after the long walk. At dinner I met some of the others staying in the pension. There was an older gentleman, Kritch, who was visiting relatives in the city. No one pursued his story: What kind of family makes a relative stay at a pension? Or, what kind of man is made to stay at a pension by his family? There was a salesman of glass, Polozkov, who had a large hooked nose and an absurd scheme for becoming rich: It seemed that he expected the war would eventually come to Iiloskova, thus shattering virtually every window in the city. After, he would be on hand to make his fortune. Our landlady was refilling teacups as Polozkov elaborated on his plan; he quickly assured her that such a calamity would not befall her residence, "so close to the heart of the city." It appeared to me that Iiloskova did not have a heart. A ribcage perhaps, and a large and small intestine, and a liver ... but not a heart. In any case, the war was still some distance away, and I wondered how long the glass salesman intended to wait. There was a woman staying at the pension by herself, a woman of middle age, though she wore bangs like a schoolgirl. She was polite and listened respectfully to her fellow lodgers, but she did not volunteer anything about her situation, which of course made me – made everyone, I am sure – imagine all kinds of wild stories about her. She was a witch, a spy, a prostitute, the wife or mistress of a fallen politician – perhaps all of them.

After the landlord and his wife cleared the dishes from the table, Polozkov and I set up a chessboard that we had been told of. The other lodgers went to their rooms. The chess pieces were carved from hardwood (linden perhaps), half left natural in coloring, the others stained dark. The hooked-nose salesman and I were well-matched; we played two games, each winning one. I was the victor in the second game. I had noticed that he appeared vulnerable to diagonal attacks, so I used my bishops in combination with my queen to place him in checkmate. I made a mental note of this weakness in case we played again. After we put away the chessboard and Polozkov excused himself to his room, I looked at my pocketwatch and it was only a few minutes beyond seven o'clock – a long northcountry night still lay before me. I was in the mood to write. The images of Iiloskova, the train ride, the braided woman with whom I ate breakfast, my young guide of the previous night, Bushkov and his ubiquitous cigar – all of these things were cluttering my mind. I felt that I must put them down on paper in order to clear my head. Once on paper, they could be properly arranged and organized, like tools in a well-maintained shed, then stored until needed.

My host and hostess were still cleaning in the kitchen, so I went and asked for a pot of tea. The landlady was scrubbing a large stockpot at the butcher-block table, her sleeves gathered at her elbows; her husband was putting cups away in the cupboard. My request did not please them, but my landlord said that he would bring it to my room presently. I thanked him and went upstairs.

I tried the electric light hanging on the cord from the ceiling but of course it was not working, so I lighted the fetid oil lamp and stoked the coals in the burner. I opened my valise and arranged my writing things on the table, my paper, and nibs, and my bottles of ink. The room was chilly so I spread my great coat over my legs like a shawl. I filled the nib of my pen and looked at the blank paper, as blank as a frozen pond, yet full of possibility too. My eyes moved up to the black, square window directly across from me; the window worked as a mirror against the night beyond its thin panes. I saw myself there, behind the flame of the lamp, looking like an unholy surgeon, my pen a rusted scalpel, my ink bottle a specimen of bad blood.

I touched the nib to paper and began. I thought of the woman on the train and how I had mistaken her for a mere girl ...

A child she seemed, her black hair braided