Schultz’s. Where nothing has happened or changed in decades. But tonight the atmosphere is agitated, and even Schultz himself is craning to listen as a radio mumbles through the smoke and steam. Like everyone else in this city, he’s invested money he doesn’t have on suddenly worthless shares. Just as in Constantinople during the Nika Riots, or Warsaw during the Swedish siege, or Rhineland France when the sans-culottes roved and pillaged, people are saying it’s the end of the world. But the coffee here remains pleasantly execrable, and the dimness far back amid the old boxing posters is pleasantly undisturbed.

A very long time to sit here. A very long time for a slave, a servant, a master, a figure, a follower, a predator, a client, acolyte and guest, to wait. So many sacrifices, continents, and centuries. All for the return of this one longed-for face.