Men of Winter

Chapter X

'I ascended to a rocky vantage point looking for signs of life.' — Odyssey 10

I sat at the table in my room, my writing things laid out before me, pen in hand. A leaf of paper was before me too. It seemed to occupy a great space, a void that could never be filled. I had scratched the Roman numeral "I." on the top of the paper some minutes before, indicating it was to be the first of something. I had thoughts of writing a piece for Mezenskov about the city of Iiloskova; I certainly had been there long enough to absorb its general atmosphere. It was not exactly what he was looking for, but I felt I could make it a good piece, a solid journalistic report. On the other hand, I believed I was truly on the trail of the Prince of Ithaca, and I could write about that as well. I was certain he had been at the sanatorium at some point. I also had the impression that Helena knew him, that she recognized his face. She was silent during our entire return to the pension. I did not want to press her and make her condition any worse.

How is it that so many could know the Prince? Old Golokov at the hotel, the mourning woman at the coffee store, Doctor Zitch ... and Helena too? I wondered if Lieutenant Bushkov knew him and was lying to me. I sensed a conspiracy, but it was a ridiculous notion. I was just tired and far from home. Perhaps no one had had dealings with the man who called himself the Prince of Ithaca. They had all lost someone or something, and his face filled that emptiness. I could have shown them a sketch of any person, of myself even, and they would have reacted in the same manner – afraid, sad, angry ... whatever emotion was near the surface, ready to leach out, like fluid from a scab.

I drew a line under my Roman numeral: "I." Perhaps it was poetry I wanted to write. I poised my pen and waited for the first line. My muse was not singing, not even humming absentmindedly. The empty leaf of paper seemed the size of a tablecloth, of a sail draped over the table. It hung down to the floor, and spread under the bed and beneath the door into the hall. I darkened the line under my Roman numeral, then the Roman numeral itself: "I." It was as if something blocked my thoughts, dammed them up somewhere in my brain.

I took up the glass on the table but it was empty of vodka. I had let the final drop fall to my tongue shortly after writing the Roman numeral. Was it too late to go out and purchase another bottle? There was still murky daylight at my window. The landlord and his wife – Mr. and Mrs. Strubel, I reminded myself – would call us to dinner very soon. I thought about Helena in her room. For a while I believed I heard her pacing, a short journey to and fro in the tiny room. Then the sound stopped. Momentarily doors opened and closed and there were footsteps in the hall, more than one person. She might have been among them.

I darkened the Roman numeral further, until the nib had nearly pierced the paper. There was noise in the hall and someone knocked at my door: Mrs. Strubel spoke: "Mr. Pastrovich, supper will be on the table in a few minutes."

"Thank you, ..." I called. I nearly said her name for the first time but the idea died at my tongue. Well, there was no sense in continuing to write now. I put my pen away and capped the bottle of ink. I left the paper out to dry; it would take a long while given the concentration of ink in the one letter, period and underscore. I buttoned my top button and tightened my tie, and went to supper in shirtsleeves and vest. The formality of a coat seemed superfluous. I was famished after the long walk to the sanatorium and back, and I figured Helena – so, so thin anyway – was also.

I came downstairs by myself and discovered that everyone was already at table. A place was left open on an end, flanked by Helena and Polozkov. I was reminded of a scene from a Shakespeare tragedy where the doomed king is unable to take his place at the banquet because his murdered friend's ghost is there before him. Or was it merely a trick of the guilty king's imagination as he had arranged the murder himself? My recollection was unclear. I hesitated a moment but no phantom took my place. I would not have been shocked if the Prince of Ithaca had walked onstage to play the ghostly part.