"As your wife had to leave so suddenly, I hope you don't mind if I join you." He walked over and handed me a drink, which I eagerly accepted, taking a gulp. He took a mini sip of his own, observing me evenly. "Curious... the police were just here, asking if I'd seen a man in a black cape. It seems an esteemed man of letters was murdered nearby. Of course, I told them business has been very bad, that I haven't seen a soul in weeks." He chuckled lightly. "I detest the national police. They're like fleas on a camel's behind. But alas, everyone's on the take in Cagier Typo." He bowed his head, whispering, "Allāhu Fawqa."

From my wallet I withdrew two crisp hundred dollar bills and handed them to him. "I hope that'll cover my tab," I said. He grinned, fingering the payoff.

"Rather generous of you, Professor. This more than covers the amenities. On your next visit to Portage I'll throw in a hooker."

"I won't be back," I said flatly. "I saw all the attractions Typo has to offer in the airport men's room. Lovely graffiti."

"Can't say that I blame you," sighed Farooq. "Our Minster of Tourism lives in the Czech Republic."

At that instant the sound of gunfire reverberated. I dashed to the window and saw Llewelyn scrambling up the fire escape, clutching an attaché, and ducking to avoid the bullets. "Llewelyn, what the hell's going on? I thought you were home watching a-"

"Freaks, yeah..." he said breathlessly, climbing in the window. "...but I've seen it a dozen times, and this plot looked thicker. Here..." He handed me my case. "Your manuscript." He looked quite pleased with himself. "I was at a cafe down the street and overheard this dame calling herself Candy Snowdrop. Naturally I was suspicious, and then when I saw she had your case I put two and two together. I cornered her and said 'So you're the Professor's wife, eh?'...she gave me a funny look, said, 'Why yes I am. And what are you, a freak a nature?' Well that really pissed me off. I asked her for some ID as proof."

Robbery...murder...clichés.  If I didn't know better I'd swear we were trapped in a Grade B film noir.

"I just grabbed the case and ran like hell. So what do we do now, boss, head for Djibouti?"

"Call a cab," I said. "The fuzz'll be here any sec-"

Another gunshot rang out and Farooq clutched his chest, groaned, and crumpled to the floor-D.O.A.

"Aw damn," said Llewelyn, "now it's too late to introduce us. He seemed like a nice fella."

"Farooq? He's the former owner of this dump and a part-time blackmailer." I bent down and retrieved my cash from the dead man's pocket. "Guess he won't be needing this where he's going. Come on, let's take off."

─

Rovos Rail provided us a sluggish, clattering getaway from Cagier Typo. We pulled out of the station just as a national police car arrived with siren blaring. Two frustrated cops with guns drawn stood on the platform and fired futilely into the air.

It was after midnight, so Llewelyn and I had a wood-paneled compartment to ourselves. The only intrusion was an obese conductor stumbling down the aisle like a drunken bridegroom. When he got to the end of the coach, he lost his balance, crashed into the lavatory, and passed out on the toilet. Outside, a blur of scraggly trees streamed past the window, patches of landscape lit by the moon. It shined, it was there, and that's it. Hold the confetti.

"Close call," said Llewelyn, curling up on his seat. He removed his fedora and showed me the bullet hole. "That phony wife of yours sure knows how to shoot. And very athletic."

"As it would seem," I said, weighing our predicament. "She's fixated on this manuscript and will stop at nothing to get it. She's a woman without period or comma."

"And you think she's still shadowing us?" asked Llewelyn, nervously clutching his fedora. "Is she freelance, or La Cosa Nostra?"

"Forget the mob, they can't read. She's probably working for herself."

Reaching under the seat, I retrieved my case, opened it and took out the manuscript. There was only one problem...it wasn't my manuscript. The old switcheroo. There was a typewritten letter atop a stack of blank pages. As I read the words my whole body began to quiver...



