The staff behind the reception desk greeted him politely, but when with a smile he was told the cost,

  “Two-fifty a night?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Satou made no hesitation to excuse himself and leave.

  Two-fifty a night! Just as he’d suspected: Mariotte Hotel were not for the likes of him!

  Not even five minutes in, and he was out. He asked the doorman as he came out what the time was:

  “Excuse me. Yes—the time? Thank you.”

  Half-past six, he was told. What the hell should I do now?

  His stomach grumbled. No problem, he thought. One thing at a time. First things first, he was hungry. He wanted to go get something to eat; and he might as well do it before he got back to looking for a hotel. Fortunately for him, his eyes didn’t have to wander far from where he stood, as 4th Avenue seemed home to plenty of catering services. Any one was fine, but he chose to enter one: a homely-looking bakery, whose doors led him in to a warm aroma of freshly baked breads.

  But even here, the pangs of a miser were not to leave him.

  He read the prices on the pies, the pastries, the wafers, the biscuits, and the cakes, and he winced.

  Does everything in this city cost too much, or am I just poorer than I thought?

  He asked for the cheapest one they had on an offer: a plain white sandwich at half its price.

  He handed over one of his notes, worth a hundred.

  A lady in white, black apron tied around her waist, came over and slid his money away.

  Satou waited, listlessly staring at his soon-to-be evening meal, waiting for it get taken out of its tray.

  Instead, with a thump his money came back.

  “Ma’am, you’ve given me riyals.”

  “…Pardon?”

  “You’ve given me riyals, ma’am. Entis riyals? You have to pay in ducats.”

  He didn’t understand at first. But then slowly it began to dawn on him: He had a wrong currency! But why? Why did he have riyals, and not ducats? This, too, began to set in. He was never meant to be here, was he? No. He was never meant to be here, but on board that—train. Little wonder, then, why all of his notes had been so fresh.

  This was not good. This was not good at all.

  Forget the hotel, if he didn’t have any ducats, wasn’t he effectively broke?

  As he slid his riyals back, he felt helpless. What the hell do I do now?

  “Do you, not have it?”

  The sudden appearance of a voice brought him out of his train of thought. He remembered where he was again: in a public-space, a bakery, where the staff were watching him, waiting for him to pay up, with a direct line of sight to his wallet.

  “I-ah, brought the wrong wallet.” Satou lied. He felt wrong to do it, but also forced. Yet fortuitously, it gave him both an excuse and the courage to ask her frankly: “Would you happen to know where I could get them exchanged?”

  “You mean, a bank?”

  A bank, of course! Where else would you exchange currencies!

  “Yes,” Satou nearly exclaimed. A tone louder and glances might’ve fallen on him. “Is there one nearby?”

  The woman smiled apologetically. She shook her head. No, she didn’t know. But at least now he knew what he ought to do next. With an empty stomach, empty-handed, he left the bakery, and noticed on his skin, on his face, and on the back of his neck just how the world outside had grown perceptibly colder. Or maybe not. No, it was probably just that the bakery had been warm inside. But the evening had deepened, surely, and nightfall seemed just around the corner.

  At an intersection he waited for his turn to cross the road. A tram came gonging along, and when he closed his eyes he felt himself sway. He was tired, he realized. He yawned with a fist covered over his mouth, and his ears rang sharply when the constable manning the traffic blew his whistle. The crowd began to move, and dragged along he went, from 4th avenue to the 5th, looking for a bank. Supposedly there was on there; or so he was told. But when he got there, he didn’t find it.

  Did I take a wrong turn? He very well could’ve.

  He asked a lady—a florist closing the doors to her flower-shop—where this bank was.

  “Why, take a right and you should see it. But you needn’t bother, dear. It’s closed.”

  It never is simple, is it?

  He brooded over it what to do now, and got what seemed like a brilliant idea at first struck him.

  “Excuse me,” he started. “I was wondering if you could help me?”

  He proposed to exchange riyals with her for ducats. “I’ll repay you, of course! Maybe, tomorrow?”

  “I’m sorry dear, but what do you suppose I do with it? I have no use for riyals!”

  “I—” He had nothing to say to that, he realized. It was a hopeless cause if she did not want to help him. But his despondent look must’ve done something, because the florist’s motherly plump face softened with sympathy. “Well, I suppose I could… How much?”

  “A hundred riyals, if it’s alright with you.”

  “A hundred?”

  “—Yes?”

  “If you took me well-off then I’m sorry to disappoint. Five, girl, is all I have. Take it or leave it.”

  “I—well—look…” Satou pulled out his wallet and showed it to her. “All I have are in hundreds.”

