I was alone in the hotel room when someone knocked on the door. My wife Paige’s employer had put her up at the Four Seasons in San Francisco, and I’d decided to tag along. I answered the door and found an Asian woman, about forty years old, short and stocky, with a smiling round face, her hair tied up, and she was asking me something, calling me Mr. Sellers, my wife’s name. I couldn’t understand her, so I said all right, do come in, no worries.

She came in and began to turn down the room with impeccable efficiency. The hotel provided a spectacular attention to detail to which I was totally unaccustomed.

She said, "Cold weather, right?"

It was January, in the evening. Paige and I were living in New York City, so to us it wasn’t really cold at all. I’d been wearing a sweater to go out, and a little blue scarf around the neck, not even bothering with the coat or gloves or knit hat. Although it had felt wintry the night before while walking to the restaurant Greens, walking through Fort Mason on a path that went in a half moon around an inlet, under the bright white lights of Ghiradelli Square. I told the Asian woman it had been cold by the water.

"Cold, yes," she said, drawing the heavy curtains.

I told her what we had encountered on the path as it rose from Aquatic Park. It was a steep path, I said. At our right was a low wall and beyond that, an abrupt incline and the water. Up ahead, there were small black shapes sort of skipping around, and further up were two men approaching from the other direction. The small animals disappeared at a break in the wall before we were close enough to see them well. The two men paused up ahead, where the animals had been. As we approached, they asked, "Did you see those skunks?"

I exclaimed, "Skunks!" I’d never encountered one. The concierge had talked us out of going to a restaurant in the Mission, west of Mission Street, because it was too dangerous. "Giuliani hasn’t come to San Francisco yet," the concierge had said. As we walked through the cold and dark Fort Mason path, where skunks prowled, we were thinking it would’ve been safer to go to the Mission.

"Skunk!" the Asian woman chortled. "Scared? No problem. Easy to catch."

I was bewildered. "You catch them?"

"Easy to catch. Use trap." She motioned the shape of a box in the air before her, then went over and tapped on the bed. "Then use sheet. Like this, see?" She lifted the bed sheet.

"What do you do with the bed sheet?"

"Hold it up, like this, see?" She held her hands up in the air. "Go like this to skunk. This way, you don’t scare it. When it gets scared, that’s bad. It sprays. But use sheet, wrap around, and tie." She pretended to approach the trap with the sheet hanging from her upraised hands, laying the sheet over the trap, and tying the corners neatly. "Then take away."

"Where do you take it?"

She smiled and shook her head. She wouldn’t say.

I wondered why she wouldn’t say what she might do with a skunk.

She gathered up the newspapers and magazines, as well as the books I’d brought, paperbacks, like the short story collection Tigers Are Better Looking by Jean Rhys, Ferlinghetti’s Love in the Days of Rage, and short stories by Paul Bowles. "That’s quite good," I said, pointing to one of the books.

She nodded and continued with the work.

That afternoon I had walked through Chinatown while Paige was hard at work at a nearby skyscraper. Browsing the shops, I’d been pleasantly surprised to see many cat figures, some comical little ceramic figures and other figures in all shapes and sizes and casting. Paige and I had cats back in New York City, two cats in our little apartment. I didn’t remember seeing so many cat figures in the Chinese shops in New York City along Canal and Mott Streets, or maybe I just hadn’t noticed. I asked her why there were so many cat figures.

"Cute, yes?" she said, smiling, attending to her work.

"Yes, but, what are they for? What does it mean, the cat?"

"You safer with a cat."

"Safer?" I laughed lightly. "From what? My wife and I have cats, and they wouldn’t be bothered to protect us from anything."

"From evil spirits," she said, moving the bookmark in the TV Guide to today’s listing, and placing the remote control and the TV Guide on the bedside table.

I stared out the window, a limited view of some modern buildings, and wondered how the cat could have become an esteemed protector in Chinese lore.

"Why do you frown, Mr. Sellers?"

"I want to understand."

"Understand the cat?"

