Chapter 6: Do We Still Have a Long Way to Go? (Tengo)

1Q84, Volume 1,
By Murakami Haruki, Version 1.0
Chapter 6: Do We Still Have a Long Way to Go? (Tengo)

A call came from Komatsu early Friday morning, just after 5 o'clock. At that time, Tengo was having a dream about crossing a long stone bridge. He was going to the other side to get some which were important for reasons he couldn't remember. Tengo was the only person walking across the bridge. Lined with sandbanks all over the place, it was a beautiful river. The water was flowing slowly, and along the shoreline willow trees were growing. The graceful shapes of trout were visible. Vivid green leaves were drooping over the surface of the water. It was like the scenery in a Chinese painting. Having been woken up from this scene, he peered through the darkness at his bedside clock. Of course, before he picked up the receiver he alread had a pretty good idea about who would be calling at this kind of hour.
“Tengo, do you own a word processor?” Komatsu asked. No “good morning” or “were you already awake?” Surely if he had been already awake, then he must have been up all night. It wasn't as though he would wake up this early just because he wanted to see the sun rise. Whereever he had been before falling asleep, he must have remembered something he needed to tell Tengo.
“Of course I don't have one,” Tengo said. It was still dark. And he was still in the middle of the long bridge. It was unusual for Tengo to see a dream this clearly. “It's nothing to brag about, but I can't afford one.”
“Can you use them?”
“I can. If I had a computer or a word processor, I'd use it. We have them at the cram school, so I use them for work”
“OK, then see if you can find one to buy today. I don't know anything about machines, so I'll leave the brand and the model up to you. Worry about the cost later. I want you to use the computer to start rewriting 'The Chrysalis of Air' as quickly as possible.”
“Even if you say that, the cheapest ones are 250,000 yen.”
“I don't care how much it costs.”
Tengo rubbed his neck with the receiver. “Are you saying that you're buying me a word processor, Komatsu?”
“Well, I've got a little bit of pocket money saved up. In this business, it's necessary to invest a little money. You can't be stingy. You know that 'The Chrysalis of Air' was sent in as an electronic manuscript, so when it comes to revising it, it would be bad if you did it without a computer. At least we can make it look like the original. Could you start rewriting it today?”
Tengo thought about it. “That'll work. I think I'll be able to start soon. But Fukaeri told me that before she gave me permission to rewrite it, I would have to meet someone on Sunday, and I still haven't met that person yet. If things go badly at the meeting, then there's a chance that the money and effort will have all been for nothing.”
“I don't care. Things will work out somehow. We can handle the details later. For now, it's a race against time.”
“So you're saying you have confidence that the interview will go well?”
“It's a gut feeling,” Komatsu said. “Call it a hunch. I don't seem to have been gifted with any special talents or anything, but I do get hunches. I'd even venture to say that they're the only reason I've survived up til now. Hey, Tengo, what's the difference between talents and hunches?”
“I don't really know.”
“There are some talents that let you eat as much as you want, but when it you have good intuition, you never have to worry about food.”
“I guess I get it,” Tengo said.
“So I'm not worried about it. It's fine if you start today as soon as possible.”
“If that's what you say, then I won't worry about it. If you expect me to start now, though, I just don't want to hear anything like 'Oh, your hard work was for nothing' later on.”
“In that situation, I'll take full responsibility.”
“OK. I promised to meet someone this afternoon, but other than that I'm free. I'll go into town this morning and pick out a computer.”
“Please do, Tengo. I'm counting on you. Together, we can change the world.”