  The florist leaned in. Her eyes grew with evident surprise. “Might I ask why you are carrying so much sum?”

  “I,”

  “Nevermind. Rude of me to prod. But a hundred? I’m sorry, dear. I want to help you. Really, I do. But even if could…”

  Guess it’s still to the bank after all. He wasn’t too dismayed by it though. It had always been a shot in the dark; but a shot he had to take. At least now he knew that he wasn’t poor at all. Just, neutered… What was the right word?

  “Besides,” Apparently the florist wasn’t done. “Even if you could find someone willing. Taking-handing so much sum. It’s no crime, no; but it’s dubious, won’t you say? There are better ways of going about these thing. Proper ways.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind…”

  “And—”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Someone interrupted. A man’s voice.

  “O’ everything’s alright, officer.” The florist replied. “The young lady here wanted to know her way to the bank.”

  “It’s closed, I’ve been told,” Satou added.

  “You mean that bank?” The officer vaguely pointed somewhere behind his back. “We had to shut it for the day. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “Why, something happen officer?” The florist asked.

  The officer returned a humorous smile. “No, nothing at all, in fact. That’s why it has been a nightmare, for us lot, that is.” He turned to face Satou, met eyes, and leaning forward slightly with a genial smile, said to him: “You were trying to get to a bank, miss? It’s a bit far, this one. But maybe I could drive you there?”

  Satou did not immediately reply. He felt a little trepid of this man, whose clothes reminded him of the secret police, though the man himself had been affable so far; or at the thought of accepting such hospitality. Hitchhiking with a stranger—he had never done it before. Nothing came close to it. But the florist had called him an ‘officer’. Did he really have a reason to be wary of someone from the law? No, not at all. On the contrary, he would be safer. Thus, he decided.

  “We can set off right away, officer.” Satou said, with a polite smile.

  “Great!” The officer exclaimed.

  “I should set off as well,” the florist added. “Time flies, does it not? Take care, you two. Especially you, lass.”

  The three of them parted ways. The florist seem to have a good impression of him, or rather, her. Satou obediently trailed behind the officer at arms length and on the way they passed by the bank, which was indeed closed.

  “Is it far?” Satou asked.

  “Hmm? No, not that far. Ten, fifteen minutes. I could get you there in five, if you’re in a hurry.”

  Satou smiled. “Ten is fine,”

  After the bank, it was back to looking for a hotel. The officer could give him pointers for that. If all went well, he could hope to be snugly settled in a room before midnight, or even dinnertime. Here’s to hoping, anyways. Everything was coming together like a puzzle solved; but whether it would be so, he could only cast his hopes ahead.

  “That’s our ride.”

  At the end of the officer’s outstretched arm was a black car, parked at the other side of the road. Shaped like a beetle, it reminded him of cars that you would see in noir films. The windows were slightly thicker than what he had expected was usual, which gave it a sense of being armored, heavier than it probably was.

  The officer opened the back-seat door for him—

  “Thank you,”

  —and closed it once his passenger got in.

  Faint whiffs of tobacco wafted by as soon as Satou settled down. He felt a little queer to be treated so gentlemanly, almost like a lady, and he wasn’t sure how he ought to feel about it. The thought made him somewhat self-conscious: Do I sit with my legs folded, or no? But what concern was it of the officer, who would have his eyes set on the road?

  Once the officer got in, the car started without much of a noise or a hitch. It ran much better than what one would’ve expected of something so vintage. It wouldn’t lose to my mom’s Audi. There was also what looked to be a radio in the car, with analog dials and a meter inbetween, but the officer did not turn it on, much to his passenger’s disappointment.

  Only now, while the officer had his eyes set on the road did Satou find it appropriate to get a better look at his helper: who looked young to be an officer, if he was any judge—probably in his early-20s—around the same age as him, then; who, without his service cap on looked much less intimidating; though the militaristic cast was still there from his whole apparel.

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  A brief congestion at a checkpoint slowed them down to a halt; but unlike the other cars, they weren’t inquired at all. The constable on-duty, when he saw just who sat behind the wheels raised his hand to a quite yet firm salute. The uniform had served as their passport, and the officer returned the honors likewise, but did so languidly, without much of the same zeal.

  “All’s good. Forward!” The constable shouted, and off they went.

  Satou had his interest piqued. It was one thing to let them pass, but another entirely to also express respect, genuine or otherwise. The social dynamics at play was what intrigued him here. He wondered if there was any sincerity behind the constable’s salute, or if the man had done so out of convention’s sake.

  When the checkpoint vanished behind a building, Satou asked: “What do you do, officer?” and immediately regretted it, or regretted having phrased it that way, because he realized, too late, that he could very well be asked the same question in turn.

