"No, Mrs. A Mrs. Evan Winters."

"I'm sorry, I keep telling you there's no one here by that--" the girl at the desk kept talking. I had passed the woman in the hall. She had had the most amazing green eyes, eyes which skewered me, held mine to them, and kept me from seeing if the rest of the body was as amazing. I overheard bits of the conversation from the lobby, where I was browsing over the many delights of the gift shop.

The name almost sounded familiar, but no, it was just the season. She had a child in tow, a boy with sandy blonde hair, and the light blue eyes so common to that complexion. He was maybe four or five, wearing a plain white shirt, gray shorts, and black tennis shoes. I almost felt disappointed that his tennis shoes were so normal, that they didn't light up as he moved around in glee, with no stickers or cartoons on them. Maybe he wasn't hers; he seemed to be on his own mission as young boys often are, especially if I remembered my own youth. He was waiting for the girl at the desk, who identified herself as "Sarah."

He kicked at the stand which held free papers. His eyes met mine for a moment, and incongruous with his cherubic features, they looked old. Like the faded eyes of a man who had seen many years. I shivered. It's like a secret children have; an inner mischief, an essence of implied reincarnation that gives them experience without wisdom. I remembered it in my little girl, how sometimes she would say, "You're so silly!" with her expression alone. How would she have known? I complained to my wife that there was no basis for comparison.

"You're so silly," she replied, as was inevitable.

I listened to Sarah and the check-out procedures with half an ear. "...But you can never leave," I hummed with amusement. That song is too overplayed. I moved deeper into the shop, looking at the wines. I looked at the ornaments, and the thin glasses with which to drink spirits. "Spirits," I snorted. I looked at the shirts, proclaiming the name of the place in serif fonts. "Seraph fonts," I muttered to myself, thinking of angels. My hand hovered over a chess set.

"How much?" I asked the woman who was stocking the wines. She had a smattering of freckles, and she smiled as I came near. It wasn't too much, but it was more than I wanted to pay for it. I thanked her and wandered out, brushing past a young man with a mop and a bucket on my way to my room. I breathed the sweet and sour smell of the winery in through my nostrils, and then back out as if through my skin. I loved this place.

I missed my little girl.

I opened the suitcase and brought out the pictures. I had only taken a few of them, the ones where she was almost sleeping. The first photographer who we took her to had captured her smile, and the way her eyes shone in the light. Her eyes were that odd colour of green that could be blue or brown or even gray but always managed to still be green. Hazel, her mother called it. I sat with them for a few minutes, then put them away, under the suits. Suits. I even had a tuxedo.

Time to be a businessman, on business.

Flyers from the conference flew out as I rearranged the case. A fancy one on bright orange, suggesting a circus. Blue, red, black on red, yellow, pink with "Karaoke" on it, a handful of business cards with elegant lettering. I gathered them together, sticking them into the top pocket. I recalled the teasing I had done with the security agent at the airport, suggesting that papers could be more dangerous than explosives. They were good natured about it. Words could be powerful. Words could bring down economies, countries, marriages...I shook my head, pulling out my notebook.

"There are secret languages," I wrote. "A thousand different meanings to the words spoken, if only one is to hear them."

A knock on my door interrupted me.

I picked up my book, and let the housekeepers in to straighten the bedclothes and replace the towels. I decided to head over to the restaurant. I sat myself, according to the sign, and read the daily specials. Nothing on the menu looked less than delicious. I considered the steak. It wasn't too much, but it was more than I wanted to pay for it.

A trio of ladies crossed to a table near me. I couldn't help myself, but I looked at their fingers for wedding rings. Not desperate, just a little lonely, and trying to get into the habit of my bachelor days. It was like when we bought the house, and I had to train my eyes to stop finding the "For Sale!" signs. Signs. I wrote the word down in my book. There was another one of the nouns of the secret language. "Sign language," I said aloud. I wrote that down, too.

"I recommend the french onion soup," the waiter suggested to the lady on the left. The middle-aged one with the short black hair streaked with silver. She suggested something in return that had the younger blonde lady next to her laughing with genuine mirth. The waiter waited patiently, not seeming to find it a matter of amusement.

"Commend and recommend," I wrote in my book. I stared at the blue lines evenly stacked across the page, then at the dying plants whose corpses decorated my table. A moment later, the waiter, looking somewhat pale, came to me with a ready pen. I took my chance and ordered. With a glance at my watch I called the waiter back and ordered another plate. "For your partner, sir?" he asked.

Of sorts, of sorts. A clever term for it. "Partner," I wrote in my book, nodding. Maybe a taste of wine, I considered. I listened to the ghostly echoes of a little girl telling me I shouldn't drink it. It made mommy unhappy.

It wasn't the wine, I told the ghost. After all, blessed is the fruit of the vine. It was something else. It was a word. She could have forgiven me an opportunity wasted, or an indiscretion. I had paid too much for the word. A "bargain," made with my employer.

He came in, then, Mr. Rhinearson. He looked around for a moment, a whiny voice aggravating the ear of the staff. He was shown to my table, on cue with our food.

"You ordered wine, of course?" he asked, presumptious. He pulled things towards him, grasping at silverware ("Silver ware," I wrote) from my side of the table. He took the salt, and the pepper. He took a bite, as if even in that act he was snatching at things, grasping. His moustache was pencil-thin and his eyes were watery. "You read the proposal? Isn't it fabulous? Fun, friendly," his hands went up as if in a bad melodrama, "fish! Much more interesting than your average tank, and it's completely mobile. Mobility is a hot word these days! Yes, give me a glass of your, oh, I don't know, a chablis? What do you have that's any good? Some of that, then. Just a glass. Put it on the bill. So, as I was saying, the fishbowl is a time-honoured shape. We're just updating it. And making fish fun! None of that just bobbing around and sometimes you overfeed them and they bloat and you have to flush them down. You feel like you're actually making contact with the fish. This is really good steak. Did you try the mashed potato with truffles? Is it any good? I'll just take a bite. Yeah, that's good. So, my prototype includes fish-o-rama, which has, get this, goldfish-sized miniature balls in the larger one, providing additional stimulation. I wanted to use betas, you know, fighting fish, for more interaction."

I pretended to make notes. The older woman at the other table winked at me, I think in sympathy.

Mr. Rhinearson finally quieted. "So? Your investors willing?" He waited for me.

It wasn't too much, but it was more than I wanted to pay for it. I made a counter offer, and passed him my business card. The blank one. His cellular phone started buzzing, a sound as annoying as any I'd heard.

I took care of the bill as Mr. Rhinearson took a phone call. Business would take me away from here. I'd write more of the secret languages. I'd study them, and find a way out of this. Someday I'd be free. A little girl with green eyes was waiting for me.

• Silverware And Chablis