Just after 9 o'clock there was a call from his girlfriend. It was after the time when she usually drove her husband and kids to the train station. She was coming over to Tengo's apartment that afternoon. They always got together on Fridays.
“My body doesn't feel well,” she said. “I'm sorry, but it seems that I won't be coming today. See you next week, OK?”
Saying that her body wasn't feeling well was her roundabout way of letting him know that she was on her period. She was the well-bred sort of person who used roundabout expressions to refer to her period. When she was in bed, she wasn't an especially polite or indirect person, but that was an entirely different issue. Tengo said he was sorry no to see her, but that it couldn't be helped.
This week, though, it wasn't so bad that he couldn't see her. Sex with her was fun, but Tengo was already preoccupied with rewriting 'The Chrysalis of Air”. Various ideas for the revision kept popping into his head like bubbles bursting on an ancient sea. I'm not that different from Komatsu, Tengo thought. Even before it's been formally decided, I already feel like working on it.
Att 10 o'clock, he went to Shinjuku and used his credit card to buy a Fujitsu computer. Compared to the previous models of the same line, the newest models were all more lightweight. He bought some spare ink ribbons and some paper. Then he took his purchases back to his apartment, put them on his desk and plugged in the power chord. At work he normally used big word processors, but there was a huge difference between those and the smaller models in terms of functionality. Once he had made sure the machine was working correctly, Tengo began to rewrite “The Chrysalis of Air”.
He didn't have anything like a clear plan for rewriting the novel. He only had ideas about certain parts. For the sake of consistency, though, he'd have to rewrite the whole thing. Tengo wasn't sure if it was even possible to rewrite “The Chrysalis of Air” while retaining the original sense of illusion. Komatsu had said that the writing needed some big changes, but changing it would probably lose the essential atmosphere and quality of the story. It would be like giving the wrong skeleton to a butterfly. When he thought about these kinds of things, when he had doubts, he became more anxious. But things had already started to move forward. And there wasn't much time. There was no time to be crossing his arms and brooding. At any rate, he'd just have to deal with the specific details one at a time. Maybe as he handle all the little details, the shape of the entire thing would materialize.
“Tengo, you can do it because you're you. That much I know,” Komatsu had confidently declared. He wasn't sure why, but it seemed to Tengo that Komatsu could just be making the whole thing up. When it came to that guy's behavior, he had no idea what to think. In any case, there wasn't a big difference between their goals. And he never seemed to think of the past. However, that guy had also said that as an editor, he had a hunch that there was something special about the story. Komatsu never had any hesitation about saying anything. Once he had decided on something, he would act immediately. He didn't care what people around him said. He barked orders like a commander on the front lines. And it seemed that Tengo had never been blessed with that sort of ability.
By the time Tengo actually started to revise the novel, it was 12:30 in the afternoon. He typed the first few pages of the manuscript on the computer screen, until he reached a good stopping point. Then he revised this block until he was satisfied. He didn't want to change the content, just thoroughly rearrange the writing. It was the same as renovating rooms in a mansion. The basic structure had to remain unchanged. There was no problem with the structure itself. There was no need to change the plumbing. The things which could be changed out-the ceilings, floors, walls and curtains-just needed to be upgraded. I must be a really good carpenter, Tengo thought to himself. I don't even need anything like the finished designs. I just have to use all of my skill and intuition to fix it up here and there.
He read the passage over once, adding explanations in the places that were hard to understand and making the sentences seem to flow better. He removed any unnecessary or redundant statements, and filled in the places that seemed to be missing something. Every so often, he would change the order of sentences or phrases. Since the original didn't have many descriptive words, he added adjectives wherever he thought they were needed while trying to respect the original style. Fukaeri's writing was bad in general, and there wasn't a clear distinction between the good parts and the bad parts, so most of the work consisted of trying to figure out which was which. Because the writing was so bad, it was difficult to read and difficult to understand, but that was what made it fresh. The goal was to remove the difficult parts while salvaging the fresh parts.
While making progress on his rewriting, Tengo kept thinking about how it didn't feel like Fukaeri had written the story as a literary novel. She used her own words-words she would use if she was really seeing something with her own eyes-for example, she used words that were usually reserved for documenting records. The words weren't particularly good, but, ignoring the words, he couldn't find any phrases which didn't serve some function. That was all there were. That's why it didn't seem to have been written as literature. If there was no intent to distribute the story, there was no need to fill it in with little details. In a room, for example, a roof and four walls are all it takes to keep out the rain and the wind. Thus, Fukaeri didn't care how much Tengo messed with her writing. She had already achieved her goal. “Rewrite it if you want,” she had said, and that was probably exactly how she felt.
Though the structure of the writing of “The Chrysalis of Air” was already decided, only he himself could understand which type of sentences were good. If he looked at it with his own eyes, he got the idea that if Fukaeri's aim had been to record information, then writing the piece like a news article would be sufficient. There was no need to go to all the trouble of making it readable. That's how it seemed to him, as it had been assumed that only some specific person would read it. Even though “The Chrysalis of Air” hadn't been written as literature, and even though the writing was bad, it still had the power to appeal to people's hearts. However, it was important to bear in mind that this other person was probably different than most readers in the general public. That was the impression Tengo got from reading it.
Well, just what sort of reader might he be?
Tengo had no idea, of course.
What Tengo did know was that “The Chrysalis of Air” had very good parts and very bad parts, that it was really unique fiction, and that it seemed to have some special purpose.