I have your manuscript, Professor, but don't worry, it's safe with me. You must understand I'm writing this at great personal risk. DO NOT LET ANYONE READ THIS. The man I work for is very DANGEROUS. (I can't reveal his identity for obvious reasons, but will refer to him as "Man One.") If Man One knew I was writing this he would kill me, just like he murdered Cossery and the hotel manager. (Sorry I can't remember his name, but he was just a minor stock character.) First I must warn you that the dwarf you call "Llewelyn" is not who he claims to be. He's working for Man One who calls him his "pee- wee sleeper cell." I don't know the details of his mission, but I know you're in GRAVE DANGER. The most difficult thing I feel compelled to tell you is not something you'll easily accept. But I swear it's the truth and rejecting it will only lead to a bad end. Your initials "C. W." stand for nothing, they are simply letters to disguise the fact that he couldn't come up with a first name. You did not attend Oxford. You have never been to Cape Verde. Am I getting through to you? It's all contrived "back- story." And then you began acting in ways he hadn't anticipated -- traveling to places that were not part of the plan, where he couldn't control you. He thinks of you now as a kind of monster -- a feral creature that must be terminated with extreme prejudice (his words, not mine). I must stop now as he'll be back any minute. I'm sorry things turned out this way. Maybe someday we'll meet in another story... one without all this senseless violence and hate... a love story. A fairy tale. Take care of yourself, Professor. Forever yours, Anna Omqi



Could this letter be part of the plot, another deception? Snowdrop glanced over at his companion who lay curled like a fetus asleep on the seat. Or was he feigning slumber, awaiting an opportunity to strike-the little bastard. Apostate, back-stabber, conspirator, deceiver, fuck-face, hypocrite, impostor, Judas, miscreant, narc!

At that moment the lights in the compartment flickered and went out-the coach streaked with shards of moonlight. Dark shapes slid across the ceiling as the train lumbered blindly through the night. As he shut the lid of his case he noticed his hands, black and leathery, the nails long and pointy. His fingers itched, felt stiff and gnarly. Tufts of hair were spouting everywhere; his flesh crackled as it stretched, throbbing, bursting...a bilious leg grew long and lean, a hairy form no longer human. He cried out, but heard only a low growling sound. He was crouched on the seat now, clawing at the lupine image reflected in the window. Teeth bared, eyes glaring, a horrifying chimera.

Atop the luggage rack now... he peered down and spotted an hors d'oeuvre. Without thought or compunction, he pounced-teeth and claws working in unison until all that was left was a bloody fedora.

Feeling nothing but hunger he lunged down the aisle and stopped abruptly where the conductor lay snoring. He began at the calf, and by the time he reached the thigh the screaming had stopped. Later, sated, he sprang from the moving train into sweet deep grass-bounded ecstatically across the moonlit veldt-finally free and aloof.

─

Relishing this moment, I closed the dictionary and slid it across the table in front of her. We were sitting on the balcony in Madagascar overlooking the ocean.

"I'm done," I announced. "Fini."

Cautiously, she opened the book, flipping through the blank pages until she came to the T's and smiled. "It begins with 'Third World,' she said, "how clever of you. I never liked a, b, c ..."

At six words a day it would have required several lifetimes to erase them all, but it seemed pointlessly academic. Was a shortcut even possible? My elation began to drain away. I sighed and lit a cigarette. "Perhaps if I'd worked backwards instead of starting with a ..."

Anna shook her head. "You've done more than any man could do. You've given me a happy ending... led me to Nirvana."

"For me, Nirvana comes tomorrow when you walk down the aisle at the Run for Your Life Ministry and become Mrs. Snowdrop, née Omqif."

"Really is it true?" said Anna excitedly like a schoolgirl. "I'd better pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming." She smiled. "I might awake and find you're just a specter."

I felt a vague uneasiness. Would she be able to stand this isolation? So far from her homeland, she might begin to feel trapped. Hell, her only friends would be me, myself, and I.

"Could get boring here, Anna, after a while. The island lifestyle is rather prosaic."

As if in anticipation of these doubts, she reached into her purse and pulled out a paperback. "I plan to get a lot of reading done," she said, holding the book up so I could see its cover. A Passage to Cane Moor. She looked away suddenly, staring at the sea. "Before we marry there's something you should know..." She turned and faced me, her eyes dark and strangely distant. "My name isn't Anna."