3



Malta Kano's Hat




Sherbet Tone and Allen Ginsberg
and the Crusaders



I was in the middle of preparing lunch when the phone rang again. I had cut two
slices of bread, spread them with butter and mustard, filled them with tomato slices and
cheese, set the whole on the cutting board, and I was just about to cut it in half when the
bell started ringing.
I let the phone ring three times and cut the sandwich in half. Then I transferred it to a
plate, wiped the knife, and put that in the cutlery drawer, before pouring myself a cup of
the coffee I had warmed up.
Still the phone went on ringing. Maybe fifteen times. I gave up and took it. I would
have preferred not to answer, but it might have been Kumiko.
"Hello," said a woman's voice, one I had never heard before. It be longed neither to
Kumiko nor to the strange woman who had called me the other day when I was cooking
spaghetti. "I wonder if I might possibly be speaking with Mr. Toru Okada?" said the
voice, as if its owner were reading a text.
"You are," I said.
"The husband of Kumiko Okada?"
"That's right," I said. "Kumiko Okada is my wife."
"And Mrs. Okada's elder brother is Noboru Wataya?"
"Right again," I said, with admirable self- control. "Noboru Wataya is my wife's elder
brother."
"Sir, my name is Malta Kano."
I waited for her to go on. The sudden mention of Kumiko's elder brother had put me
on guard. With the blunt end of the pencil that lay by the phone, I scratched the back of
my neck. Five seconds or more went by, in which the woman said nothing. No sound of
any kind came from the receiver, as if the woman had covered the mouthpiece with her
hand and was talking with someone nearby.
"Hello," I said, concerned now.
"Please forgive me, sir," blurted the woman's voice. "In that case, I must ask your
permission to call you at a later time."
"Now wait a minute," I said. "This is- "
At that point, the connection was cut. I stared at the receiver, then put it to my ear
again. No doubt about it: the woman had hung up.
Vaguely dissatisfied, I turned to the kitchen table, drank my coffee, and ate my
sandwich. Until the moment the telephone rang, I had been thinking of something, but
now I couldn't remember what it was. Knife in my right hand poised to cut the sandwich
in half, I had definitely been thinking of something. Something important. Something I
had been trying unsuccessfully to recall for the longest time. It had come to me at the
very moment when I was about to cut the sandwich in two, but now it was gone.
Chewing on my sandwich, I tried hard to bring it back. But it wouldn't come. It had
returned to that dark region of my mind where it had been living until that moment.




I finished eating and was clearing the dishes when the phone rang again. This time I
took it right away.
Again I heard a woman saying "Hello," but this time it was Kumiko.
"How are you?" she asked. "Finished lunch?"
"Yup. What'd you have?"
"Nothing," she said. "Too busy. I'll probably buy myself a sandwich later. What'd
you have?"
I described my sandwich.
"I see," she said, without a hint of envy. "Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you this
morning. You're going to get a call from a Miss Kano."
"She already called," I said. "A few minutes ago. All she did was mention our names-
mine and yours and your brother's- and hang up. Never said what she wanted. What was
that all about?"
"She hung up?"
"Said she'd call again."
"Well, when she does, I want you to do whatever she asks. This is really important. I
think you'll have to go see her."
"When? Today?"
"What's wrong? Do you have something planned? Are you supposed to see
someone?"
"Nope. No plans." Not yesterday, not today, not tomorrow: no plans at all. "But who
is this Kano woman? And what does she want with me? I'd like to have some idea before
she calls again. If it's about a job for me connected with your brother, forget it. I don't
want to have anything to do with him. You know that."
"No, it has nothing to do with a job," she said, with a hint of annoyance. "It's about
the cat."
"The cat?"
"Oh, sorry, I've got to run. Somebody's waiting for me. I really shouldn't have taken
the time to make this call. Like I said, I haven't even had lunch. Mind if I hang up? I'll
get back to you as soon as I'm free."
"Look, I know how busy you are, but give me a break. I want to know what's going
on. What's with the cat? Is this Kano woman-"
"Just do what she tells you, will you, please? Understand? This is serious business. I
want you to st ay home and wait for her call. Gotta go."
And she went.



When the phone rang at two-thirty, I was napping on the couch. At first I thought I
was hearing the alarm clock. I reached out to push the button, but the clock was not there.
I wasn't in bed but was on the couch, and it wasn't morning but afternoon. I got up and
went to the phone.
"Hello," I said.
"Hello," said a woman's voice. It was the woman who had called in the morning.