As a result of the revisions, the length of the manuscript swelled to two and a half times the original size. Logically, if there were more places with too little writing than places with too much, the size of the whole thing would increase during revision. After all, the original version had been much too thin. To turn it into a proper novel, the point of view needed to be stabilized and it needed to be easier to read. But the original flow needed to remain clear. Obviously with too much outside influence the sharpness of the original manuscript would be lost.
The next job was to remove all the unnecessary parts from the expanded manuscript. Absolutely anything that wasn't needed would be cut out. The work of removing was much simpler than the work of filling in the problem spots. This editing cut the size of the work down to about of 70% of its size. It was a kind of mind game. Adding things took time, and taking things out took time. He would take turns alternating between these tasks, and gradually the time for each task would decrease as the novel became more literary. The less he had to add, the closer he would come to the point where there would be nothing left to remove. Ignoring his own ego, he removed any unnecessary modifications, using ever bit of common sense he possessed. Doing work like this was Tengo's natural talent. He'd been born a specialist. With the concentration of a bird searching for worms from the air, and the endurance of a donkey carrying a heavy load, he would always follow the rules of the game.

Holding his breath, he continued his work like this as though absorbed in a dream, so that if he looked at the clock on the wall each time he toke a breath, three minutes would pass between each glance. For that matter, he hadn't had lunch. He went to the kitchen and boiled some water in the kettle while grinding some coffee beans. He ate a few slices of cheese biscuit, took a bite of an apple, and made coffee with the boiling water. He drank from a large mug and thought about sex with his older girlfriend for a while, to change his mood. Normally, he ought to be doing that with her right now. He thought about what he would do, and what she would do. He closed his eyes, faced the ceiling, and took a deep breath while considering the possibilities.
After that, Tengo returned to his desk, rebooted the circuitry in his head, and began rereading the revised block of “The Chrysalis of Air” on the screen from the beginning. He was like the general turning to inspect his troops in the trenches in the Stanley Kubrick movie “Paths of Glory”. He looked over his own words and nodded. Not bad. The writing is getting better. Things are progressing. But it's not done yet. There are still some things missing. Here and there the sandbags are collapsing. The machine guns are running out of bullets. The barbed wire seems to be running all over the place.
He printed out what he had so far. Then, he saved his work, shut off the computer, and pushed it to the side of his desk. Next, he carefully read each page one more time, pencil in hand. He marked the phrases he thought needed to be removed and the phrases which needed to be expanded until he was satisfied that there was nothing left to mark. As if choosing a tile to fit into a crack in a bathtub, he inspected the situation from every angle, choosing the perfect words. If the fit was bad, he would adjust the placement. There were subtle differences that could make or break a novel.
The way the exact same words looked on paper was slightly different from the way they looked on the computer screen. The feel of writing with a pencil was different from the feel of pressing buttons on a keyboard. It was necessary to check from both viewpoints. He turned on the computer and one by one corrected the places he had marked in pencil. Then he read the new version of the manuscript on the screen. Not bad, Tengo thought. Each sentence has the proper weight, and flows with the proper rhythm.
Tengo sat back in his chair to stretch his back, looked up at the ceiling, and let out a deep breath. Of course, it's not perfect. No matter how many days I reread it, I would always find something to fix. But this is good enough. This is the limit of m concentration. I also need some time to cool off. The hand on the clock is pointing to 5 o'clock, and it's starting to get dark. I'll revise the next block tomorrow. I've only done the beginning but it took almost a whole day. It's taking longer than I thought it would. But, just like laying railroad tracks, it should go quicker once I get into the rhythm. Just like anything else, the part is starting out. If I can get past that, then...
