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, eateries, coffee houses, gift shops, confectionaries, and other establishments and businesses lined with trees.

Vacationing crowds occupied the sidewalk; wearing suits, dresses, blouse, trench coats, ulsters, and other pieces of clothing he could not name; with parasols, walking canes, or suitcases in their hands; and on the tiled cobblestone streets engraved with tram rails and cables suspended overhead: the pioneers of motor traffic drove past him: vintage cars, many of them sleek, motor carriages, cabs, and from time to time there passed by his side the heavy-bulk of a crowded tram.

The air was clean, refreshing, free of any scent; but passing by the shaded patios there would always come wafting by a scent that would make him want one badly. A cup of coffee, at least, to quench his thirst, freshen his mind; or a seltzer, with a sandwich, or a pastry, or whatever that waitress there was bringing to a table over there! But he held himself back.

Now’s not the time…

Above, half-veiled by some misty clouds, what looked awfully similar to the underside of sea-faring vessels—galleons, or man-of-war—cruised by. “Airships,” Satou remarked. A fleet of them at that, that before he could get a better look at them vanished behind a sea of clouds. My eyesight’s gotten better too. A lot better…

Ahead, a theater, with a garish marquee; and beyond it he saw a corner. Here, he had a choice.

He could take a right, or keep going straight—see where the boulevard would take him, eventually, and with the King’s Crossing right behind his back be in no danger of getting lost. But on a whim he decided to choose the former, leaving the boulevard he was in for the narrower lane, and whether such a decision was the wise thing to do, only time would tell.

And perhaps it was, because across the street behind a row of parked cars, he caught sight of two constables, standing next to a parking meter—Just the people I need, he thought. Here was his chance to get something done. But what to ask?

He crossed the road, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to them once he got close—once, twice, thrice—keeping his prosody in check, his accent, his phrasing of his words as best as he could so that when he would speak, that his voice would not come out pidgin and fail him. Then, 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 one.”

Just to be sure, Satou took a sidelong glance back at where he had come from.

“No, not that hotel,” he replied. “Too expensive.” And it was. Just the façade of it alone, and all the folks who entered it all lavishly-dressed—it wasn’t hard for him to guess that that hotel was barred from him and his wallet. He was looking for someplace more economic, temporary.

“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,”

“I wondered if you could help me.”

A brief pause here. Then,

“I believe we can. Tom, fetch the yellow pages will you.”

The latter walked away without a word towards a black vintage car parked nearby, their police prowler—

So far so good, Satou thought.

—and came back with a thick book under his arm. He handed it over.

Well-worn round the edges, the yellow pages printed with rows and rows of telephone numbers and addresses were far too small from where he stood to make out; but the occasional advert with fancy font and black & white illustrations about beauty products, restaurants, car mechanics, and whatnot, told him what the gist of it was anyways:

A business directory?

A brief lull settled, broken only by the intermittent sifting of a page, or a car driving past behind them.

The constable, with a baton clasped behind his back, started up small talk. Cordially, Satou answered him.

Eventually, the constable asked him ‘what she did’, and jolted, Satou caressed the lapels of his vest, unsure of what to say. He gave back a wry smile to buy time, but he was lost as to how to answer it. 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 on staying there for a few days; a week, at most. I’ll only be there overnight, I suspect.”

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

“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?”

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 at last, and tilted the book upside-down so Satou would be able to 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 first constable suggested. “Give the lady some options here.”

“Round here? There’s isn’t many… How about Clifford’s? Or Kerpal? There’s also Chase Hotel, over by the 5th.”

“5th?” The latter leaned over, sounding incredulous. “No. Read again.” He pointed on a line. “Look. It says Hatton, clearly. Chase—Chase Palace Hotel, it used to be called. You might’ve heard of it?”

“It’s the one 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, on 4th avenue. Are you sure, miss?”

“Sure,”

“If it’s the price that worries 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 at that.

Satou had other questions, of course—questions besides the hotel he had planned on asking. But, too late now, though. Having already said his farewells, 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 turned around and posed his questions quite frankly—it would’ve been a trivial thing to do—but his body for reasons of its own refused to listen to him. It was to stay stubbornly shy. Am I really going to be so reticent?

Less than half 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, Satou 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, a breather.

Next time, Satou consoled himself. I’ll ask someone else, that, next time…

Nevertheless, such seemingly trivial interactions spoke volumes as to what sort of a person he truly was; and it was clear to him now that it was going to take him a lot more effort than what he’d at first suspected to break through this stubborn mold of his. Habits don’t die off easy, do they? Not in a day, they don’t. All things considered, I did alright for someone who’s been a shut-in for… how many years has it been?

Lost in his thoughts, he was brought back when the constables beckoned him to come back—he came back—whereupon they advised him to take a cab, since, as they said, 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 though a cab would’ve known the way, got him there faster, it would’ve robbed him of the romance of sight-seeing an novel and exotic city for the first time, which, useless as it was, to Satou who valued this surreal experience deeply, was also priceless.

“Half an hour by walk,” he thought. It’ll probably be twice that, knowing me. I don’t happen to know the way… Not my brightest idea here, but… besides, if I do get thoroughly lost, I could always hail a cab. So far, I’ve seen them everywhere…

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

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

For some time, he followed the edge of an expansive gated park, walled off by ornate wrought-iron fences, too thin to slip through and too high to scale up and vault over.

Finally, when he found an entrance for it, curiosity had him, and he entered.

A stark contrast from the city, nature preserved here in all its viridescent glory—his journey though the park led him down a colonnade of lush-crowned trees—where the breeze, refreshingly cooled, funneled here to a gale, lifted his hair and flailed it all over his eyes and dry lips, 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, hedges, fountains, iron-cast gazebos, flowerbed gardens, victorian-esk conservatories; and the one he had chosen to walk down revealed at its other end a beautiful vista of a lake.

White and weathered parapet fell straight into shimmering water. One hand dusting it, Satou made his lap around the lake as he admired the ducks and swans repose; couples row in small paddleboats; an elderly man feed pigeons and doves his leftover crumbs of bread by the mossy bank; and on the other side, for some time he stood there, watching, an artist patiently take pains to capture the sun stretched-out like an obelisk onto his easel.

A tender hush came over his heart as he took it all in.

He wanted to stay here longer, if he could help it. But the exit was near in sight.

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

It took him 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 sparsely crowded 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 to stay in, not even for a night.

Cost being a concern for him higher than comfort, 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 a place could not look lavish, or extravagant at the same time? He was in another world, after all. That had to be taken into consideration.

In the end, he was non-committal.

Whatever the case was; he knew—here he was, on 4th avenue, standing in front of Mariotte Hotel: the only reason why he had come here in the first place. Expensive or not, he was at the obliged to at least check it out; and if the price was right, check in. He entered.