Mr. N could no longer clearly recall what led him to leave his beloved balcony and check into this hotel. And were it not for the mutual affection he shared with the hotel manager, Mr. Andrew, and his prodigious attachment to Miss Zahra, who cared for him and served him with such self-sacrifice and devotion, he wouldn’t have been able to overlook all the inconveniences of life here, chief among which was his neighbor’s constant quarreling with his mute wife, and his other neighbor across the hall, an elegant and confused woman who never stopped inviting him to dinner. To say nothing of the noise from the floor below, where the guests took their meals—all except Mr. N, who insisted on having his food alone in his room.

In fact, Mr. N was feeling a pang in his stomach. He wished he could dive into a bowl of mushroom and saffron risotto, like the ones he used to order from Saleem, the maître d’ in the Albergo Hotel Restaurant, preceded by a mozzarella salad with slices of sun-dried tomatoes, pickled cardamom, and olive oil. He turned to the clock: 10:25. He still had some time before Miss Zahra brought him lunch at noon on the dot. No matter. He would pour another cup of tea to suppress his hunger, or he would read his books and nap a while.

———

Mr. N jolted out of his nap like a madman, frightened and wet with perspiration. He had seen himself as a colt running across a broad plain, thick with tender grass, happy and free, caressed by the wind. He was racing his shadow, which ran across the ground beside him. But then the world went black, and he was thrown to the dirt. Legs bound, he struggled to rise. There was a crackling of fire and sizzling iron, and he let out a whinny in case someone might hear him and come to his aid. But all that came was a red-hot iron on a long metal pole, burning into his thigh. He, the colt, was pressed against the ground as the smell of seared flesh filled his nostrils. When he turned his head, he saw that a large letter N had been branded at the top of his leg.