  The officer looked at him from the rear-view mirror. “ISB-C,” he said; and flipped his coat flap aside. A silver badge was there, hooked to his belt; and above it, a service revolver, in its holster. “Crisis Control Bureau. I was a sleuth before that.”

  “Must be nice,” Satou remarked, shifting in his seat, leaning in closer.

  “It’s hard work.”

  “What sort?”

  “Cultists. Demons. Those sort.”

  Eyes met in the rearview mirror, and Satou returned a non-committal smile, unsure if the officer was telling the truth or just playing with him. Feeling awkward, he leaned back and tried to pay attention to the scenery outside. A haze of storefronts and residential buildings fleeted by in a blur, but with his mind entirely elsewhere he saw none of it.

  Ten, fifteen minutes later, the bank finally came into view. He could not help but think it looked like a parliament building.

  “Thank you for the lift.”

  “Not yet. I’ll drop you off at the front. What did you want to do here anyways, if I might ask?”

  “Exchange riyals.”

  “I see,” the officer nodded. “You aren’t from Ednin.” The tone of it: It wasn’t a statement. It was a question.

  Satou wasn’t sure how to answer it. Was he or was he not from Ednin? He didn’t know. How could he know? ‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’ was his answer; but did not want to come off as sly. So he said instead: “What do you think, officer?” which to him had at first sounded more like a neutral non-answer. But as soon as he said it, he realized, too late, just how much they rang of affirmation. Wielding a voice he wasn’t familiar using, he had inadvertently come off as somewhat ironic, haughty, femme fatale, even. He hoped that it was just him overthinking things.

  “I should think you aren’t,” the officer said. “Your accent.”

  So people can tell, Satou thought. Or at least a sleuth can. And here he thought he was doing so well. The body remembered what he did not even know. His pronunciation had so far been impeccable, as far as he could tell. Then was it his phrasing that was a bit clunky, in need of work? Is that it?

  The car grinded to a halt next to the curb. Satou got out and shut the door behind him, when suddenly he remembered:

  “Er, will you be leaving, or waiting?”

  “Would you like me to wait, miss?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry for the bother.”

  “Not at all, I asked to help. Take as long as you need.”

  “That’s true. I’ll be quick, then.”

  The bank he entered did not disgrace its outside. The lofty dome and its distant hallways echoed with hushed voices, and Satou briskly made his way to one of the counter that had the shortest queue. When his turn came, he told the clerk why he was here. The clerk asked him if he was registered at the bank. He told him no. The clerk then asked him for his papers.

  “My papers?”

  “Yes, your identification papers.”

  Apparently, this was something he needed to show if he wanted to exchange currencies. In hindsight, it should’ve been obvious; but then again, he wasn’t worldly. Such mistakes were bound to happen; but the fact that it happened to him here of all places, when he could not afford any more setbacks, was more than disheartening.

  “I don’t, have it on me,” he confessed.

  The bespectacled clerk looked up from his paperwork. There was scrutiny in his, eyes under which Satou felt his pride take a hit. “Then I’m sorry miss. But I can’t help you otherwise.” In the face of clear-cut regulations, what room was there for words? He didn’t know what to say. Dejected, he turned on his heels and quietly left the bank.

  Outside, as he made his way down the stairs, the officer hailed him from the other side with a friendly wave. He was leaning on the side of his car, pulling out a cigarette case from one of his inner coat-pockets. “You were done quick,” the officer greeted, once Satou was close enough to hear. “Would you like one?”

  Cigarettes? He could use one right now; except, he had never smoked before. “No, but thank you very much.”

  “Where would you like me to take you next, miss?” The officer asked him very formally; but in this context, it was mock.

  Satou did not share his humor though; he couldn’t. He said nothing, instead being awfully quiet. Inwardly, he struggled over whether to confide or not, since, as far as he could tell, he had run out of options. “Well… about that,” He decided to tell him. Once he made sure they wouldn’t be overheard, he told the officer what had happened to him but with a yarn spun: of how he had not been able to exchange his riyals because he had misplaced his identifications papers. That—

  The officer lit his cigarette loosely hanging from his lips, not with a lighter or a matchstick, but with a flick of his fingertips.

  Satou almost slurred on his words as he saw it.

  Right in front of him, as though it were something trivial, commonplace, nothing to be impressed about or worth mentioning, the officer had conjured up a flame out of thin air!

  The office raised his eyes, noticing the sudden silence. Now Satou noticed it too. He tried to go on, but what had he meant to say? He had forgotten it. “Well, that’s how it is. I thought I had it on me, then,”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Yes.”