"Well, I do think most people are capable of understanding almost anything, given some clues. I mean, the beginnings of things are apparent in retrospection, don’t you think? I was raised in an American-Irish Catholic family with lots of superstitions, I mean pious superstitions, like the Saint Christopher medallion, which someone gave to me when I was a child, though thinking about it now I can’t remember when someone gave it to me, probably at my First Communion, probably a gift from our family priest at Saint Charles Catholic church in Jacksonville, Alabama. So I’m interested in what people come to believe. Do you know about Saint Christopher?"

The woman shook her head. I wasn’t sure she was listening, but I didn’t mind because I’d been alone a lot during this time in San Francisco and was willing to talk to just about anyone, interested or not.

"He’s the patron saint of travelers, protecting against sudden death, plagues, and the like. The legend is that he was a big man carrying people across a river. There’s a story about how he ended up at the river, but the main part of it is that he was at the river and carrying people across it. When a child asked to be carried across, St. Christopher put the child on his shoulders, and with each step across the river, the child became heavier. Legend has it that the child was Christ, carrying the weight of the whole world. So, the name Christopher means bearer of Christ."

She furrowed her brow. "The cat is not like that."

"No, I didn’t think so, but you said the cat keeps evil spirits away. Why do you think that is?"

She shook her head and turned away. "No, Mr. Sellers," she said quietly, "you can not understand."

I was hurt. "Because I’m not Chinese?" It occurred to me she might be a racist.

"Have you been to China?"

"No, not yet, but I want to. My piano teacher, Ying Ying, is Chinese. She’s a concert pianist and lives now in Hong Kong with her husband, an attorney. My wife and I have a friend, Sue Ling, who lives here in San Francisco. We met her while we were living in Denver, Colorado. I’ve seen every Gong Li movie. I really have. My wife and I are huge fans. Do you like Gong Li? Did you see The Emperor and the Assassin, or To Live, or Temptress Moon? They may have different titles in Chinese. I’d be hard-pressed to say which Gong Li movie is my favorite, because they are each so moving and wonderful in their own way. Have you seen these movies?"

"No, Mr. Sellers."

"What is your name? I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Christopher, like the Saint, but only in name, actually not like the Saint at all. Just Christopher."

She paused her work and said, "An Lei," with a slight bow.

"It’s nice to meet you. I’m a writer. I write books. Well, to be clear, nothing has been published yet. It’s a tough business to break into. Anyway, that’s what I do." I glanced down at the blank sheets of paper on the desk, feeling like I wasn’t saying anything that would be interesting to her. "Does your name mean something in Chinese?"

"In Chinese, means quiet worker," she said, lightly laughing, and I laughed with her. I was elated to hear her laugh, and it was over too soon; she immediately returned to her duties.

I said, "This morning in yoga class the teacher said, ‘When you know you are nothing, that is wisdom, and when you know you are everything, that is love.’ So I’m Chinese, too, if you look at it that way."

"You are Chinese?" An Lei asked, looking at me and raising her eyebrows.

"Yes, in the sense that I’m you, you are me, and we each are everyone else, if you subscribe to that sort of thing, or at least if you comprehend it so that it feels true at that particular moment."

"I see."

"Do you?"

She shook her head. "Not sure."

"All right," I said, laughing. "I’m not so sure either. Would you like an orange?" I had a bag of oranges on the desk.

"Thank you no, Mr. Sellers."

I began to peel an orange. "They’re from Napa."

"Lot of oranges here."

"Do you like oranges?"

"Yes, Mr. Sellers."

"I do, too, especially in the morning. I mean, usually I just have toast and cereal for breakfast, but starting now I think I’d like to have an orange with breakfast, too. What do you like to have for breakfast?"

"You would not like it, Mr. Sellers."

"What is it? A rice dish?"

She smiled. "No eat breakfast."

"Ah, that’s why you’re so thin. Do you do Tai Chi for exercise?"

"No, Mr. Sellers."

"What do you do for exercise?"

"You would not like it, Mr. Sellers."

"What is it?"

"Well, I do not exercise."

"I’m surprised to hear that. Anyway, this work keeps you in top shape, I imagine."

"Sometimes." An Lei took out a tray and began to place things on it, slowly and precisely, like a folded plastic bag for laundry, a bag for shoe shine, a breakfast menu. She was silent. I knew our time together would end soon.