"Mr. Toru Okada?"
"That's me. Toru Okada."
"Sir, my name is Malta Kano," she said.
"The lady who called before."
"That is correct. I am afraid I was terribly rude. But tell me, Mr. Okada, would you by
any chance be free this afternoon?"
"You might say that."
"Well, in that case, I know this is terribly sudden, but do you think it might be
possible for us to meet?"
"When? Today? Now?"
"Yes."
I looked at my watch. Not that I really had to- I had looked at it thirty seconds earlier-
but just to make sure. And it was still two- thirty.
"Will it take long?" I asked.
"Not so very long, I think. I could be wrong, though. At this moment in time, it is
difficult for me to say with complete accuracy. I am sorry."
No matter how long it might take, I had no choice. Kumiko had told me to do as the
woman said: that it was serio us business. If she said it was serious business, then it was
serious business, and I had better do as I was told.
"I see," I said. "Where should we meet?"
"Would you by any chance be acquainted with the Pacific Hotel, across from
Shinagawa Station?"
"I wo uld."
"There is a tearoom on the first floor. I shall be waiting there for you at four o'clock
if that would be all right with you, sir."
"Fine," I said.
"I am thirty-one years old, and I shall be wearing a red vinyl hat."
Terrific. There was something weird about the way this woman talked, something that
confused me momentarily. But I could not have said exactly what made it so weird. Nor
was there any law against a thirty- one- year- old woman's wearing a red vinyl hat.
"I see," I said. "I'm sure I'll find you."
"I wonder, Mr. Okada, if you would be so kind as to tell me of any external
distinguishing characteristics in your own case."
I tried to think of any "external distinguishing characteristics" I might have. Did I in
fact have any?
"I'm thirty, I'm five foot nine, a hundred and forty pounds, short hair, no glasses." It
occurred to me as I listed these for her that they hardly constituted external distinguishing
characteristics. There could be fifty such men in the Pacific Hotel tearoom. I had been
there before, and it was a big place. She needed something more noticeable. But I
couldn't think of anything. Which is not to say that I didn't have any distinguishing
characteristics. I owned a signed copy of Miles Davis's Sketches of Spain. I had a slow
resting pulse rate: forty-seven normally, and no higher than seventy with a high fever. I
was out of work. I knew the names of all the brothers Karamazov. But none of these
distinguishing characteristics was external.
"What might you be wearing?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I haven't decided yet. This is so sudden."

"Then please wear a polka-dot necktie," she said decisively. "Do you think you might
have a polka-dot necktie, sir?"
"I think I do," I said. I had a navy-blue tie with tiny cream polka dots. Kumiko had
given it to me for my birthday a few years earlier.
"Please be so kind as to wear it, then," she said. "Thank you for agreeing to meet me
at four o'clock." And she hung up.



I opened the wardrobe and looked for my polka- dot tie. There was no sign of it on the
tie rack. I looked in all the drawers. I looked in all the clothes storage boxes in the closet.
No polka -dot tie. There was no way that that tie could be in our house without my finding
it. Kumiko was such a per fectionist when it came to the arrangement of our clothes, my
necktie couldn't possibly be in a place other than where it was normally kept. And in fact,
I found everything- both her clothes and mine- in perfect order. My shirts were neatly
folded in the drawer where they belonged. My sweaters were in boxes so full of
mothballs my eyes hurt just from opening the lid. One box contained the clothing she had
worn in high school: a navy uniform, a flowered minidress, preserved like photos in an
old album. What was the point of keeping such things? Perhaps she had simply brought
them with her because she had never found a suitable op portunity to get rid of them. Or
maybe she was planning to send them to Bangladesh. Or donate them someday as
cultural artifacts. In any case, my polka-dot necktie was nowhere to be found.
Hand on the wardrobe door, I tried to recall the last time I had worn the tie. It was a
rather stylish tie, in very good taste, but a bit too much for the office. If I had worn it to
the firm, somebody would have gone on and on about it at lunch, praising the color or its
sharp looks. Which would have been a kind of warning. In the firm I worked for, it was
not good to be complimented on your choice of tie. So I had never worn it there. Rather, I
put it on for more private- if somewhat formal- occasions: a concert, or dinner at a good
restaurant, when Kumiko wanted us to "dress properly" (not that there were so many
such occasions). The tie went well with my navy suit, and she was very fond of it. Still, I
couldn't manage to recall when I had last worn it.
I scanned the contents of the wardrobe again and gave up. For one reason or another,
the polka -dot tie had disappeared. Oh, well. I put on my navy suit with a blue shirt and a
striped tie. I wasn't too worried. She might not be able to spot me, but all I had to do was
look for a thirtyish woman in a red vinyl hat.
Dressed to go out, I sat on the sofa, staring at the wall. It had been a long time since I
last wore a suit. Normally, this three- season navy suit would have been a bit too heavy
for this time of year, but that particular day was a rainy one, and there was a chill in the
air. It was the very suit I had worn on my last day of work (in April). Suddenly it
occurred to me that there might be something in one of the pockets. In the inside breast
pocket I found a receipt with a date from last autumn. It was some kind of taxi receipt,
one I could have been reimbursed for at the office. Now, though, it was too late. I
crumpled it up and threw it into the wastebasket.
I had not worn this suit once since quitting, two months earlier. Now, after such a
long interval, I felt as if I were in the grip of a foreign substance. It was heavy and stiff,
and seemed not to match the contours of my body. I stood and walked around the room,

