Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Page 8

  Still, her plumpness was charming. Resting an ear on her hip was like lying in a meadow on an idyllic spring afternoon, her thighs as soft as freshly aired futon, the rolling flow of her curves leading gracefully to her pubis. When I complimented her on her qualities, though, all she said was, “Oh yeah?”

  After I left the restaurant, I went to the library nearby. At the reference desk sat a slender young woman with long black hair, engrossed in a paperback book. “Do you have any reference materials pertaining to the mammalian skull?” I asked.

  “Huh?” she said, looking up.

  “References—on—mammalian—skulls,” I repeated, saying each word separately.

  “Mam-ma-li-an-skulls?” she repeated, almost singing. It sounded so lovely the way she said it, like the first line of a poem.

  She bit her lower lip briefly and thought. “Just a minute, please. I’ll check,” she said, turned around to type the word MAMMAL on her computer keyboard. Some twenty titles appeared on the screen. She used a light pen and two-thirds of the titles disappeared at once. She then hit the MEMORY function, and this time she typed the word SKELETON. Seven or eight titles appeared, of which she saved two and then entered into the MEMORY alongside the previous selections. Libraries have certainly come a long way. The days of card pockets inside the backsleeves of books seemed like a faded dream. As a kid, I used to love all those withdrawal date stamps.

  While she was nimbly operating her computer, I was looking down at her long hair and elegant backside. I didn’t know exactly what to make of her. She was beautiful and seemingly quite intelligent, what with her pentameter search system. There wasn’t a reason in the world not to find her appealing.

  She pressed the COPY button for a printout of the screen data, which she handed to me.

  “You have nine titles to select from,” she said.

  1. A GUIDE TO MAMMALS

  2. PICTORIAL ATLAS OF MAMMALS

  3. THE MAMMALIAN SKELETON

  4. THE HISTORY OF MAMMALS

  5. I, A MAMMAL

  6. MAMMALIAN ANATOMY

  7. THE MAMMALIAN BRAIN

  8. ANIMAL SKELETONS

  9. BONES SPEAK

  I had an allowance of three books with my card. I chose nos. 2, 3, and 8. Nos. 5 and 9 did sound intriguing, but they didn’t seem to have much to do with my investigation, so I left them for some other time.

  “I’m sorry to say that Pictorial Atlas of Mammals is for library use only and cannot be borrowed overnight,” she said, scratching her temple with a pen.

  “This is extremely important. Please, do you think it would be at all possible to lend it to me for just one day?” I begged. “I’ll have it back tomorrow noon, I promise.”

  “I’m sorry, but the Pictorial Atlas series is very popular, and these are library rules. I could get in trouble for lending out reference materials.”

  “One day. Please. Nobody will find out.”

  She hesitated, teasing the tip of her tongue between her teeth. A cute pink tongue.

  “Okay. But it has to be back here by nine-thirty in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  “Really, I’m very grateful. May I offer you some token of my thanks. Anything special I could do for you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. There’s a Baskin-Robbins ice cream parlor across the way. I’d love a double cone of mocha chip on top of pistachio. Would you mind?”

  “Mocha chip on pistachio—coming right up!”

  Whereupon I left the library and headed for the Baskin-Robbins.

  She was still not back with the books by the time I returned, so I stood there at her desk with ice cream cone in hand. Two old men reading newspapers took turns stealing looks at this curious sight. Luckily the ice cream was frozen solid. Having it drip all over the place was the only thing that could have made me feel more foolish.

  The paperback she’d been reading was facedown on the desk. Time Traveller, a biography of H. G. Wells, volume two. It was not a library book. Next to it were three well-sharpened pencils and some paperclips. Paperclips! Everywhere I went, paperclips! What was this?

  Perhaps some fluctuation in the gravitational field had suddenly inundated the world with paperclips. Perhaps it was mere coincidence. I couldn’t shake the feeling that things weren’t normal. Was I being staked out by paperclips? They were everywhere I went, always just a glance away.

  Something went ding. Come to think of it, there’d been a couple of dings lately. First animal skulls, now paperclips. It seemed as if a pattern was establishing itself, but what relationship could there be between skulls and paperclips?

  Before much longer, the woman returned carrying the three volumes. She handed them to me, accepting the ice-cream cone in exchange.

  “Thank you very much,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She held the cone low behind the desk. Glimpsed from above, the nape of her neck was sweet and defenseless.

  “By the way, though, why all the paperclips?” I asked.

  “Pa-per-clips?” she sang back. “To keep papers together, of course. Everybody uses them. Don’t you?”

  She had a point. I thanked her again and left the library. Paperclips were indeed used by everyone. A thousand yen will buy you a lifetime supply. Sure, why not? I stopped into a stationery shop and bought myself a lifetime supply. Then I went home.

  Back at the apartment, I put away the groceries. I hung my clothes in the wardrobe. Then, on top of the TV, right next to the skull, I spread a handful of paperclips.

  Nice and artsy. Like a composition of down pillow with ice scraper, ink bottle with lettuce. I went out on the balcony to get a better look at my TV-top arrangement. There was nothing to suggest how the skull and the paperclips went together. Or was there?

