The Thraxton International property was a grand fantasy of a building that had its own moat, as if it were a castle. It was largely glass and metal—like all of my family’s hotels—but with baroque touches that included steel gargoyles with gleaming fangs.

Inside, I asked at the desk for the manager. It was a happy surprise when Pierre Dorval appeared, dressed in a sharp navy suit, and kissed me on the cheek. He was in his midforties and one of the most casually elegant humans I knew, with a mane of curly chestnut hair that fanned out like a halo. “I’m sorry, I know people hate that since the pandemic. But I am—what do you Americans call it—a hugger!”

“It’s good to see you,” I said, meaning it. “I had no idea you were in Berlin now.” Pierre had been managing the Thraxton hotel in Paris when I’d left the company.

“The opportunity came up a year ago, and I grabbed it,” Pierre said. “My husband is from Copenhagen, so he was thrilled. I am—what do you call it—‘living the dream.’ What brings you to Berlin?” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, Theo, I just remembered Caroline. I am so very sorry. She was the most wonderful person. The news does not feel real yet.”

“It’s been an awful time.”

“How is your little boy? He must be four now?”

“Almost. It’s been hardest of all for him.” I shifted gears quickly. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I was a student in Berlin twelve years ago. I wanted to reconnect with some people I knew then, people who worked here. I’m embarrassed to say I can’t remember their names. Could I see the personnel files?”

“Of course!” Pierre answered. He turned and spoke in rapid-fire German to the desk staff. I couldn’t follow what he was saying very well, except that some files were digitized and some were on paper. One of the desk staff headed to the back.

“Have you eaten?” Pierre asked me.

“No.” I’d forgotten about food. The last meal I’d had was the boxed breakfast on the plane. “But I’m in a hurry.”

“Of course you are. Americans are always in a hurry. It is the land of the White Rabbit—‘I’m late, I’m late, for an important date!’” Pierre shook his head. “The dining room is amazing. You have to eat here. The files will take a little bit of time. Let’s wait for them in style.”

The dining room was amazing, capped with a Byzantine dome that rivaled that of the Bode Museum’s entryway. The floor was inlaid blue mosaic tiles that shimmered like waves; as I gazed outside, directly onto the river, it felt as close to walking on water as I’d ever get.