The Big Chill

La mia stanza è una tana squallida--
il fuoco ho spento.
V'entra e l'aggira il vento
di tramontana.

--Puccini, La Bohème

The Rat's Nest has been cast into disorder by the arrival of an unwelcome houseguest. Yes, an angry old man has been visiting--the North Wind, who casts dishes and ornaments to the floor as though they were toys, slams every door in his path, and leads frantic paperchases up the walls. He rattles my blinds and turns my feet to ice. He torments Stella in her nest, snatching holes in her paper walls and rattling the bars of her cage. She whines in her sleep, agitated by the hubbub and by the smell of chilly rain. Bunched up before my computer, I sing teeth-chattering love songs to keep warm:

S-s-sovra il sen la man mi posa,
P-p-palpitar, balzar lo s-s-s-senti!
Egli è il cor che i suoi c-contenti
Non ha f-f-forza a sostener.

"My heart isn't racing," I grumble, glancing at Stella. "It's shivering. Oh, to be in love in winter! My prince would come bearing slippers. Great woolly slippers, and maybe a fur coat like yours."

"Hoooooo," whimpers Stella, pulling a piece of garlic bread over her head to shut out my complaining. Even the rats don't listen to me.

"My hair has frozen to my neck," I tell her protruding nose. "I wish I had a hairdryer."

"Well, shut up and put the heating on, already," groans the wind, using a folded-up pair of specs as makeshift vocal chords. I stick my tongue out at it.

Outside, a fog's come down over the mountains. The seagulls have hunkered down against the cold, all lined up on their eighteenth-floor ledge. In my solarium, I find the corpse of the hornet that stung Stella, crumpled up between two boxes. Doesn't look so menacing now, the wee fucker. I throw it out the window, with a small rush of satisfaction. I throw out two dead flies and another ant, too. There are no living insects left. I congratulate the North Wind on his facility with a fly-swatter. He sticks a chilly hand down my neck and picks out a tune on my spine.

The black swift from the other day is nowhere to be seen. I scan the rooftops, hoping for another glimpse of him, but it's nothing but seagulls as far as the eye can see. There's not even a thrush or a sparrow. The smaller birds seem to descend to street-level as the cold weather sets in. They hang around shop entrances like little vagrants, waiting for the puffs of warm air when people go in and out, or cluster around steaming manhole covers.

Manhole covers: why do they steam in the winter? Is it--is it all hot sewage down there, sending up noxious clouds? Faugh. That steam gets everywhere. A five-minute walk, and the hem of my coat's heavy with it. I hope it's not toilet-steam. I hope it's just...I don't know, hot-water pipes, or something. Hot-water pipes--that's the ticket.

At five-thirty, the cloud cover breaks for a moment. A pale sun glares on my monitor, and I believe myself warm, simply by virtue of seeing the sun. Seconds later, the clouds close up, and I tuck my feet back under my coat. It must be ten degrees in here! I make some coffee (decaf, alas), and wrap my hands around the cup. I feel like a hobo, or the Little Match Girl*, or something.

"Artist found frozen to death, holding cup of Folger's Decaf," I tell Stella, trying it on for size. "Coroners, unable to defrost hands, had to cut them off and microwave them in order to extricate the cup."

"Hoooo that," scoffs Stella.

"Oh, yeah? Hoooo you. I thought it was quite good, myself. Ripley's-worthy, indeed."

"Go back to croaking along with your opera," she tells me. "Your stories are even worse than your singing."

Thus, Stella and I endure the North Wind's visit, passing the time with sleep, sarcasm, and hard work. We'd play cards, and all, but her little hands can't shuffle.

* A match-seller from a story by Hans Christian Andersen, who freezes to death on a winter street.