THE HUNDRED-AND-NINETEENTH PAGE

Yes, it was war.

The next day’s mail contained a package from Inspector Javert from New Jersey. I did not sniff it or shake it, but drove directly from the post office to the dump, violating the rules of paper and pasteboard recycling by throwing the box into the general bins. I thought I had foiled my antagonist.

At home I busily set myself to opening the accumulated mail of recent days as I had not had the heart to open any packages after the rat attack. I swiftly made certain that there were no clever return addresses, only the comfortable names that had appeared on my parcels for years.

I ripped open a jiffy bag from a New Jersey antiquarian book dealer I had dealt with for many years, although I could not recall having placed an order recently. Of course, it could have been the result of a lengthy book search initiated many months earlier. Who can remember the coming and going of orders placed daily week after week?

This, however, was not a book I had ordered. Nor had I ordered the cockroaches that burst out along with the shredded paper padding of the jiffy bag. They must have hatched several generations in the journey from New Jersey for one would have thought the bag could have held no more than a few dozen. It spilled forth hundreds.