stopping in front of the mirror to yank at the sleeves and the coattails in an attempt to
make it fit better. I stretched out my arms, took a deep breath, and bent forward at the
waist, checking to see if my physical shape might have changed in the past two months. I
sat on the sofa again, but still I felt uncomfortable.
Until this spring, I had commuted to work every day in a suit without its ever feeling
strange. My fir m had had a rather strict dress code, requiring even low-ranking clerks
such as myself to wear suits. I had thought nothing of it.
Now, however, just sitting on the couch in a suit felt like some kind of immoral act,
like faking one's curriculum vitae or passing as a woman. Overcome with something very
like a guilty conscience, I found it in creasingly difficult to breathe.
I went to the front hall, took my brown shoes from their place on the shelf, and pried
myself into them with a shoehorn. A thin film of dust clung to them.



As it turned out, I didn't have to find the woman. She found me. When I arrived at the
tearoom, I did a quick circuit, looking for the red hat. There were no women with red
hats. My watch showed ten minutes left until four o'clock. I took a seat, drank the water
they brought me, and ordered a cup of coffee. No sooner had the waitress left my table
than I heard a woman behind me saying, "You must be Mr. Toru Okada." Surprised, I
spun around. Not three minutes had gone by since my survey of the room. Under a white
jacket she wore a yellow silk blouse, and on her head was a red vinyl hat. By reflex
action, I stood and faced her. "Beautiful" was a word that might well have been applied
to her. At least she was far more beautiful than I had imagined from her telephone voice.
She had a slim, lovely build and was sparing in her use of cosmetics. She knew how to
dress-except for the red hat. Her jacket and blouse were finely tailored. On the collar of
the jacket shone a gold brooch in the shape of a feather. She could have been taken for a
corporate sery. Why, after having lavished such care on the rest of her outfit, she would
have topped it off with that totally inappropriate red vinyl hat was beyond me. Maybe she
always wore it to help people spot her in situations like this. In that case, it was not a bad
idea. If the point was to have her stand out in a room full of strangers, it certainly did its
job.
She took the seat across the table from mine, and I sat down again. "I'm amazed you
kne w it was me," I said. "I couldn't find my polka-dot tie. I know I've got it somewhere,
but it just wouldn't turn up. Which is why I wore this striped one. I figured I'd find you,
but how did you know it was me?"
"Of course I knew it was you," she said, putting her white patent- leather bag on the
table. She took off her red vinyl hat and placed it over the bag, covering it completely. I
had the feeling she was about to perform a magic trick: when she lifted the hat, the bag
would have vanished.
"But I was wearing the wrong tie," I protested. "The wrong tie?" She glanced at my
tie with a puzzled expression, as if to say, What is this odd person talking about? Then
she nodded. "It doesn't matter. Please don't be concerned."
There was something strange about her eyes. They were mysteriously lacking in
depth. They were lovely eyes, but they did not seem to be looking at anything. They were
all surface, like glass eyes. But of course they were not glass eyes. They moved, and their

