So we’re in Prague. It’s morning, and Mimi doesn’t want to get out of bed.

“What time is it?”

“Time to get up.”

“I need nine hours.”

“They only serve breakfast until nine thirty.”

“Then wake me at nine twenty-five,” she calls out from under the covers.

The spiders have moved into a tight circle in the corner of the ceiling. Outside, the fog has disappeared, and it sounds as though a herd of geese is on the move. But it’s only tourists, arrived on the bridge to take photographs of the city in the early light.

“I need to eat,” I tell Mimi. “You’ll have to get yourself up.”

This doesn’t even elicit a moan.

I try a different tack. “You wait too long,” I say, “and all the good stuff will be gone.”

I’ve stayed at any number of chain hotels in North America—Fairmont, Holiday Inn, Ramada, Hampton—hotels that give you a free breakfast with each reservation. In general, these offerings are breakfasts in name only. Weak coffee, gelatinous yogurt, cold-storage apples, cellophane pastries, toast with whipped butter and strawberry-jam packets, and cook-it-yourself Dixie-cup waffles.

All the nutritional value of a can of Coke.

When I had made the reservations for the Certovka, I had had the option of booking the room with breakfast or without breakfast. Since we had never been to Prague before and since I didn’t want to spend the better part of each morning looking for a restaurant, I had gone with the breakfast option.

When I get downstairs, I discover that all the tables are taken.

“Hello, hello.”

There is an older man sitting at a table by himself. Short and thin. Dark sports coat. White shirt buttoned up all the way. Silver hair combed straight back. Skin the colour of an old saddle.

“You are the Canadian, yes?” He gestures to the empty chair. “Sit, sit.”

I smile politely. “My wife is joining me.”

“However, she is still in bed. This is true, yes?”

The man’s eyes are different colours. One is blue, while the other one is gold.

“Oscar Zoraster Diggs,” says the man with a tilt of his head, so the gold eye catches the light. “But everyone calls me Oz.”

“Like the wizard.”

“Yes, of course,” says the man. “The wonderful wizard.”

“Blackbird,” I say with a nod. “Blackbird Mavrias. But everyone calls me Bird.”

“Mavrias?” says Oz. “This is Greek? Yes?”

“Yes,” I say. “My mother.”

“And Black? Bird?”

“My father,” I tell him. “Blackbird. It’s one word.”

“This is a Canadian name?”

“Cherokee. North American Indian.”

“The pass at Thermopolis,” says Oz with a wistful smile. “Little Bighorn.”

From the table, I can see the breakfast buffet. Cold meat, fruit, cheeses, breads, and what looks to be some kind of porridge.

“You must eat,” Oz tells me. “Before the tourists show up.”

“I’m a tourist.”