Then Tengo imagined Fukaeri's face and wondered how she would feel if she read the revised manuscript. Tengo hadn't the slightest idea what she would think, though. Tengo knew absolutely nothing about Fukaeri as a person. All he knew was that she was 17 years old, a third-year high school student with absolutely no interest in taking college entrance exams, had a strange way of talking, drank white wine, and had a face that stirred people's hearts.
But the description (or perhaps it was a documentation) of how the world was in Fukaeri's “The Chrysalis of Air” brought forth a response in Tengo, or something like a response, which made him feel like she had an almost perfect grasp on what was happening. Thanks to Tengo's careful and attentive editing, the images which had been limited by Fukaeri's peculiar use of language became more clear and vivid. It had to flow as one. Tengo knew that. He consistently added only artistic improvements, as if he himself had written the original, so that his changes blended naturally with the original. Thus, “The Chrysalis of Air” arose powerfully as a single story.
Tengo couldn't be more pleased. Having spent a long time concentrating on his revision, his felt exhausted, although he felt strangely uplifted. He turned off the word processor and, after removing it from the from of the desk, briefly considered continuing his revision. He was enjoying rewriting the story. If things kept going as they were, Fukaeri couldn't be disappointed with the final product. Although, Tengo couldn't imagine Fukaeri looking either pleased or disappointed. Rather, if he imagined her face smiling, the area around her mouth seemed to blur slightly. Her face didn't have things like expressions. Tengo didn't know if she had no expressions because she naturally had no emotions, or if it was that she simply hid her emotions. Either way, she's a strange girl, Tengo thought.

The main character of “The Chrysalis of Air” was probably based on a younger version of Fukaeri herself.
She was a ten year old girl, in a special commune (it would probably be described as a commune) in the mountains, taking care of a blind goat. All the children were each given a job. Goats held a special meaning in this community, so because this particular goat was getting old, someone needed to watch it to make sure that nothing happened to it. It mustn't be let out of her sight. These were her orders. But she didn't pay attention, and during that time the goat had died. She was punished for it. She was put in a storeroom with the dead goats. For ten days she was completely alone and forbidden from leaving. She was also forbidden from talking to anyone.
Goats served the role of a passageway between this world and the world of the little people. She didn't know whether the little people were good or bad (Tengo didn't know either, of course). When night fell, the little people passed through the corpse of the goat and came to this world. When morning came, they would return to the other side. The girl was able to talk with the little people. They told the girl how to make the chrysalis of Air.

What Tengo admired most was how detailed and concrete the descriptions of the behavior and actions of the unseeing goat were. Details like those were what made the whole work so vivid. Could she have possibly taken care of an actual blind goat? Tengo guessed that she probably had. Even if she hadn't experienced the whole story herself, Fukaeri had a rare natural talent as a narrator.
The next time I see Fukaeri (which ought to be Sunday) I should ask about goats and communes, Tengo thought. Of course, he didn't know how Fukaeri would respond to such questions. Remembering their last meeting, she hadn't seemed to answer many questions. Questions she didn't want to answer, or questions she didn't plan on answering, she easily ignored. It was as though she went deaf. Just like Komatsu. They were a lot alike. Tengo wasn't like that. If you asked him something, anything at all, he would somehow answer honestly. He had probably just been born that way.

