The story Oz is suggesting is certainly plausible. Maybe Europe in the early 1900s wasn’t as racist as the Canadian frontier. Maybe Leroy had come to understand that working in a Wild West show was better than living under the tyranny of church and state. Maybe never seeing his family again or the land he was born to was the price of freedom.

It would have been a high price.

Oz is waiting for me when I return. “Of course, there are other stories we could tell,” he says. “Stories not so pleasant. Your uncle Leroy is a drunk. He gets into trouble with the law, and because he is a coward, he steals the medicine bundle and joins a Wild West show. In Europe, he is forced to sell the bundle for cash to support his drinking. In the end, he dies face down in a gutter in Pilsen.”

“Pilsen?”

“It’s on the way to Nuremberg.” Oz wipes his fork on the napkin. “Which of these stories should we tell?”

“Maybe we don’t need to make up a story.”

“Ah,” says Oz. “A mystery.”

“Maybe there’s nothing wrong with not knowing.”

“The imagination always wants to know.” Oz leans back and smiles. “This is why we have stories.”

“And what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“For instance,” I say, “do you live here at the hotel?”

“No one lives at a hotel. One only rents a room.”

“Okay,” I say, pressing ahead, “then who are you?”

“Which story would you like?”

“How about the Bees and the Bears?”

“Ah,” says Oz. “The Bees and the Bears. The Bees make the honey. The Bears destroy the hives of the Bees in order to take the honey. The Bees try to drive the Bears away to save their homes and food. What can be done?”

“The Bees have to organize.”

“A union of Bees.”

“The Bears are vulnerable,” I point out. “Their noses are exposed. So are their eyes and ears.”

“And each Bee who stings a Bear dies.”

“Yes.”

“And there is your answer,” says Oz. “In order to bother the Bears, the Bees must be committed beyond expectations.”

“This doesn’t sound like much of a game.”

Oz stands and buttons his jacket. “Please,” he says, handing me the newspaper, “give this to your wife with my compliments. In it is a story about the refugees that she will enjoy.”

Oz is hardly out the door before Eugene helps himself to the vacant chair. I concentrate on my breakfast and try to ignore him.

He’s right, Birdman, says Eugene. If you’re a Bee, you better be committed.

The pastry is particularly good today. Cinnamon and apple.

But you’re not committed, are you?

I may take one back for Mimi. If she can’t eat it, I will.

You just talk a good fight. Eugene spreads out in the chair, his fingers interlocked behind his head.