An anachronistic fusion of european society and architecture at its various times—the affluent boulevard beyond King’s Crossing led him down an exotic vista of luxury stores, restaurants, gift shops, confectionaries, and other establishments lined with trees. Vintage cars drove down the tiled cobblestone street—the pioneers of motor traffic—many of them sleek; and from time to time also the heavy bulk of a tram. Parasols, walking canes, trench-coats, ulsters—the novelty of it all filled him with an inexplicable delight. The denizens, though unlikely to be bourgeoise, in his eyes seemed almost patrician.

  The air of the city was clean, free of any scent; but passing by the shaded patios there would always come wafting by a scent. He wanted one, if only to try: a cup of coffee, to freshen his mind; or a seltzer, at least, to quench his thirst; and also a pastry, a sandwich, or whatever that waitress was bringing to a table over there! But he would hold himself back.

  Later, he would tell himself. Now’s not the time. I’ll try it out, afterwards…

  He looked up, and up there, in the sky, what looked awfully similar to the underside of sea-faring vessels cruised by. Airships, Satou remarked. Galleons, or man-o’-wars—a fleet of them at that—that quickly vanished behind a sea of clouds.

  My eyesight’s gotten better, too. A lot better.

  Ahead, was a theater, with a garish marquee; and beyond it was a corner. There, behind a row of parked cars, he caught sight of two constables, standing next to a parking meter. Here was his chance to get something done. But what to ask?

  He walked up to them, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to them—keeping his prosody in check; his phrasing of his words; his accent—and once he was close enough to be heard, he said: “Excuse me,” and tried to smile a little, wave also—which came out a little weak, feeble; or too awkward, rigid. Being too uptight, he couldn’t tell.

  “What can we do for you, miss.”

  “I was looking for a hotel.”

  “I believe you just passed it.”

  Satou looked back, even though he knew what building the constable was talking about. “No, not that hotel,” he said. “Too expensive,” he added. And it was. Did the policeman think he could afford to stay in some place like that? Well, perhaps. Probably. But he was looking for a hotel more economic, temporary; only for a night or two.

  “Well, what’s it called?”

  “I-ah, no—I didn’t have a particular hotel in mind. I was looking for one, you see.”

  “Ah,”

  “And I wondered if you could help me.”

  The constable did not answer immediately. Finally, he said, “I believe we can. Tom, fetch the yellow pages will you?”

  Their patrol car was not parked far. The other constable went over and brought back a book from the front-seat. A business directory, Satou recognized it as. He had never seen one before. He leaned in to get a better look at it, out of curiosity.

  Worn on the edges, its pages despite its name were not yellow, and were printed with rows and rows of telephone numbers and addresses alongside the occasionally advert with fancy font and black & white illustrations about restaurants, car mechanics, beauty products, legal advise, etc. It was a dense and useful book he would want to get for himself.

  A brief lull settled—broken only by the intermittent turn of a page, or a car passing by behind them.

  The constable, baton clasped behind his back, started up some small talk.

  Cordially, Satou answered back.

  Eventually, the constable asked him ‘what she did’, and startled, Satou caressed the lapels of his vest, unsure of what to say. He gave back a wry smile, but did not know how to answer back. He tried come up with something—an excuse, even if it had to be vague, so long as it was plausible—but he didn’t have to. His attention was required elsewhere.

  “What sort of hotel should I be looking for, miss.”

  “Someplace inexpensive,” Satou answered him promptly. “Nearby. Modest. I only plan to stay there for a few days; a week, at most. I’ll only be there overnight, I suspect.”

  “Overnight accommodations. Short stay. You’re travelling on business, I presume? How inexpensive are we talking here?”

  Satou was hesitant to say, not when he was oblivious to how things in this world were priced. “Not too cheap?”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The constable skimmed through the pages again—pages that he’d already read and dismissed, or hadn’t read and skipped over. “Here we are,” he said, and titled the book upside-down so Satou could read it too. He placed his finger on a line, and said: “Mariotte Hotel, 4th avenue. How about it?”

  “How much will it cost me, for a night?”

  “You’ll have ask them that, miss. It doesn’t say. It shouldn’t cost you much, I reckon.”

  “I see,”

  “No good?”

  “No, it’s fine!”

  “Look for another one.” The other constable suggested. “Give the lady some options here.”

  “Round here? You could go for Clifford’s. There’s also Kerpal. Or Chase Hotel, by the 5th.”

  The latter looked incredulous at hearing this. “5th? Read again.” He pointed on a line. “It says Hatton, clearly. Chase—Chase Palace Hotel, it used to be called. You might’ve heard of it?”

  “You mean the impressive building by the Imperial Lane.”

