downstairs and find the fax lying on the floor. MIYAKE. MORINO’S DETECTIVE WILL RECEIVE MAIL SENT TO ADDRESS BELOW. BE CAUTIOUS. DO NOT GIVE ADDRESS UNTIL SURE OK. WE BOARD FLIGHT 30 MINS. HOPE YOU FIND THE MAN. A post office box number in Edogawabashi follows. I write it down on a cigarette box flap, hide it in my wallet, and set the fax alight in an ashtray with General Douglas MacArthur’s lighter. This is overdramatic, but I like flames. I glance up at the photo of Mrs Sasaki’s sister. The wine in her glass is cool and scents the air. ‘So,’ she says, ‘what happens in the next chapter?’
Goatwriter sat down at his writing bureau. Luscious sentences swirled inches above his head, waiting for him to pin them on to paper. Goatwriter looked for his pen. Most odd, he thought, I recall quite clearly placing it here, on my blotter, when I heard Pithecanthropus perform his antemeridian grunt . . . He looked in all the places it should be, and then all the places it might be, and lastly all the places it couldn’t possibly be. This left only one conclusion. ‘Thief!’ cried Goatwriter. ‘Thief! Thief!’ Pithecanthropus and Mrs Comb rushed in – she knew exactly what to do. ‘Not again sir. Let me explain – your snack paper goes in here, and your writings and whatnot—’ Goatwriter shook his head, numbly. ‘No, Mrs Comb! My manuscript is not m-missing, but my fountain pen! The tongue of my imagination! The selfsame pen Lady Shonagon wrote her pillow book with over thirteen thousand crescent moons ago! The birds nought but a didactic tactic, a decoy deployed while the thief struck!’
‘Whatever’s the world coming to?’ said Mrs Comb. ‘Rob thy neighbour!’
Pithecanthropus grunted a question.
‘Who? A gloatload of connival rivals have the will to kill my quill!’ Goatwriter groaned tearfully. ‘Without my fountain pen, my career is over, moreover! The critics will de-re-un-in(con)struct me!’
‘Over my dead body, sir! Never you fear! We found us a thief before and we’ll find us one again! Won’t we, you?’ Pithecanthropus was so pleased to be addressed by Mrs Comb directly that he grunted happily, not wishing to point out yet that tracking in the muddy margin was easy, but tracking in a windy baking desert was a different prospect entirely
‘As usual, Mrs Comb,’ said Goatwriter, forcing himself to calm down, ‘you are quite right. Let us apply logic to the dilemma. My pen is missing. Where does one find pens? At the end of sentences. Where does one find the ends of sentences? The ends of lines. Now, how many lines does one find in a desert?’
Mrs Comb looked through the window. ‘Only one line out here, sir.’
‘Which is that, m-my dear Mrs Comb?’
‘Why, sir – the line running down the centre of the road!’
Goatwriter clapped his hoofs. ‘Battle stations, friends! To war we go!’
Mrs Comb was tiring, perspiring beneath her parasol, wondering if the next egg she laid would come out hard-boiled. Pithecanthropus sweated profusely and the road cooked holes in his soles. Goatwriter saw mirages of verbs freeze and melt. The cruel sun shot dead hot lead at high noon. Time itself relapsed and collapsed. Goatwriter dabbed his brow with his drenched handkerchief and checked that what he thought he saw was truly true. ‘Aha! Take heart, my friends! The white lines are veering off the road – my fountain pen cannot be far!’ Mrs Comb insisted they drank a prickly-pear dessert before the desert. Without the white lines to guide them, even Pithecanthropus would have lost his way in the smoulderboulders, jags and crags, rocks and blocks. Reptiles stood still, on alternate legs. Pithecanthropus felt they were being watched, but said nothing for fear of distressing Mrs Comb. ‘I say,’ said Goatwriter, at the head of the expedition. ‘We seem to be . . . here.’ The three drew level at the lip of a porcelain crater, as steep as it was wide. A black hole emerged at the centre. ‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Goatwriter. ‘A primitive culture, evolving radiotelescope technology, unbeknown to the outside world . . .’
‘You can call it a radiotellywhatsit, sir, but I know a kitchen sink when I see one. Must take a month o’ Mondays to polish it, or—’
‘Keeeeeeraaaaaaaaawk!’ An evil-eyed, sawtooth-beaked pterodactyl appeared from the near rear to spear Goatwriter clear down the crater. ‘Sir!’ squawked Mrs Comb – Goatwriter’s hoofs were unable to gain traction on the ceramic surface. ‘Sir! I’m coming! I’ll rescue you!’