  I sat down on the bed. Nothing came to mind. Time passed. An ambulance, then a right-wing campaign sound-truck passed. I wanted a whiskey, but I passed on that too. I needed to have my brain absolutely sharp.

  I went to the kitchen and sat down with the library books. First I looked up medium-sized herbivorous mammals and their skeletal structures. The world had far more medium-sized herbivorous mammals than I’d imagined. No fewer than thirty varieties of deer alone.

  I fetched the skull from the TV, set it on the table, and began the long, laborious process of comparing it with each of the pictures in the books. One hour and twenty minutes and ninety-three species later, I had made no progress. I shut all three books and piled them up in one corner of the table. Then I threw up my arms and stretched.

  What to do?

  Put on a video of John Ford’s Quiet Man.

  I was sprawled on the bed, hash-browned, when the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw a middle-aged man in a Tokyo Gas uniform. I cracked open the door with the chain still bolted.

  “Routine safety check,” said the man.

  “One moment please,” I replied, slipping into the bedroom to pocket my knife before opening the door. I smelled something fishy. There’d been a gas inspector visit the month before.

  I let the guy in and went on watching The Quiet Man. The inspector pulled out a pressure gauge and proceeded to check the water heater for the bath, then went into the kitchen where the skull was sitting on the table. I left the TV on and tiptoed to the kitchen in time to catch him whisking the skull into a black plastic bag. I flicked open my knife and dived at him, circling around to clamp him in an armlock, the blade thrust right under his nose. The man immediately threw the bag down.

  “I … I didn’t mean any harm,” he stammered. “I just saw the thing and suddenly wanted it. A sudden impulse. Forgive me.”

  “Like hell,” I sneered. “Tell me the truth or I’ll slit your throat,” I said. It sounded unbelievably phony—especially since the knife wasn’t under his chin—but the man was convinced.

  “Okay, okay, don’t hurt me. I’ll tell the truth,” he whimpered.
“The truth is, I got paid to come in here and steal the thing. Two guys came up to me on the street and asked if I wanted to make a quick fifty-thousand yen. If I came through, I’d get another fifty thousand. I didn’t want to do it, but one of the guys was a gorilla. Honest. Please, don’t kill me. I’ve got two daughters in high school.”

  “Two daughters in high school?”

  “Y … yeah.”

  “Which high school?”

  “The older one’s a junior at Shimura Metropolitan. The younger one just started at Futaba in Yotsuya,” he said.

  The combination was odd enough to be real. I decided to believe him.

  As a precaution, I fished the man’s wallet out of his pocket and checked its contents. Five crisp ten-thousand-yen bills. Also a Tokyo Gas ID and a color photo of his family. Both daughters were done up in fancy New Year’s kimono, neither of them exactly a beauty. I couldn’t tell which was Shimura and which Futaba. Other than that, there was only a Sugamo-Shinanomachi train pass. The guy looked harmless, so I folded the knife up and let him go.

  “All right, get out of here,” I said, handing back his wallet.

  “Thank you, thank you,” the gas inspector said. “But what do I do now? I took their money but didn’t come through with the goods.”

  I had no idea. Those Semiotecs—I’m sure that’s who they were—weren’t what you could call gentlemen. They did whatever they felt like, whenever. Which is why no one could read their modus operandi. They might gouge this guy’s eyes out, or they might hand him the other fifty thousand yen and wish him better luck next time.

  “One guy’s a real gorilla, you say?” I asked.

  “That’s right. A monster. The other guy’s small, only about a meter and a half; he was wearing a tailor-made suit. Both looked like very tough characters.”

  I instructed the man to leave the building through the parking garage. There was a narrow passage out back, which was not easy to detect. Probably he’d get away without incident.

  “Thank you very much,” said the gas inspector. “Please don’t tell my company about this.”

  Fine, I told him. Then I pushed him out, locked the door, and bolted the chain. I went into the kitchen and removed the skull from the plastic bag. Well, at least I’d learned one thing: the Semiotecs wanted the skull.

  I considered the circumstances. I had the skull, but didn’t know what it meant. They knew what it meant—or had a vague notion of what it meant—but didn’t have the skull. Even-steven. At this point, I had two options: one, explain everything to the System, so they’d protect me from the Semiotecs and safeguard the skull; or two, contact the chubby girl and get the lowdown on the skull.

  I didn’t like option no. 1. There’d be pointless debriefings and investigations. Huge organizations and me don’t get along. They’re too inflexible, waste too much time, have too many stupid people.

  Option no. 2, however, was impossible. I didn’t know how to go about contacting the chubby girl. I didn’t have her phone number. Of course, I could have gone to the building, but leaving my own apartment now was dangerous. And how was I going to talk my way into that top-security building?

  I made up my mind: I would do nothing.

  I picked up the stainless-steel tongs and once again tapped the crown of the skull lightly. It made the same mo-oan as before. A hollow, pathetic cry, almost as if it were alive. How was this possible? I picked up the skull. I tapped it again. That mo-oan again. Upon closer scrutiny, the sound seemed to emanate from one particular point on the skull.

