Room 304 Has a View

It was past eleven when Marcos finally reached the hotel. His flight had landed two hours late and the taxi driver had taken the long way through the city. He set his suitcase down on the lobby floor and looked at the woman behind the desk.

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"Reservation under Marcos Soto," he said. He had practiced the sentence on the plane. The woman typed for a moment, then made a small face he could not read.

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"I am sorry," she said. "Your room is no longer available. We had a problem with the booking system. But we have one room left, on the third floor." She paused. "It has a balcony. Same price."

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Marcos took the key without arguing. The elevator was older than he was. It groaned as it climbed. When he opened the door of 304 and pushed back the curtains, the city spread out below him — rooftops, lit windows, a small square with a fountain still running.

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He stepped onto the balcony in his coat and watched two people share a cigarette by the fountain. The wind was cold. He did not move for a long time.

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