their canes. ‘Eggs!’ Men appeared in doorless doorways, eye sockets hollow with hunger. ‘Eggs!’ A menacing mob encircled the statue. Mrs Comb tried to calm the situation. ‘Now, now, no need to—’ The mob surged – a hurricane huckus of hoohah, hubbub and hounding hands broke over Mrs Comb and swept her basket away. The mob roared. Mrs Comb squawked in terror as her eggs rolled away and were pounded to shell-spatted yolk and white underfoot. Mrs Comb flapped and rose above the crowds – she hadn’t flown since she was a spring chicken, and couldn’t stay airborne for more than a few seconds. The only nearby roosting place was the handlebar moustache of the beloved commander. The crowd watched her, awestruck. ‘She flew! The lady flew!’ Only a tiny fraction of the mob was near enough to fight for the gobs of crushed egg. The rest looked at Mrs Comb. A little kid said it first. ‘She ain’t no lady!’
‘I most certainly am a lady!’ retorted Mrs Comb. ‘My father ruled the roost!’
‘Ladies don’t fly! She’s a hen!’
‘I am a lady!’
The word devoured the hungry town as wildfire devours thornbush thickets of Thales. Not ‘lady’, not ‘hen’ but: ‘Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!’
Mrs Sasaki ladles my miso soup from the pan into a lacquer bowl. Koiwashi fish and cubes of tofu. Anju loved koiwashi – our grandmother used to serve it this way. The miso paste swirls at the bottom, deep-sea sludge. Yellow daikon pickles, salmon rice-balls wrapped in seaweed. Sheer comfort food. I exist on toast and yoghurt in my capsule, assuming I get up early enough: this is too much hassle to make. I know I should be ravenous, but my appetite is still in hiding. I eat to please Mrs Sasaki. When my grandmother’s dog Caesar was dying, he ate just to please her. ‘Mrs Sasaki, I have some questions.’
‘I imagine you do.’
‘Where am I?’
She passes me the bowl. ‘You didn’t ask Buntaro?’
‘Yesterday was weird all day, I wasn’t thinking straight. At all.’
‘Well, you are staying in the house of my sister and brother-in-law.’
‘Are they the couple in the seashell photo above the fax?’
‘Yes. I took that photograph myself.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘In Germany. Her books sell very well there, so her publisher flew her over for a literary tour. Her husband is a scholar of European languages, so he burrows in university libraries while she does her writerly duties.’
I slurp my soup. ‘This is good. A writer? Does your sister work in the attic?’
‘She prefers “fabulist”. I was wondering if you would find the study.’
‘I hope it was okay to go up there. I, uh, even began reading some stories I found on the writing desk.’
‘I don’t think my sister would object. Unread stories aren’t stories.’
‘She must be a special person, your sister.’
‘Finish those rice-balls. Why do you say that?’
‘This house. In Tokyo, but it could be in a forest during the Kofun period. No telephones, no TV, no computer.’
Mrs Sasaki purses her lips when she smiles. ‘I must tell her that. She’ll love it. My sister doesn’t need a telephone – she was born deaf, you see. And my brother-in-law says the world needs less communication, not more.’ Mrs Sasaki slices an orange on the chopping board, and zest spray-leaks. She sits down. ‘Miyake-kun, I don’t think you should come back to Ueno. We have no proof those people or their associates want to find you, but nor do we have any proof that they don’t. I vote that we shouldn’t take any risks. They knew where to find you on Friday. As a precaution I ensured your Ueno records were misfiled. I think you should sit tight here, until the end of the week – if anybody comes asking for you at Shooting Star, Buntaro will tell them you skipped town. If not, the coast is clear enough.’
This makes sense. ‘Okay.’
‘Worry about the future from next week.’ Mrs Sasaki pours the tea. ‘In the meantime, rest. You don’t so much solve problems as live through them.’
Green tea with barley grains. ‘Why are you and Buntaro helping me?’
‘“Who” matters more than “Why”. Eat.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No matter, Eiji.’
Later, the same day. The doorbell chimes and my heart coils up again. I put the manuscript down. Not Buntaro, not Mrs Sasaki, so who? I am up in the attic study, but I hear a key turned in the front door. I am learning the silences that fill this house, and I know what is in my head and what