There was no one in the foyer. Satou rang the brass bell on the front-desk until someone came.

  “Hello,”

  “Is this Edson Hotel?” Satou asked.

  One of the staff—receptionist—affirmed. Yes. Yes it was. Was she here to stay?

  “Yes.”

  For how long?

  “How much do you take for a night?”

  A single room at Edson hotel was to cost him a hundred; less, if he paid for a week upfront, which, in contrast to the fare he had paid for the tram sounded awfully generous.

  “A hundred ducats, for a night, yes?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  The deal was a steal—granted the room he would get was half-decent. He handed over six of his notes, and this time he made sure that they were indeed ducats, and not riyals. The receptionist took it, counted it, and stashed it in the drawer.

  “Thank you for choosing Edson Hotel. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  Satou returned a weak smile, but said nothing back. Worn out by his journey, he did not have it in him for salutations.

  “Do you serve meals here?” Satou asked. “I haven’t had dinner.”

  “One moment,” said the receptionist, and disappeared round a corner.

  Music kept Satou company, meanwhile. You were right here, when the flowers bloomed. Such simply lyrics, yet the sadness in the woman’s voice deeply touched him. The grainy-crackling of the phonograph added to it all, but everything seemed to, now that he was paying attention. Even the noise, from the fan that spun on the ceiling, that did little to cool either him right beneath it or the foyer. What was the name of the song? Who was the singer? Again, he heard footsteps approach.

  “We will have it sent to your room. Will that be all?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Yes.”

  “If you could write your name here, contact here, and sign here,”

  Handed a pen, Satou stared at all the foreign-looking names in the log-book till he reached where he was to write his. This straight-forward task all of a sudden daunted him. He could write ‘Enza’, and be done with it. But did he really want to use that name—here—that is? The officer—Alec, or what was his name again—knew him by that name. If he wrote Enza, and if the officer… No, I’m overblowing it, he realized. The officer was not looking for him. The aversion to meet each other again was likely mutual, after what he’d done. Here, he was only asked to write a name that would tie him to a transaction. That was all. Here he could write an alias, a throwaway name; but he had a better idea, than to make one up.

  ‘Hasegawa Satou’ he wrote: his real name, in initials: H.S., which, when his surname came last, became ‘S.H.’

  There. That should do it…

  This wasn’t something done, of course. In all the rows of names, only his stood out, being in initials; but the receptionist did not seem to mind. He said nothing. Instead, he looked up at the clock, jutted down the time, and closed the log-book.

  “Please,” he said. Follow me.

  The receptionist took out a key from the wooden pear-rack and escorted Satou down a long corridor. The two of them passed by the hotel cafeteria, which was closed; then a half-opened door where bunk-beds and rucksacks were partly illuminated by a bedside lamp. He heard muted-talking inside; the voices of other guests. Then at the end of the corridor, they reached a stairwell which coiled around an elevator shaft, the building’s spine. A sign hung in front of its collapsible ironwork screen. ‘Out of Order’ it read, which the receptionist ignored and moved aside.

  Once Satou got in, the receptionist pressed the button ‘5’, and up they both went.

  Halfway there, Satou asked, “How tall are you?” without any preface.

  The receptionist looked back, unsure. It was understandable. Even she had surprised herself by her unplanned boldness.

  “If it’s not a rude question to ask.” Satou added.

  “I’m 5’10, miss.”

  Which meant that he was at least 6 ft.

  A tall woman…

  The 5th floor opened into a empty corridor, lined with wooden wainscot over plain dry wall. Some of the doors were left open, and inside he saw part frosted-glass part ply-wood screens, workbenches, large rolls of wallpaper, buckets of paint, and a lunch pail someone forgot to take home. The hotel was starting to resemble an office building, or a workshop.

  “Renovations?” Satou asked.

  The receptionist nodded without turning around. That was all.

  He stopped next to a door, handed him a key, politely bowed leave, and left.

  Satou looked at the key dangling inbetween his fingers, confused at first. ‘205’ read the keychain. The door bore no number. None of the doors did. This must be his room. The key slid in effortlessly. And when he turned it. Click—the door swung in.