I nodded.

“Why didn’t we take that from the airport?”

“I find the freeway inspiring,” Sill said. “It keeps me angry.”

Eigen looked at him adoringly. Trigo rolled his eyes, then produced a bowel movement. “Do you have anything else that flies?” I asked.

Sill stopped the car and set the brake. “That’s it. I’m impressed that you’re not impressed.”

I sensed that I was supposed to be impressed by his appreciation of my lack of regard for his expensive toys. Weirdly, I was. I felt somehow manipulated.

Eigen slipped out of the car as if she and Sill had a long history. I followed them into the modern glass-and-stone mansion, into a massive, nearly unfurnished, mostly marble foyer. There was one large throne-like chair against a far wall.

We were met by a tall, broad-shouldered White servant. “Welcome home, sir,” the man said to Sill, taking his attaché case.

“Thank you, my dear DeMarcus,” Sill said. “Eigen, Wala, this is DeMarcus. He will take care of whatever you need or whatever you want, for that matter. DeMarcus, show Professor Kitu to his room.”

“Of course, sir.” DeMarcus nodded to me. “Professor.”

I followed DeMarcus through the halls to a bedroom with a veranda that looked out across the water to Miami Beach and a smaller island in the middle of the bay. I stood outside and let Trigo enjoy the sun. There was a monument of some kind on it. “What is that?” I asked.

“Flagler Memorial Island,” DeMarcus said. He had a silky-smooth English accent. “No one lives there. No one.”

“And over there?”

“That would be the Mondrian Hotel. Very posh. Many people live there. See them having fun along the beach.”

If there was resentment or even irony in his voice, I could not detect it. It was as if he were merely, dispassionately giving me information, stating empty facts.

“I assume they are all quite wealthy,” I said.

“No doubt. Will there be anything else?”

“Is there a library?”

“A rather extensive library. Would you like me to show it to you?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Very good, sir. If you need me, just call out my name. I will come.”

“Just like that?” I asked.

“Precisely like that.”

“DeMarcus.”

“Sir?”

“Your name?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Were you born with it?” I asked.

“Professor, no one is born with a name.”

“True. Did your mother give you that name?”

“Mr. Sill gave me this name.”

“I see. And this is Trigo.”

DeMarcus nodded to Trigo. “Anything else, Professor?”

“Yes. Call me Wala.”

“As you wish.” He paused. “Wala. Mr. Trigo.”

When DeMarcus was gone and my door was closed and I was seated on the plush veranda with Trigo in the morning sun, I contemplated the rather fantastic revelation that no one is born with a name. And no proper name was a rigid designator, as it seemed all too clear that there were no other possible worlds, though I might have capitulated to the notion of possible futures, allowing that no future actually existed.