The Winter Thief

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The elderly publisher put on his spectacles to examine the enameled pin in his hand. It displayed a symbol of broken chains draped across a sword, an ax, and a red flag. He handed the pin back to the young woman as if it were poison.

Vera had gotten lost in the twisted lanes leading to Bab-i Ali, the publishing district, and ended up down by the harbor, then had to work her way back up the hill on the boulevard, where she might be seen. But she had been late for her meeting with the publisher and didn’t want to risk getting lost again. It was only five o’clock, but already dark from the approaching storm. The street was nearly deserted. The few men she passed were wrapped up against the cold, and she could see only their eyes. As she approached the center of the district, the buildings became more substantial, with ornate porticos, but their windows were blank, reflecting back the gray sky. All the Armenian businesses were closed for Christmas. Her own family’s house in Moscow would be blazing with warmth and light, Vera thought with a pang of regret. She hurried along Jalaloglu Street, peering at the names across the entrances, and finally, gratefully, turned into a doorway marked Agopian Brothers Publishing House.

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