I sat down at the desk, leaned back in the chair, and continued to peel the orange. I said, "Today, I heard from a neighbor in our building in New York City, a small building in the Upper West Side, seven floors. At the top of the stairwell is a landing with a door to the roof. My neighbor Simon called me to say there was a new resident in our building. I asked him, Is it a mouse? No, he said, bigger. I asked, A raccoon? I was joking, of course. No, he said there was a homeless Chinese man on the landing at the top of the stairwell. Someone had been moving out, friends of ours, actually, moving to Chicago. The movers had propped open the doors, and it seems that the homeless Chinese man slipped in when no one was looking. It was Simon who found him up there. It was cold in the hall, so Simon thought the door to the roof might be open. He said he went upstairs and saw the man there, lying across some old chairs we have up there for taking out on the roof in good weather, and he had an old blanket or coat on him. Simon was surprised, naturally. He said, Hi. The Chinese man said, Hi. Simon asked him, Do you need anything? And the man only said, I’m cold. What would you do, An Lei, do you think, if you found a man like him taking refuge in your apartment building?"

An Lei said, "It’s bad, very bad, when a man has no warm house to go."

"Yes, but, what would you do?"

"I don’t know, Mr. Sellers. He cold, so I give hot tea."

"Would you really? That’s precisely what Simon’s wife Caroline wanted to do. She’s Northern Irish, and she said to Simon, I’d like to give him a cup of tea! I told Simon he shouldn’t be kind to the man. No, don’t give him any tea. He’ll only turn up again, wanting something or other."

"Oh." She paused. "Better to give hot tea, Mr. Sellers."

"Yes, you’re right, I suppose."

There was a loud knock at the door. An Lei was startled, inhaling sharply.

"I’ll get it," I said and opened the door. An Asian woman was there, very slender, stern, her lips pressed together thinly, her hair pulled tightly back. She had a clipboard and glanced at it as she said, "Mr. Sellers?"

I sighed. Apparently no one was going to get my name right. "Yes, that’s me."

She looked over my shoulder and saw An Lei. Their gaze met, and An Lei looked down quickly. She straightened the items on the tray once more, glanced around nervously, as if afraid to have forgotten something, and then she left. "Thank you," I said as she walked out. She nodded but did not speak.

"Finished now?" the woman asked as An Lei went past, her head bowed.

"Yes," An Lei said.

An Lei went down the hall. The woman looked at me again. "Is everything all right, Mr. Sellers?"

"Yes, of course. Perfect, as always."

"Just checking. Thank you." She turned to go.

"Wait," I said, and the woman turned back. "Listen, she did a perfect job turning down the room. Is she in trouble for some reason? It’s my fault if she was delayed."

"How did you delay her?"

"Talking."

The woman stared at me a moment, then said, "I see," with her thin angry lips and no warmth about her at all.

Her severe air made me very worried about An Lei. If An Lei were in trouble, I could clear it up, if only allowed to explain what had caused An Lei to be delayed. It was all my fault. "May I speak to her manager?"

"I’m her manager."

"Is she in trouble for some reason? Would it help at all if I explain?"

"It’s not your concern, Mr. Sellers." She gave me a well-rehearsed line about letting them know if my stay could be made more comfortable. "Good night, Mr. Sellers." She smiled fixedly.

"Thanks," I said. She turned away. "Bye," I said, and closed the door slowly, looking after her, feeling awkward, as if I should have said things differently. It was too late.

Or was it? I paced the room, wondering if I should write a letter, or send an email, or make a phone call on An Lei’s behalf, something to commend her. She needed one of those cat figurines to protect her from that stern woman. I stopped by the desk, startled to find orange peelings at my feet. What a mess I’d made while peeling the orange. I walked quickly to the door and realized with horror that, yes, the orange peelings were in plain view, and certainly the woman had seen them there on the carpet, and probably they, too, the mess of them, had gotten An Lei in trouble.

I picked up the phone and dialed the operator. I said I had something in regards to housekeeping to discuss with someone, if someone might be available, someone in management at the hotel. The operator suggested an appointment with the housekeeping manager, but I said I’d already spoken to her and would like to speak to someone else.

Five minutes later, I was invited into the office of the General Manager, a tall man wearing a business suit. "I report to a Regional Vice President," he said, "and he reports to a Senior Vice President of Operations. I also work closely with Regional Directors. Among other things, I’m responsible for the day-to-day hiring, training, and supervising of the employees for this property."