  The officer returned his cigarette, still unlit, back in its case, and the case back in his coat-pocket. “You got yourself in some trouble,” he said. “It’s a serious offense, losing your papers, that is, if you are a foreigner. I assume you are. You could get yourself a temporary one at your consulate, but that would do you no good with the banks. They don’t accept those.”

  “You say—a serious offense?”

  “If you are a foreigner.” The officer pointed out the important part. “Jail time. But it wouldn’t go that far with you, I highly doubt it. It will, however, cost you a hefty fine: five hundred ducats, which isn’t including the cost for a replacement; and the paperwork is, well… How shall I put it. It could take you up to a week, or five minutes.”

  The talk about costs suddenly reminded him of why he had come here in the first place.

  “About the fine… I had this other problem,”

  “Before that, do you remember when you last had it?”

  “Ah-I… My identification papers?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “…” There was only one thing he could do here, and that was guess. “King’s Crossing? I’m not so sure at all, officer.”

  “When was this?”

  “Midday, I should think.”

  “Not too late… Not too late at all…”

  “…So,”

  “I can help you, certainly. I reckon I could have your papers back by… tomorrow noon? Will that be alright?”

  “Sure,”

  “How shall I contact you? Are you staying at a hotel?”

  “No, I haven’t decided yet. I still have to look for a place to stay.”

  “Why, this late?”

  “Unfortunately,” Satou returned a wry smile, feeling abashed. “It’s been a busy day.”

  The officer smiled, sympathetic at his plight. “Well, I shall find you anyhow.” How the officer meant to do this or how he meant to find his papers, Satou didn’t ask. Instead, he said: “About my, other trouble, I had mentioned earlier.”

  The officer shifted the leg he was leaning on, and waited.

  “You see—I don’t have any ducats on me.”

  The officer nodded. Then said: “You lost your billfold.”

  “No! No! I—It’s better if I show it to you.” As he had done so with the florist, Satou took out his wallet from his back-pocket, and laid its contents bare. “Riyals—all. It’s why I came here. To exchange them, I,”

  His stammer was met with an amused smile: ones you would give to a child. “Tell me what happened, from the start.”

  And so Satou did. He paused first, to catch his breath, then in a fit of volubility recounted the journey he had toiled so far, patiently, still, but with a yarn spun: of how he had missed the train he was meant to board, had then gone to book a hotel, only to realize, as he was about to pay for a room, that earlier that day he had exchanged them all for riyals, sending him back out to the street to look for a bank, only to find it then closed, till here he was, having met him, talking with him. All this Satou recounted to the officer, but he kept it as vague as he could so that nothing would come back to bite him—

  “Mariotte Hotel? Do they have qualms with taking riyals now?”

  —But bite him back it did.

  Hotels, especially established ones, accepting foreign currencies as payment—I could’ve done that this whole time?!—Like a headless chicken, had he been running around the city for hours on end, so distraught, in such hurry, when he could’ve simply gone back and paid for a room all this time? “I, might’ve been too hasty to leave. I didn’t get so far as to pay, and,”

  The officer chuckled. “Excuse me, but I was being facetious. I didn’t mean anything by it. You wouldn’t know it, I suppose, but Mr. Wilbur, the fifty-one year old magnate who owns Mariotte Hotel happens to be very outspoken about his views in the press, that… Well, to cut the matter short: Mr. Wilbur is someone whom you’d call a staunch secessionist. When the government a few months prior decided to adopt the view that Ednin should forego a medley of things that had to do with his sibling to the west—such as to cede all domestic use of riyals entirely—Mr. Wilbur made himself quite the public figure for a comment of his on the matter. Which is to say that he was satirized to no end for it.”

  “That,” Satou had lost the officer somewhere in the middle; but what he did catch was that riyals were banned in Ednin; which is to say—if this was of any solace—that he hadn’t entirely wasted his time looking for a bank. “Sorry, but—sibling?”

  “Entis. The Holy Entis Empire.”

  “Ah,” Likely the land of riyals. Sounds like a theocracy.

  “We’ve gone off-track,” the officer brought up.

  “Ah-yes, yes we have.”

  “Anyhow, I’m glad to hear the bank rejected you.”

  “Wh-why?”

  “Because, miss, you would’ve been robbed in broad daylight! The tax levied on the exchange of ducats to riyals might not be much, but that’s not the case the other way around. A hundred riyals… It would’ve been—”

  “Alot?”

  “Yes. You’ll have to ask someone else for the exact rates. It escapes me. But it was exorbitant, no matter how kindly you tried to put it. It was meant to be, you see. It’s also nothing new under the sun.” He waved his hand, as if to shoo this whole topic aside. “I’m sure everything will go back to how it was in the coming months.”

