As he drove by the sign marking the limit of the village, Galen compulsively shifted his gaze to the mirror. This side of the sign provided the same information as the other, except the word had a slash through it, to indicate one was leaving town. Sept, the metal plate bluntly maintained. Out in the middle of nowhere, a village bearing his own surname. What were the odds?

The road had followed a rushing Alpine stream for the past twenty kilometers or so, venturing deeper into the mountains than his ambling path had previously carried him. The village lay in a wider area of the canyon, its thirty-odd structures located along both sides of the stream. Two parallel streets joined by a bridge appeared to be the extent of Sept's road plan.

Sept. The village was pristinely beautiful, contrary to the way those four letters had served Galen in his youth. Septic Tank they had called him in middle school; in high school it had been a more concise Septic. The handle had been used by all save one, a girl who wrote poetry and told him how insecure he was behind his handsome face. To Ginger he was September. Funny that he should think of her now, funny that he should think of school, for these belonged to that taboo place, the past. When his wife, Laura, walked out after four years of marriage, he had decreed the past a place not to be visited. Laura had told him she needed to go home to be with her family, but he knew it was forever. He knew what being abroad had done to each of them. The sense of setting had nearly consumed him, to the alienation of her. The sense of distance had gotten her, to the alienation of him.

That sense of setting was at its peak now as he pulled into a space that might have been reserved for him. A lovely, gnarled chestnut tree stood between his car and a painted footbridge over the stream. Beyond the bridge, chimneys poured smoke into the nippy afternoon air. Beyond the roofs of the houses, golden unharvested fields lapped at the base of a steep fir-covered slope. To his right stood a small church, stained glass windows narrow and arched in its rough yellow wall. Galen looked at his watch, wondering if he need go any further than this village today. Four o'clock resounded no--as if the time of day might really be a factor when the gods had brought him here to a village by his own name.

Stepping out of the car, he looked around for the inevitable Gasthaus, staple of central European villages. He spotted the friendly structure on the other side of the street, near the motorist bridge. He left the car where it was and walked the short distance, admiring the building as he approached. A scene from farm life had been painted on the side of it: the proverbial plump, aproned Austrian woman bending to scoop up a handful of hay. On the half-timbered façade hung some of the implements of that life, painted black to stand out against the ivory stucco. Windows were plenty, their ledges covered in red flowers, their curtains drawn back to let in the sunshine. The house itself was the solid body of construction they all were, tall and deep in its dimensions. If Galen had stayed in one of these, he had stayed in a half dozen, more often than not to Laura's protests because she had once found a pair of pubic hairs on the seat of the community bathroom. She had always regretted the shortage of big American hotels.

The small lobby was lit by electric lamps made to look like wick and oil jobs. A massive disgruntled boar's head dominated one wall, while against the adjacent one rested a cigarette machine and a feeble supply of travel brochures. A set of stairs stood straight ahead, and to the left was the reception counter, with a bell. Galen rang it and waited. Emerging from a door in the wall behind the counter, a young woman interrupted his stare-down with the boar.

"Gross Gott," she said, smiling. She wasn't plump, she didn't wear an apron, she smelled nothing like the farm.

"Gross Gott," he said. "Sprechen Sie Englisch?"

"A little, yes."

"I would like a room for the night."

"How many in your party, sir?"

"One, if you count me."

She didn't seem to get it--and there was nothing to get anyway. She produced a registration card, and as he accepted it, their hands brushed. The brief sensation reminded him how far along the road of loneliness he was. Yes, he had shared an office with females during this past year of his separation from his wife, but co-workers didn't count. Did Austrians? he wondered. Did Europeans? Did the whole blessed gender?

"I'm curious," he said as he tapped the card with the pen, brows furled with the effort of remembering his new address in Brussels. "How did Sept come by its name?"

When she didn't answer immediately, he glanced up. She was looking at his name on the card.

Their eyes met. Hers were a rich brown touched by a certain joylessness, like his own. Her cascading hair was brown as well, more than complementing her eyes--lending to their momentary intensity.

"You are Austrian?" she asked.

"I'm of German ancestry…maybe Austrian, I don't know. Is it an Austrian name?"

"I…" She hesitated, frowning. "I do not really know, sir. If so, it is uncommon."

He nodded.

"Where are you coming from, Mr. Sept?"

"I've lived in Vienna for the past three years, working for the Atomic Energy Agency." He gestured behind him with his thumb. "Today I'm coming from Salzburg."

"What brought you…here?"

He shrugged. "I'm being transferred to Brussels. I'm not due there for a few weeks, so I thought I would wander some of the less traveled roads. I'm at the whim of my path, if you like."

"No map?"

He mirrored her look, which was markedly strange. "No map."

Slowly, with an elegance that moved him, she extended her hand. "Verena," she said.

He shook it without his usual flare because he was disturbed.

"Shall I get the key?" she said, glancing down. He realized he still held her hand.

"Yes of course. I'm sorry."

"Please," she said, smiling.

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