lids blinked.
How had she been able to pick me out of the crowd in this busy tearoom? Virtually
every chair in the place was taken, and many of them were occupied by men my age. I
wanted to ask her for an explanation, but I restrained myself. Better not raise irrelevant
issues.
She called to a passing waiter and asked for a Perrier. They had no Perrier, he said,
but he could bring her tonic water. She thought about this for a moment and accepted his
suggestion. While she waited for her tonic water to arrive, she said nothing, and I did the
same.
At one point, she lifted her red hat and opened the clasp of the pocket- book
underneath. From the bag she removed a glossy black leather case, somewhat smaller
than a cassette tape. It was a business card holder. Like the bag, it had a clasp-the first
card holder I had ever seen with a clasp. She drew a card from the case and handed it to
me. I reached into my breast pocket for one of my own cards, only then realizing that I
did not have any with me.
Her name card was made of thin plastic, and it seemed to carry a light fragrance of
incense. When I brought it closer to my nose, the smell grew more distinct. No doubt
about it: it was incense. The card bore a single line of small, intensely black letters:



Malta Kano

Malta? I turned the card over. It was blank.
While I sat there wondering about the meaning of this name card, the waiter came and
placed an ice-filled glass in front of her, then filled it halfway with tonic water. The glass
had a wedge of lemon in it. The waitress came with a silver -colored coffeepot on her tray.
She placed a cup in front of me and poured it full of coffee. With the furtive movements
of someone slipping an unlucky shrine fortune into someone else's hand, she eased the
bill onto the table and left.
"It's blank," Malta Kano said to me.
I was still staring at the back of her name card.
"Just my name. There is no need for me to include my address or tele phone number.
No one ever calls me. I am the one who makes the calls."
"I see," I said. This meaningless response hovered in the air above the table like the
floating island in Gulliver's Travels.
Holding her glass with both hands, she took one tiny sip through a straw. The hint of
a frown crossed her face, after which she thrust the glass asid e, as if she had lost all
interest in it.
"Malta is not my real name," said Malta Kano. "The Kano is real, but the Malta is a
professional name I took from the island of Malta. Have you ever been to Malta, Mr.
Okada?"
I said I had not. I had never been to Malta, and I had no plans to go to Malta in the
near future. It had never even crossed my mind to go there. All I knew about Malta was
the Herb Alpert performance of "The Sands of Malta," an authentic stinker of a song.
"I once lived in Malta," she said. "For three years. The water there is terrible.

Undrinkable. Like diluted seawater. And the bread they bake there is salty. Not because
they put salt in it, but because the water they make it with is salty. The bread is not bad,
though. I rather like Malta's bread."
I nodded and sipped my coffee.
"As bad as it tastes, the water from one particular place on Malta has a wonderful
influence on the body's elements. It is very special- even mystical- water, and it is
available in only the one place on the island. The spring is in the mountains, and you
have to climb several hours from a village at the base to get there. The water cannot be
transported from the site of the spring. If it is taken elsewhere, it loses its power. The only
way you can drink it is to go the re yourself. It is mentioned in documents from the time
of the Crusades. They called it spirit water. Alien Ginsberg once came there to drink it.
So did Keith Richards. I lived there for three years, in the little village at the foot of the
mountain. I raised vegetables and learned weaving. I climbed to the spring every day and
drank the special water. From 1976 to 1979. Once, for a whole week, I drank only that
water and ate no food. You must not put anything but that water in your mouth for an
entire week. This is a kind of discipline that is required there. I believe it can be called a
religious austerity. In this way you purify your body. For me, it was a truly wonderful
experience. This is how I came to choose the name Malta for professional purposes when
I returned to Japan."
"May I ask what your profession is?"
She shook her head. "It is not my profession, properly speaking. I do not take money
for what I do. I am a consultant. I talk with people about the elements of the body. I am
also engaged in research on water that has beneficial effects on the elements of the body.
Making money is not a problem for me. I have whatever assets I need. My father is a
doctor, and he has given my younger sister and myself stocks and real estate in a kind of
living trust. An accountant manages them for us. They produce a decent income each
year. I have also written several books that bring in a little income. My work on the
elements of the body is an entirely nonprofit activity. Which is why my card bears neither
address nor telephone number. I am the one who makes the calls."
I nodded, but this was simply a physical movement of the head: I had no idea what
she was talking about. I could understand each of the words she spoke, but it was
impossible for me to grasp their overall meaning. Elements of the body?
Alien Ginsberg?
I became increasingly uneasy. I'm not one of those people with special intuitive gifts,
but the more time I spent with this woman, the more I seemed to smell trouble.
"You'll have to pardon me," I said, "but I wonder if I could ask you to explain things
from the beginning, step by step. I talked to my wife a lit tle while ago, and all she said
was that I should see you and talk to you about our missing cat. To be entirely honest, I
don't really ge t the point of what you've just been telling me. Does it have anything to do
with the cat?"
"Yes, indeed," she said. "But before I go into that, there is something I would like
you to know, Mr. Okada."
She opened the metal clasp of her pocketbook again and took out a white envelope. In
the envelope was a photograph, which she handed to me. "My sister," she said. It was a
color snapshot of two women. One was Malta Kano, and in the photo, too, she was
wearing a hat- a yellow knit hat. Again it was ominously mismatched with her outfit. Her

