In the morning, Weng looked out at the city. He had never been
so high up, and imagined how useful it would be

to have a pair of binoculars.

“Hello, is this Reception?”

“Yes, Mr. Fun, what can we do for you?”

“How do you know my name?”

“I can see it when you call, Mr. Fun, but if it upsets you,

I’ll pretend that you’re nobody. Do you recognize my voice, sir?”

“Your voice?”

“It’s the porter from last night! How does the room look

this morning? Still magnificent?”

“Yes,” Weng said, looking at the clothes he had begun to hang
from his suitcase, “I was calling to see if you had any binoculars
or a telescope I could borrow?”

“A wise and original request,” the porter said.

They arrived ten minutes later on a silver tray,

and Weng spent the rest of the morning looking out at Ningbo
from the 186th floor.

All those people, he thought,

and not a single one who knows or cares
that I am here or anywhere.