  As for what was of import: if the rates were really that high, high enough to be labeled ‘exorbitant’, then it made sense as to why the florist had been suspicious of him. Did she really think I was trying to cheat her? To avoid this—tax cut? ”And you, officer? What about you? What do you think about Entis?” Satou asked.

  The officer shone him a knowing smile. “I try to keep my views domestic, miss. In my line of work, the less geopolitics the better.” He deftly changing the topic: “As for your money issue, I have thought of something. I suggest you keep your riyals with you for the time being. Meanwhile, I’m sure His Majesty’s Government will be more than willing to lend you a hand. If it isn’t much to ask, I’ll have to ask you to come with me to the station to sign some IOUs. Make sure to repay back the ducats we’ll lend you once you’re less broke.”

  Suddenly, there it was! Hope! “Thank you,” Habit almost came over him, and he almost bowed. Almost. He caught himself before he could do it, realizing just how far from the norm it would’ve seemed to the officer, who was far from oriental.

  “Well that resolves that. Anything else?”

  “…” Satou gave it some thought. Nothing. Nothing at all. “I think, that’s all of it. Other than the fact that I’m quite hungry, and also parched. Do you happen to have a bottle of water in the car, officer?”

  The latter chuckled, amused. “Might I propose something better?”

  “Please,”

  “It seems we’ll be together for some time.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “You don’t have any other plans for tonight, do you?”

  “No, I—sightsee, maybe, if there’s still some time left.”

  “Then how about we do this? Let’s get this issue of yours sorted out first. Then, afterwards, to call it even,”—Here, a tactful pause, for dramatic effect—“Perhaps you could let me take you out on a dinner—just the two of us?”

  He’ll even treat me, Satou felt grateful; but then, Is he…

  Satou felt his whole body flare up; heat that crawled underneath his skin.

  “I, dinner? Why, that’s,” he sounded strangled, unnaturally deep, as if it was taking him great effort to think and speak at the same time. “I can’t, be, spending, much, as you know, since I’ll be on borrowed money, and all that… Besides,”

  “And why should a lady pay?” The officer asked. He had meant it rhetorically; but when Satou did not answer and only dumbly stared, a prolonged silence ensued. This was the first time Satou had look at the officer, straight in the eyes.

  The officer let out a restrained chuckle, and tried to hide himself blush.

  Satou felt his chest tighten with dread.

  “Anyhow,” the officer continued. “How would you like it if I took you out to Café Angelas? Have you heard of it? I’m sure you’ll—ah. Hah. All this time, and we haven’t even introduced ourselves.”

  “Enza.” Of all the names he could’ve said, why did he utter that?

  “A lovely name… Alec.” The officer let his hand hang.

  Satou reached for it—took it—and shook it awkwardly, like someone who had never shaken a hand before. Only now did it dawn on him that the officer had been wooing him. For the first time he saw what the officer had being seeing all this time: A young woman, a foreigner, lovely and demure, shaking hands with him, a damsel in distress for whom he was more than willing to play knight-errant. He had asked her for dinner. The night was still young. They would have plenty of time still to get well-acquainted with, and him to impress her further. And then what? What came next?

  Satou felt the ground beneath his feet slip away.

  The officer held the door for him to enter. “Shall we, Enza?” To hear that name be uttered made his blood run cold. He looked at the officer, revealing no warmth, no recognition whatsoever, like he were looking at a stranger. He did not move. Instead, he stood there, tongue-tied, petrified, far away, and felt himself sink deeper and deeper to someplace he would deeply regret to be in. He had to refuse! He had to do—something! But a part of him seemed to have already resigned itself to its fate: to let whatever happen happen and pray that it did not. All of this was too much. When he saw the officer about to say something—that was the final straw. He cut the officer off before he could say it.

  “Excuse–me–”

  His voice, so faint, trailed off to a whisper. A feeble attempt, perhaps, at a confused apology, an excuse, a plea.

  As he walked away, he dared not look back. He felt eyes on the back of his neck. His heart raced. He was afraid, afraid that the officer would call him back, grow bold enough to come up to him and grab him by the arm. What would he do if the officer caught up to him and grabbed him by the arm? Satou realized that he would do nothing; that he would freeze and stand there like some helpless prey. He braced himself for the worst. Nothing happened.

  Soon he was alone; but the eyes on the back of his neck did not leave him for a very long time. Farther and farther into the city he wandered on, until night fell over him. Only then, did the extent of what he had dawn on him.

  He wished he were dead.