  I tapped again and again, and eventually located the exact position. The moaning issued from a shallow depression of about two centimeters in diameter in the center of the forehead. I pressed my fingertip into the depression. It felt slightly rough. Almost as if something had been broken off. Something, say, like a horn …

  A horn?

  If it really were a horn, that’d make it a one-horned animal. A one-horned animal? I flipped through the Pictorial Atlas of Mammals again, looking for any mammal with a single horn in the middle of its forehead. The rhinoceros was a possibility, but this was not a rhinoceros skull. Wrong size, wrong shape.

  I got some ice out of the refrigerator and poured myself an Old Crow. It was getting late in the day, and a drink seemed like a good idea. I opened a can of asparagus, which I happen to like. I canapéed some smoked oysters on crispbread. I had another whiskey.

  Okay. For convenience sake, I agreed to entertain the remote hypothesis that the owner of said skull might be, conceivably, a unicorn.

  What else did I have to go on?

  I had a unicorn skull on my hands.

  Great, I thought, just great. Why were all these bizarre things happening to me? What had I ever done to deserve this? I was just your practical-minded, lone-wolf Calcutec. I wasn’t overly ambitious, wasn’t greedy. Didn’t have family, friends, or lovers. I saved my money. When I retired, I was planning to settle down and learn the cello or Greek. How on earth did I get mixed up in this?

  After that second whiskey, I opened the telephone book and dialed the number. “Reference desk, please,” I said.

  Ten seconds later, the long-haired librarian was on the line.

  “Pictorial Atlas of Mammals here,” I said.

  “Hello. Thank you for the ice cream,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “But could I ask you for another favor?”

  “A favor?” she said. “Depends on the species of favor.”

  “Can you look up what you’ve got on unicorns?”

  “U-ni-corns?” she repeated.

  “Is that too much to ask?”

  Silence. She was probably biting her lip.

  “You want me to look up what about unicorns?”

  “Everything,” I said.

  “Please, it’s four-fifteen. The library gets very busy around closing time. Why don’t you come around first thing tomorrow morning? Then you could look up all about unicorns or tricorns or whatever you like.”

  “This can’t wait. I’m afraid it’s exceedingly urgent.”

  “Oh, really?” she said. “How urgent?”

  “It’s a matter of evolution,” I said.

  “E-vo-lu-ti-on?” She seemed to be caught off guard. “By evolution, you wouldn’t be referring to the evolving-over-millions-of-years kind of evolution, would you? Excuse me if I misunderstand, but why then do you need things so quickly? What’s one more day?”

  “There’s evolution that takes millions of years and there’s evolution that only takes three hours. I can’t explain over the phone. But I want you to believe me, this is dead urgent. This will affect the next step in human evolution.”

  “Like in 2001: A Space Odyssey?”

  “Exactly,” I said. I’d watched it countless times on video.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Can’t decide if I’m some kind of a maniac or a harmless nut?” I took a shot.

  “You got it,” she said.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to convince you, but I’m really not crazy. A little narrow-minded or stubborn maybe, but crazy I’m not.”

  “Hmph,” was all she said to that. “Well, you talk normal enough. And you didn’t seem too weird. You even bought me ice cream. All right, at six-thirty, meet me at the café across from the library. I’ll bring you the books. Fair enough?”

  “Unfortunately, it’s not so simple. I, uh, can’t go into details, but I can’t leave my place unattended just now. Sorry, but—”

  “You mean …,” she trailed off. I could hear her drumming her front teeth with her nails. “Let me get this straight. You want me—to bring the books—to your doorstep? You must be crazy.”

  “That’s the general idea,” I said sheepishly. “Though, of course, I’m not demanding. I’m requesting.”

  “You’re requesting an awful lot.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “But you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on.”

  Another lengthy
silence.

  “I’ve worked in this library for five years now and never have I come across any borrower as impudent as you,” she fumed. “Nobody asks to have books hand-delivered. And with no previous record! Don’t you think you’re being just a little high-handed?”

  “Actually, I do think so, too. I’m very sorry. I realize it’s highly irregular, but I have no other choice.”

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you’d want to tell me the way to your place?”

  8

  The Colonel

  I DOUBT you can regain your shadow,” speaks the Colonel as he sips his coffee.

  Like most persons accustomed to years of giving orders, he speaks with his spine straight and his chin tucked in. It is greatly to his credit that his long career in the military has not made him officious. Rather, it has bestowed an order to his life, along with many decorations. Exceedingly quiet and thoughtful, the Colonel is an ideal neighbor for me. He is also a veteran chessplayer.

  “As the Gatekeeper warned you,” the old officer continues, “one of the conditions of this Town is that you cannot possess a shadow. Another is that you cannot leave. Not as long as the Wall surrounds the Town.”

  “I did not know I would forfeit my shadow forever,” I say. “I thought it would be temporary. No one told me about this.”

  “No one tells you anything in this Town,” says the Colonel. “The Town has its own protocol. It has no care for what you know or do not know. Regrettable …”

  “What will become of my shadow?”

  “Nothing at all. It waits and then it dies. Have you seen it since your arrival?”

  “No. I tried several times and the Gatekeeper turned me away. For security reasons, he said.”