At 5:30, his older girlfriend called.
“What are you doing now?” she asked.
“I'm writing a whole novel in one day,” Tengo said. It was half true, half lie. He wasn't actually writing his own novel. But there was no reason to give a full explanation.
“Are you getting work done?”
“Sort of.”
“I'm sorry for canceling so suddenly today. Do you think we'll meet next week?”
“I'm looking forward to it,” Tengo said.
“Me too,” she said.
Then she talked about her kids. She often talked to Tengo about her children. She had two small daughters. Tengo had no siblings, and of course he had no children. Therefore, he didn't know anything about kids. She didn't care about about that, however, and talked about her own kids anyway. Tengo didn't talk about himself very much. He liked listening to people talk about anything. Therefore he listened interestedly when she talked. Her older daughter, a second-year elementary student, seemed to be being bullied, she told him. The daughter hadn't said so herself, but a classmate's mother had come to talk to her about it. Of course Tengo had never met this daughter. Once he had seen a picture of her. She didn't resemble her mother at all.
“Why is she being bullied?” Tengo asked.
“Sometimes she has asthma attacks and can't do things with the other children. Maybe that's it. She's an obedient child, and her grades aren't bad.”
“I don't really know,” Tengo said, “but children with asthma should be protected, not bullied.”
“In the world of kids, things aren't that simple,” she said with a sigh. “Everyone different gets left out. It's kind of the same in the adult world, but it's more personal in the kid world.”
“How, specifically?”
She considered specific examples. One by one, she considered things, but it seemed like the sort of thing a kid would have to answer. It was something secret. She hadn't said why. It was something mean.
“Were you bullied as a kid?”
Tengo remembered his childhood. “I don't think so. Maybe I'm wrong, but never that I noticed.”
“If you didn't notice, then you were never bullied. The whole point of bullying is to be noticed. If you didn't notice any bullying, then you couldn't have been bullied.”
When Tengo was a kid, he had been big and strong. Everyone kept an eye out for him. That was probably why he wasn't bullied. But in those days, bullying wasn't as serious.
“Were you bullied?” Tengo asked.
“Yes,” she said directly. Then she seemed to hesitate. “I was bullied.”
“In front of everyone?”
“Yes. In fifth grade. Everyone was listening to one boy. I don't remember why. There was probably some reason, but since I don't remember it, it couldn't have been very important. But either way, I still think it was bad. I think it was something embarrassing. I wonder why it had to happen. I don't really know myself.”
Tengo related to this, and suddenly remembered a similar incident. It was like a broken memory when not fully awake. It was something he couldn't forget. But this conversation had brought it up. It was too long to say. Once it was put into words, the most important nuances of the event would be lost. He had never talked about it with anyone, and he probably never would.
“Ultimately,” his older girlfriend said, “most people joined in the shunning because being part of the group meant being safe. Well, better her than me. It was the same in all times and places, most people didn't bother to think about troublesome things.”
“Once you become part of the minority, you become troublesome to think about.”
“You said it,” she said in a depressed voice. “But that might not be the case as often if people just thought for themselves more.”
“More people should probably think for themselves.”
“That is a problem.”
“It's easier not to think too much about things,” Tengo said. “Ultimately it would be more painful. In class, only a few kids use their head properly.”
“That's right,” she said. Then she thought to herself about something for a moment. Tengo waited patiently with his ear pressed against the receiver while she got her thoughts in order.
“Thanks. It was fun talking to you,” she said after a while. She seemed to have been reminded if something.
“It was relaxing for me, too,” Tengo said.
“Why's that?”
“Because I was talking to you.”
“See you next Friday,” she said.

