It was crystal clear to her. Genji’s is a poky joint, wintry with air-con – I am the only customer – and was last painted when Japan surrendered. A silent TV shows horse-racing. The air is so thick with hairspray and tonic fumes that if you lit a match you would probably fire-bomb the whole building. Genji himself is an old man sprouting nasal hair, sweeping the floor with shaky hands. ‘C’mon in, son, c’mon in.’ He gestures towards the empty chair. I sit down and he flourishes a tablecloth over my shoulders. In the mirror my head seems amputated from the rest of me. I flinch as I remember Valhalla bowling alley. ‘Why the long face, son?’ asks Genji, dropping his scissors. ‘Whatever’s itching you, life can’t be as bad as it was for my last customer. A businessman, doing pretty well for himself judging by his suit, but such a miserable old bugger I never saw!’ Genji drops his comb. ‘I said, “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, sir, but is anything on your mind?” The customer sighs, and finally says: “Chintzywoo died last week.” “Who was Chintzywoo – your poodle?” I ask.’ Genji snips. ‘“No,” the customer answers. “My wife.”’ Genji pauses to open a bottle of sake. He drinks half the bottle in one swig, and balances it on the shelf of the mirror. ‘“How tragic, sir,” I say, “I hope you can find solace in hard work.” “I was fired yesterday,” the customer says. “How awful, sir,” I say. “Were you fired in connection, y’know, with depression brought on by your bereavement?” “Not exactly,” he sighs, “I was fired in connection with my espionage activities.”’ Genji pauses to finish his sake – he gropes for the bottle of hair tonic and drinks most of it without noticing. ‘Well, this takes me aback, I can tell you! “Espionage? I never had a spy in my chair before. Who did you work for? China? Russia? North Korea?” “No,” he confesses, with some pride. “The most powerful country on the face of the globe. The Kingdom of Tonga.”’ Genji switches on the electric clippers – nothing happens, so he twirls the cord and whacks the head against the counter. They growl into life. ‘So I say, “The Kingdom of Tonga? I never even knew they had a, y’know, secret service.” “Nobody knows. Brilliant, isn’t it?” “Well, sir, I guess you’re a national hero over there. Why not emigrate? They’ll welcome you with open arms.”’ Genji shaves around my ears. ‘The customer frowns. “There was a palace coup three days ago. The militarists now in charge denounced me as a double agent, and I was sentenced to death by hanging yesterday.” “Well, sir, at least you still have your health.”’ Genji hangs up the shaver and picks up his scissors. ‘Well, at that moment the customer has this hacking coughing fit and I have to wipe blood off the mirror. “Mmm. Maybe you should go back to your old job, before you became a spy, y’know.” He brightens up for the first time. “I used to be an airplane pilot,” he says. “There you go, sir, why don’t you apply for a position with an airline?” I suggest. He sneezes and, I swear, son, his right eyeball flies out! Rolls right across the room, it does! “Bugger!” he says, “that was my best one!” I’m getting pretty desperate by now, you can imagine. “How about writing your autobiography, sir? Your life could turn tragedy to Oscars.” Genji snips, snips, snips. “The movie they made about me won three Oscars.” “How wonderful, sir! I knew there was light at the end of the tunnel!” “It won three Oscars, eighteen months after the agent ran off with with my screenplay. A multimillion-dollar smash hit, and I never saw a yen. Worst of all, who do you think they got to play me? Johnny Depp I could have handled, but Bruce Willis?” Do you want me to cut it short, son?’
Meanwhile, back in the forest of moss, Mrs Comb and Pithecanthropus found themselves caught between a rock, a hard place and sheaves of leaves. Pithecanthropus scratched his head and grunted. The truth was, Goatwriter’s tracks had become confused with sacred cows and white elephants, but Pithecanthropus had said nothing for fear of disheartening Mrs Comb. Mrs Comb perched on a fungi-feathery tree-stump. ‘It must be way past Sir’s elevenses by now . . . if only he’d warned me he