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the edges and fringes of stores and bus stops; it was like they were not altogether there, and just drifted around in their battered green parkas and old sneakers, scattering like sparrows as soon as someone stopped to look closely at their strained faces.
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    By November, when it began to get seriously cold, I had thoroughly explored the ten blocks or so in every direction from our building, ranging all the way west to Lincoln Avenue, north past Addison, south past Belmont, and for miles up and down the lakefront, and I began to make voyages farther afield, taking buses and even trains; and curiously it was in this expeditionary phase that I got to know Miss Elminides better, for she knew the city thoroughly, and dearly loved the many secrets of the South Side.
    It was Miss Elminides who taught me how to take the train to Chicago White Sox games, and who whispered the name of an usher who would let me hop the turnstile and get in free after the first half of the first inning. It was Miss Elminides who drew me a secret map of two tiny dark shadowy extraordinary half-lit smoky obscure astounding jazz clubs on the South Side, one of them in a dilapidated garage behind a seedy automobile chop-shop. It was Miss Elminides who wrote a note in Greek and told me to deliver it to a man named Panagiotakis, who would then take me to the greatest Greek cook in the world, who lived on the second floor of a building that supposedly was a hotel but was really a sort of hermitage for Greek mystics, several of whom were unbelievable chefs and cooks.
    And it was Miss Elminides who one day asked Edward and me to deliver a message to a friend of a friend, as she said, deep on the South Side—a slightly awkward message, she said, which is why she thought Edward should accompany me, in case of misunderstanding. I said I would be happy to do so but with total respect Edward did not seem exactly physically prepossessing, and if a hint of intimidating burl was part of the package maybe I should bring my friend Tommy who had played football for Notre Dame; but Miss Elminides smiled and told me about the two times she had been accosted by ruffians and Edward had appeared out of nowhere to forcibly dissuade them, and the time a huge wolfhound a block away had gone rabid and Edward took care of things, and the time Edward had pursued and downed a purse-snatcher along the lake, and the time a representative of a northside gang called the Gaylords offered what he called a reasonably priced fire insurance policy to Mr Pawlowsky and Edward removed the top half of the man’s left pinky finger so swiftly and deftly that there was hardly any blood, as the responding policeman observed, impressed with Edward’s skill.
    So it was that Edward and I traveled together in the city for the first time—first by bus along the lake, and then on foot through the wilderness of the South Side, along streets I did not know but Edward apparently did, and quite well too, it seemed, for he was brisk and sure, and twice led me through alleys that seemed dead-ends to me but turned out to save us several blocks of walking. Only once did he stop to get his bearings, at what seemed to be a shop selling baseball paraphernalia; he scratched at the window, the proprietor came out, they conferred quietly, the proprietor handed me a baseball card (White Sox pitcher Billy Pierce, 1959, the year he won fourteen games and lost fifteen), and then Edward led me though another alley to a church. Again Edward scratched at the door, and to my surprise a lovely young woman came out, wearing a beautiful blue cloak. I gaped for a moment, until Edward nudged me to show her the card, which I did.
    All these years later I can still see the look that came over her face, and the way she knelt down to stare Edward in the eye. When she stood up again I handed her Miss Elminides’ message, which instantly vanished inside her cloak as if by sleight of hand, and a