Men of Winter

Chapter VI

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.