  “That one. Keep looking.”

  “No, really, it’s fine!” Satou interrupted. “I’ll head there now, to, um—Marionette, was it?”

  “Mariotte (ma-ri-o-ette) Hotel, 4th avenue. Are you sure, miss?”

  “Sure,”

  “If it’s the price that bothers you, we could phone them if you want. It’s no trouble.”

  “No, really, it’s fine! It doesn’t bother me much. I just didn’t want to pay extra for a service I won’t use.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “…”

  “…”

  “Will that be all, miss?”

  “O’, no—I mean yes, yes—thank you. I should get going,”

  “Gooday, miss.”

  The conversation abruptly came to an end with that. Satou had other questions, of course; questions besides the hotel he had planned on asking. Too late, now. Having already said his farewell, he was apprehensive to now take back his words. Against his better judgement, he resigned himself and merely smiled, thanked them, and obediently took his leave.

  The constable pinched his cap, and that was the end of that.

  Tongue-tied, inarticulate—this wasn’t how he had expected his first conversation to fare. Even now, he could’ve still turned around and posed his question frankly; it would’ve been a trivial thing to do. But for reasons of its own his body refused to listen to him and stayed stubbornly shy. Why? Less than an hour ago he had promised to himself to not be so meek. But being assertive had never really been his strong suit. Social interactions made him feel out of place, queasy; and him having to be conscious of how he spoke a language he wasn’t comfortable to speak in (though english was not his mother-tongue, he was fluent enough to comprehend and speak the language fairly well) and that, to someone of a nationality twice-fold foreign from him only made it all the more awkward. He needed a break.

  Next time, Satou consoled himself. I’ll ask someone else, that, next time. He told himself to not be too upset by the exchange. All things considered, he had done alright for someone who was a shut-in for… How many years has it been?

  He was leaving, when one of the constable beckoned him to come back—he came back—whereupon they advised him to take a cab instead, or the tram, because to get to 4th avenue by foot was going to take him half an hour at least.

  Satou thanked them, again, and went on his own way, not intent on hailing a cab because thought a cab would’ve known the way, gotten him there faster, it would’ve robbed him of the romance of sight-seeing a novel and exotic city for the first time; which, useless as it was, to Satou who valued such surreal experience deeply, was also priceless.

  “Half an hour by walk,” he thought. It’ll probably take twice as long, knowing me. I don’t happen to know the way… Not my brightest idea, but… Besides, if I do get thoroughly lost, I could always hail a cab. So far, they’ve been everywhere…

  Asking passersby for directions—wherever they pointed 4th avenue to be, he went.

  On his way, even the most insular gossips captivated him. Often, he found himself slowing down just so that he could overhear some more of their words. Seldom, did they turn out to be anything of substance. Besides the everyday hi-hellos, their talks, though diverse, were obscured from his comprehension by the very fact of a lived history he did not share.

  He walked along the edge of a gated park for some time, walled off by ornate wrought-iron fences too thin to slip through and too high to scale up and vault over. When he found an entrance for it, curiosity had him, and he entered it.

  The breeze, refreshingly cooled here, funneled through the colonnades of trees to a gale that lifted his hair and flailed it all over his face, which he then had to spit out. The paved walkways branched out into lesser trails, littered with dry and damp leaves, each leading to their own places of interests: memorials, monuments, fountains, gazebos, gardens, victorian-esk conservatories, etc. And the one he had chosen revealed at its other end the beautiful vista of a lake.

  A tender hush came over his heart to take it in.

  With one hand on the white and weathered parapet, quietly he observed the ducks and swans repose in the shimmering water; couples rowing in small paddleboats; an elderly man feeding pigeons and doves his leftover crumbs of bread; and on the other side of the lake, for some time he stood, watching, an artist patiently take pains to capture the sun stretched-out like an obelisk onto his easel. He wanted to stay here a little longer, but the exit was near in sight.

  He made a mental note of coming back here and left.

  It took him nearly two hours, maybe more, but finally he had made it.

  Mariotte Hotel with its fancy portico up a short flight of gilded black marble stairs past two rotary doors led his eyes down a reception hall, warmly-lit with crystal chandeliers—less flashy than the last one, to be sure; more professional-oriented, modest; but it did not look cheap by any means, not even for a night. Cost being the concern, he was hesitant to even enter. Mariotte Hotel seemed far from his ideal of what he would call modest. But he had to ask himself: did cheap really mean that it could not be lavish, extravagant, at the same time? He was in another world, after all. He was non-committal.

  Either way, he was here. Mariotte Hotel was the sole reason why he had come here in the first place, all the way to 4th avenue. Expensive or not, he was at least obliged to check it out; and if the price was right, check in.