The New Yorker: Fiction cover image

Rebecca Curtis Reads Haruki Murakami

The New Yorker: Fiction

CHAPTER

The Shingowa Monkey

My handbag was found outside a small police station near the park. The cash was still inside, as were my credit cards, a t m card and selphone. Only my driver's license was gone. I really didn't want to think that the shinegawa monkey was back to stealing names. He told me quite matter of factly that having seven women's names talked inside him was plenty.

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