sister-I assumed this was the younger sister whom she had mentioned- wore a pastel-
colored suit and matching hat of the kind that had been popular in the early sixties. I
seemed to recall that such colors had been known as "sherbet tone" back then. One thing
was certain, however: these sisters were fond of hats. The hairstyle of the younger one
was precisely that of Jacqueline Kennedy in her White House days, loaded with hair
spray. She wore a little too much makeup, but she could be fairly described as beautiful.
She was in her early to mid-twenties. I handed the photo back to Malta Kano, who
returned it to its envelope and the envelope to the handbag, shutting the clasp.
"My sister is five years my junior," she said. "She was defiled by Noboru Wataya.
Violently raped."
Terrific. I wanted to get the hell out of there. But I couldn't just stand up and walk
away. I took a handkerchief from my jacket pocket, wiped my mouth with it, and
returned it to the same pocket. Then I cleared my throat.
"That's terrible," I said. "I don't know anything about this, but if he did hurt your
sister, you have my heartfelt condolences. I must tell you, however, that my brother- in-
law and I have virtually nothing to do with each other. So if you are expecting some kind
of-"
"Not at all, Mr. Okada," she declared. "I do not hold you responsible in any way. If
there is someone who should be held responsible for what happened, that person is
myself. For being inattentive. For not having protected her as I should have.
Unfortunately, certain events made it im possible for me to do so. These things can
happen, Mr. Okada. As you know, we live in a violent and chaotic world. And within this
world, there are places that are still more violent, still more chaotic. Do you understand
what I mean, Mr. Okada? What has happened has happened. My sister will recover from
her wounds, from her defilement. She must. Thank goodness they were not fatal. As I
have said to my sister, the potential was there for something muc h, much worse to
happen. What I am most concerned about is the elements of her body."
"Elements of her body," I said. This "elements of the body" business was obviously a
consistent theme of hers.
"I cannot explain to you in detail how all these circumstances are re lated. It would be
a very long and very complicated story, and although I mean no disrespect to you when I
say this, it would be virtually impossible for you at this stage, Mr. Okada, to attain an
accurate understanding of the true meaning of that story, which involves a world that we
deal with on a professional basis. I did not invite you here in order to voice any complaint
to you in that regard. You are, of course, in no way responsible for what has happened. I
simply wanted you to know that, although it may be a temporary condition, my sister's
elements have been defiled by Mr. Wataya. You and she are likely to have some form of
contact with each other sometime in the future. She is my assistant, as I mentioned
earlier. At such time, it would probably be best for you to be aware of what occurred
between her and Mr. Wataya and to realize that these things can happen."
A short silence followed. Malta Kano looked at me as if to say, Please think about
what I have told you. And so I did. About Noboru Wataya's having raped Malta Kano's
sister. About the relationship between that and the elements of the body. And about the
relationship between those and the disappearance of our cat.
"Do I understand you to be saying," I ventured, "that neither you nor your sister
intends to bring a formal complaint on this matter ... to go to the police ... ?"