After hanging up, Tengo went outside to the neighborhood supermarket and bought some food. He returned to his room with a paper bag, and one by one he wrapped up the vegetables and fish, then put them in the refrigerator. After that he was listening to music on the radio while preparing dinner when the phone rang. The phone had rang four times in one day, which was unusual for Tengo. He could easily count the number of times it had happened in the last year. This time the call was from Fukaeri.
“About this Sunday,” She said without introduction.
On the other end of the line he could hear car horns blaring. Something seemed to be angering the drivers. She was probably calling from a public phone near a big street.
“You mean about our meeting with someone somewhere this Sunday,” Tengo filled in.
“At 9AM, the first car, the train to Tachikawa from Shinjuku station,” she said. It was like she was reciting three facts.
“You're saying that we'll meet on the front car of the train on the lower platform in the middle?”
“Right.”
“Where should I buy a ticket to?”
“Wherever.”
“”I'll just buy a ticket for a likely place and then adjust the fare when we arrive,” Tengo speculated on his own. It was for the sake of rewriting “The Chrysalis of Air”. “Then, will we be going somewhere far away?”
“What are you doing now?” she asked, ignoring the question.
“Making dinner.”
“What kind?”
“Since I'm alone, nothing much. Grilled fish and radish. I'm going to eat it with tofu and leak miso soup. With cucumbers, seaweed, and vinegar. Then I'll pickle it with cabbage for lunch. That's all.”
“Sounds tasty.”
“Yeah. It's not the most delicious thing ever. It's just the usual meal,” Tengo said.
Fukaeri didn't say anything. Long silences didn't bother her. But Tengo wasn't like that.
“That's right, I started rewriting your 'The Chrysalis of Air” today,” Tengo said. “You never gave me your final permission, but if I waited until Sunday, there wouldn't be enough time.”
“Komatsu told you to?”
“That's right. Komatsu told me to start rewriting.”
“You're close to Komatsu?”
“Yeah, you could say we're close.” There was probably no on in the world closer to Komatsu. But that would take a while to explain.
“Is the revision going well?”
“So far. More or less.”
“That's good,” Fukaeri said. Somehow it didn't seem like her usual empty response. She sounded pleased to hear that the revision was progressing. Normally her control over her emotions didn't let this much show.
“I'm glad you're interested,” Tengo said.
“I'm not worried,” Fukaeri said after pausing.
“Why do you say that?” Tengo asked.
Fukaeri didn't answer that one. As usual the phone was silent. It was a deliberate kind of silence. It was probably silence to let Tengo think. But no matter how hard he strained his brain, he had no idea why she was so certain.
To break the silence, Tengo said,” Hey, there's something I wanted to ask you. Did you really live in a commune like that and take care of a goat? I'm asking because the description seemed so close to reality. So I wanted do know, did that really happen?”
Fukaeri gave a slight cough. “Goats don't talk.”
“That's fine,” Tengo said. “If you say they don't talk, then they don't. I was just asking. Don't worry. That how it is with authors and their works. There's no need for any further explanation. About the meeting on Sunday. Is there anything I should know about the person we're meeting?”
“I don't really know.”
“What I mean is... How should I dress, what sort of gift should I bring, that sort of thing. What sort of person is he, since you haven't given me any hints?”
Fukaeri was still silent. But this time it wasn't intentional silence. She was simply trying to understand the point of Tengo's questions. His questions didn't touch down anywhere in the realm of her consciousness. It was like they had passed over the edge of her understanding and gotten sucked into oblivion. They might as well have been rockets sent out to explore the other side of Pluto.
“Never mind, it's not a big deal,” Tengo said, losing interest. These kind of questions are irrelevant. I'll just buy some fruit from somewhere.
“OK, 9 o'clock on Sunday,” Tengo said.
Fukaeri paused for a few seconds, then hung up without saying anything. Mo “goodbye” or “well, see you Sunday.” She just hung up abruptly.
Maybe she had nodded to Tengo instead of saying goodbye. Most people didn't use body language over the phone, though. Tengo hung up the phone, took two deep breaths to clear his head, then went back to preparing his small dinner.