I asked, "How big is this hotel?"

"There are 277 rooms."

"Seems to me you have a small army of employees."

"The most qualified and experienced and highly-motivated team I’ve ever worked with."

I told him about how An Lei had turned down the room and I had delayed her. "I didn’t mean any harm," I said. "I was just talking to An Lei, and maybe it delayed her. I know you run a tight ship. I imagine you have very strict standards about doing things quickly."

"The highest standards," he said.

"I just wanted to make sure I didn’t get her into trouble. She’s really a hard worker. The room was perfectly turned down," I said, remembering the orange peelings. "Anything out of place was my own fault."

"Out of place?"

I tried to explain. "I mean, well, I was eating an orange when her manager came and I’d dropped some orange peelings by the desk and I just wanted to be sure An Lei didn’t get in trouble for leaving them there, because the orange was something I was eating while talking to her. In fact, I didn’t finish the orange until just a moment ago, well after she left."

"I see," he said, looking perplexed by my story. He shrugged and smiled. "Well, no harm done, Mr. Sellers."

"I would go so far as to say that An Lei is the best Four Seasons employee my wife and I have encountered, and could be commended by your hotel, recognized in some way. My wife works for a bank, you see," and I mentioned the bank by name, "and she’s in senior management, a management consultant. She comes here on business from time to time." The information about Paige wasn’t entirely accurate, but it sounded good.

I left the hotel and went for a stroll up Grant Street toward the Chinatown gates. The sun had set and the streets glowed with city light. I didn’t know where to go. I wanted to sit down and think. I didn’t want to sit inside. I didn’t want a coffee or pastry. I found myself sitting on a bench in a small neighborhood park across from Old St. Mary’s church, with a view of pagoda-roofed buildings. I leaned back, hands on the back of my neck and elbows out, and gazed at the graffiti and decay of the buildings on the backside of Grant Street, feeling as if I, too, were being neglected by the world around me, and decaying, decaying quietly, ever so gradually and no one was noticing. After a little while on the bench, it occurred to me I was going to fall asleep there if I didn’t get up and walk around.

I went back to the hotel room. I was thinking I just might find something to write about when I put the pen in my hand. I pulled off the scarf and knocked off my shoes. I looked at the desk, the pen and papers, and I froze, shocked to realize someone had been there. I picked up the top sheet of paper. Someone had sketched a cat, sitting upright, tail curled around, and at the bottom of the page had written "thank you and good luck with your book – An Lei."

I looked around but of course she wasn’t in the room. I folded the sketch gently and put it in my wallet. I decided to carry the cat with me, to keep me safe from evil spirits.

I didn’t see An Lei again, though I’d hoped to. I’d completely forgotten about her until a few months later back in New York City on a snowy, slushy day, at a pretzel stand on a corner of Lexington near Bloomingdale’s. I was in line for a pretzel. I had my wallet out, and came upon the folded piece of paper. I unfolded it gently. In an instant, I remembered everything that had happened, feeling warmed by the memory, and I lost my place in line as I stood there staring at the cat, wondering what An Lei might be doing at that moment, hoping she was doing all right in San Francisco, and had they commended her as I’d hoped they would, and had the cat been keeping me safe from evil spirits?

There must’ve been a hole in the street. I didn’t see the hole. My back was to the street. But I heard the wheel of a heavy truck plunge into the hole, and I heard the terrible splash, and I sensed the wave of muddy slush rise up toward me. There was nothing I could do but just begin to raise my arm as the wave fell with a splashy thud upon me, across my arm, my back, my head. I stood still in mute shock, dripping mud, my arm upraised. A moment later, the world around me began moving again, noisily, traffic and people, and I suppose it only seemed like everything had stopped in that instant.

I looked down at the sketch in my hands. There was slush all over it, smearing the ink, soaking into the paper. Apparently, An Lei’s cat wasn’t protecting me. She’d said I couldn’t understand how it would, and I had come to accept that as true although I wish I’d had more time with her to explore our cultural differences. I dropped the ruined sketch and the superstition and the mystery into the trash can on the corner, and went on my way up that New York City street, my lips moving as I prayed a silent Hail Mary for An Lei.