Today, Friday May 12th, I'd anticipated spending the evening dining with Kitty, and to that end had made reservations at Ifu Cheli, an upmarket restaurant specializing in the traditional food of the Yendo area. It's in the trendy Ingsha Lantan area, which is busy in the evenings but well-provided with parking. I don't often dine out, and I'd been looking forward to it.
        Instead, I end up at Yendo Central Hospital, at Atakana's bedside. I'm not a doctor so I can't properly judge his condition. However, given that he's already complaining both about being bored and about the hospital food, he can't be too bad.
        "What happened?" I ask.
        "I've got no idea," says Atakana. "I don't even remember waking up this morning."
        "You'd been drinking," I say. "Whose idea was that?"
        The response is unsatisfactory.
        Atakana must have started drinking, but he has no memory of it. Today is a blank for him. He has no memory of falling, no memory of masked men pushing him over the balustrade. And (evidently) no alternative memory of his wife shoving him over the brink.
        Atakana claims to be hungry, saying that he missed lunch and that the hospital's excuse for a dinner was inedible. If they're letting him eat and if he's well enough to complain about the food then presumably his medical condition is not too catastrophic. At his insistence, I go out foraging for food, and end up at Royo Yeating Tongue, a takeaway bar I used to visit on occasion when I dropped by at Aunt Chariot's place -- the burnt-out ruins of Dolagataka Dignity Domiciles are not far from the hospital.
        When I return to Atakana's bedside bearing vegetable fried rice and chicken cooked with cashew nuts, I find that Mitodarni has shown up with a bunch of red roses.
        It's anomalous, my lawyer putting in an appearance at my brother's hospital bed. Two things go through my head. The first is a nonsensical piece of prophecy made by Melshu, "Strangled by hair curlers". The second thing is the thought that I had yesterday afternoon, immediately after I'd received the threatening two-person telephone call: the Udamana lands could have been secretly sold if Mitodarni had forged my seal and signature on the necessary documents.
        My suspicion eases away to nothing when Mitodarni explains that his primary reason for turning up at the hospital is to visit his niece Andaliba who suffers from a distressing affliction that I've never heard of before. Something called fibromyalgia, a syndrome which causes pain in various parts of the body. Andaliba is just ten and her plight has plainly made a big impact on Mitodarni, who is keen to share the details.
        Later, however, as I drive home, the nag of suspicion resurfaces, and I find myself thinking about Mitodarni and his possible role in this affair. If Mitodarni was involved, how could he possibly benefit from a land sale? Well, if he forged the appropriate documents and tricked someone into paying cash for our land, then he could get on a plane and quit the country. Taking the cash with him.
        "Strangled by hair curlers," I say, again repeating Melshu's teasingly inadequate prophetic words.
        Obviously my information is inadequate. But does it matter? Suppose Mitodarni has forged a contract: what then? If someone shows up waving a contract and claiming to have purchased our land, then all I have to do is repudiate the contract. No, no, I'll say, that's not my seal. That's not my signature.
        "The bottom line," I say, "in the worst case, Mitodarni steals someone else's money."
        And then? And then flies off to Hastagrill Island or wherever, to a foreign territory which has no extradition treaty with Nizon, and spends the rest of his life lounging on the beach drinking crocodile wince.
        "No problem for me or mine," I say.
        Anyway, where did the notion of Mitodarni as a possible suspect come from? It came from nowhere, more or less. Mitodarni is a lawyer, true. And he did visit Atakana in hospital. But, logically, that combination does not make him a forger and a thief. The truth is that I'm floundering. It's not clear who is threatening me or why therefore everyone is becoming a suspect, regardless of probability.