of the scarf that was swaddled around his throat.
When he had lost all sense of direction and felt well and truly lost, he slowed his pace and began to pay attention to the shops he passed by. A warm golden light shone out of one, and he peered in though the foggy windows: a café, or bar, with a counter and several small tables lined along the walls. The lights were brightly lit and some sort of balalaikaish folk music leaked into the cold outside air. And then he noticed a huge, fur-shrouded figure sitting at one of the tables, with its back to the windows, and he recognized Livia Pinheiro-Rima’s Russian black bear coat. He pushed open the door. The small room was empty except for the single figure hunched over a bowl of what appeared to be steaming soup. Livia Pinheiro-Rima was swaddled in the great coat and wearing a large, complicated fur hat. The man watched as she carefully lifted the soup to her lips, blowing gently upon each spoonful before hurriedly devouring it.
Something about her aloneness and the almost devout attention she paid to her soup made the man feel as if he were intruding upon a private scene. He was about to turn and try to slip back out the door when a woman emerged from the back part of the café through a pair of little swinging doors.
She said something in the native language that the man assumed was a greeting, but there was a harshness to her tone, as if she had been expecting him and he was late.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima laid down her spoon and turned toward the door. Look what the cat drug in, she said. You’re a sight for sore eyes. The more the merrier! Then she turned and said something to the woman in the same hectoring tone she used with Lárus. The woman bowed and scuttled back through the swinging doors.
Don’t just stand there with your mouth agape, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. Come sit down. I’ve told the serving wench to bring you some soup. I’m afraid that’s all there is, and we’re lucky there’s that. You know, don’t you, about the trains? The Vaalankurkku Bridge collapsed the other day under the weight of the snow, so no food’s been delivered. I suppose we shall all starve before the winter’s out.
The man sat down across the table from Livia Pinheiro-Rima. What about the roads? he asked.
Roads? There are no roads. At least not in the winter. The only way to get into or out of this godforsaken place is the train.
So we’re all stuck here?
Until the bridge is repaired. Unless you have a sleigh and a team of reindeer.
How long will it take? For them to repair the bridge?
Oh, a few days. Or a few years. One never knows about these things. But in my experience it is always best to take the long view.
But we have to leave, said the man. My wife and I. And the baby. There must be some way to leave. What if there’s an emergency? Surely there’s a helicopter or something.
I’m sure there is a helicopter or something, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima, but as I have nowhere to go I don’t concern myself with the question of leaving. My questions all have to do with staying. Excuse me but I am going to continue to eat my soup while it is hot.
Yes, yes, said the man. Please—go ahead.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima dragged the large silver spoon through the soup. Please, she said. Look away. No one likes to be watched while they are eating soup.
The man looked past her, out through the steamy window. A dog with only three legs hopped down the middle of the street, bucking in and out of the deep snow.
The dog disappeared and the serving wench approached with a bowl of steaming soup, which she carefully placed before the man. She laid a spoon swaddled in a white linen napkin beside the bowl. For a moment the man allowed the fragrant steam to rise up and warm his face. It was a dull khaki color and had an odd pungent odor he tried to find aromatic.
What kind of soup is it? he asked.
It’s a kind of soup that doesn’t have a name, said Livia Pinheiro-Rima. It’s soup made from whatever is at hand—drippings and dregs and peelings. Actually, it does have a name. It’s called garbage soup.
Garbage? The man put his spoon down.
Oh, don’t be so American! Garbage isn’t considered dirty here.