"No, of course we will do no such thing," said Malta Kano, her face expressionless.
"Properly speaking, we do not hold anyone responsible. We would simply like to have a
more precise idea of what caused such a thing to happen. Until we solve this question,
there is a real possibility that something even worse could occur."
I felt a degree of relief on hearing this. Not that it would have bothered me in the least
if Noboru Wataya had been convicted of rape and sent to prison. It couldn't happen to a
nicer guy. But Kumiko's brother was a rather well-known figure. His arrest and trial
would be certain to make the headlines, and that would be a terrible shock for Kumiko. If
only for my own mental health, I preferred the whole thing to go away.
"Rest assured," said Malta Kano, "I asked to see you today purely about the missing
cat. That was the matter about which Mr. Wataya sought my advice. Mrs. Okada had
consulted him on the matter, and he in turn consulted me."
That explained a lot. Malta Kano was some kind of clairvoyant or channeler or
something, and they had consulted her on the whereabouts of the cat. The Wataya family
was into this kind of stuff- divination and house "physiognomy" and such. That was fine
with me: people were free to believe anything they liked. But why did he have to go and
rape the younger sister of his spiritual counselor? Why stir up a lot of pointless trouble?
"Is that your area of expertise?" I asked. "Helping people find things?"
She stared at me with those depthless eyes of hers, eyes that looked as if they were
staring into the window of a vacant house. Judging from their expression, she had failed
to grasp the meaning of my question.
Without answering the question, she said, "You live in a very strange place, don't
you, Mr. Okada?"
"I do?" I said. "Strange in what way?"
Instead of replying, she pushed her nearly untouched glass of tonic water another six
or eight inches away from herself. "Cats are very sensitive creatures, you know."
Another silence descended on the two of us.
"So our place is strange, and cats are sensitive animals," I said. "OK. But we've lived
there a long time-the two of us and the cat. Why now, all of a sudden, did it decide to
leave us? Why didn't it leave before now?"
"That I cannot tell you. Perhaps the flow has changed. Perhaps something has
obstructed the flow."
"The flow."
"I do not know yet whether your cat is still alive, but I can be certain of one thing: it
is no longer in the vicinity of your house. You will never find the cat in that
neighborhood."
I lifted my cup and took a sip of my now lukewarm coffee. Beyond the tearoom
windows, a misty rain was falling. The sky was closed over with dark, low- hanging
clouds. A sad procession of people and umbrellas climbed up and down the footbridge
outside.
"Give me your hand," she said.
I placed my right hand on the table, palm up, assuming she was planning to read my
palm. Instead, she stretched her hand out and put her palm against mine. Then she closed
her eyes, remaining utterly still, as if silently rebuking a faithless lover. The waitress
came and refilled my cup, pretending not to notice what Malta Kano and I were doing.
People at nearby tables stole glances in our direction. I kept hoping all the while that

there were no acquaintances of mine in the vicinity.
"I want you to picture to yourself one thing you saw before you came here today,"
said Malta Kano.
"One thing?" I asked.
"Just one thing."
I thought of the flowered minidress that I had seen in Kumiko's clothes storage box.
Why that of all things happened to pop into my mind I have no idea. It just did.
We kept our hands together like that for another five minutes- five minutes that felt
very long to me, not so much because I was being stared at by people as that the touch of
Malta Kano's hand had something unsettling about it. It was a small hand, neither hot nor
cold. It had neither the intimate touch of a lover's hand nor the functional touch of a doc-
tor's. It had the same effect on me as her eyes had, turning me into a va cant house. I felt
empty: no furniture, no curtains, no rugs. Just an empty container. Eventually, Malta
Kano withdrew her hand from mine and took several deep breaths. Then she nodded
several times.
"Mr. Okada," she said, "I believe that you are entering a. phase of your life in which
many different things will occur. The disappearance of your cat is only the beginning."
"Different things," I said. "Good things or bad things?"
She tilted her head in thought. "Good things and bad things. Bad things that seem
good at first, and good things that seem bad at first."
"To me, that sounds very general," I said. "Don't you have any more concrete
information?"
"Yes, I suppose what I am saying does sound very general," said Malta Kano. "But
after all, Mr. Okada, when one is speaking of the es sence of things, it often happens that
one can only speak in generalities. Concrete things certainly do command attention, but
they are often little more than trivia. Side trips. The more one tries to see into the
distance, the more generalized things beco me."
I nodded silently- without the slightest inkling of what she was talk ing about.
"Do I have your permission to call you again?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, though in fact I had no wish to be called by anyone. "Sure" was about
the only answer I could give.
She snatched her red vinyl hat from the table, took the handbag that had been hidden
beneath it, and stood up. Uncertain as to how I should respond to this, I remained seated.
"I do have one small bit of information that I can share with you " Malta Kano said,
looking down at me, after she had put on her red hat. "You will find your polka-dot tie,
but not in your house."