Chapter 5: A Job that Requires Special Skills and Training

1Q84, Volume 1, By Murakami Haruki

Chapter 5: A Job that Requires Special Skills and Training

Once her work was finished, Aomame walked for a little before hailing a cab and going to her hotel in Asakasa. Before she could go home and go to bed, she needed to calm her excited nerves with alcohol. After all, she had just sent a man to the other side. She couldn't feel to bad about killing him, since he had been a dirty rat, but in the end a person is a person. The feeling of killing him with her own hand still remained. He took his final breath and his soul exited his body. Aomame had gone to this hotel bar many times. It was on the top floor of a skyscraper, with a good view and a cozy counter.

She entered the bar at a little after 7. A young duo were performing “Sweet Lauren” in a guitar and piano. It was a cover of an old Nat King Cole record, but it wasn't bad. As always, she took a seat at the bad and ordered a gin and tonic as well as a bowl of pistachios. The bar wasn't very crowded yet. Watching the evening view was a young couple drinking cocktails, a group of businessmen in suits seemingly in the midst of negotiations, and a middle-aged foreign couple with martinis in their hands. She took her time drinking her gin and tonic. She didn't want to get drunk too quickly. The night was still young.

She withdrew a book from her shoulder bag and started reading. It was a book about a 1930s-era Manchurian railroad. This Manchurian railroad (specifically the South Manchurian Railroad Corporation) was closed for a year after the Japan-Russo War, then, with the acquisition of a local railroad from Russia, grew rapidly in scale. Eventually, it was dismantled by the Soviet army to defend against invasion through China by the Japanese Empire. Before the war in Germany began in 1941, though, it had been possible to get to Paris in under three days by changing trains in Siberia.

A young woman in a business suit and a large shoulder bag sitting all alone in a bar sipping a cocktail while intently reading a hardcover book about Manchurian railroads could easily be mistaken for a high-class prostitute looking for clients, Aomame thought. She didn't really know what high-class prostitutes generally looked like, though. When meeting with wealthy businessmen, prostitutes probably tried not to look like prostitutes, so as not to cause stress for their clients or get thrown out of the bar. Maybe they would wear Junko Shimada business suits with white blouses and large, businesslike shoulder bags, while wearing very little makeup and reading books about Manchurian railroads. When she thought about it, there wasn't really any big difference between herself and a prostitute at the moment.

As time went by, the number of customers gradually increased. The air was filled with the hum of talking voices. But none of the customers looked like her type. Aomame had another gin and tonic, ordered a plate of celery sticks (she still hadn't had dinner yet) and continued to read her book. Eventually a man sat down at the counter next to her. There wasn't anyone with him. He was slightly sunburned and wearing a high-quality tailored suit. His taste in neckties wasn't bad. Not too flashy or too plain. He was probably about 50 years old. His hair had become fairly thin, and he wasn't wearing glasses. He was probably in Tokyo on a business trip, and, having spent the day resolving various matters, didn't want to go to bed without having a drink first. Just like Aomame. Having a little alcohol in the body calmed any tense nerves.

If he was a businessman on a business trip, then he probably wasn't staying in this hotel. He would be staying in a cheap business hotel. It would probably be close to the train station, with rooms that had barely enough space for a bed, windows through which you could only see the walls of neighboring buildings, and a shower so small that you would bang your elbow at least 20 times while showering. In every hallway there would be a vending machine to buy drinks or toiletries. Since companies always wanted to save as much money as possible, he was probably staying in this cheap hotel room at his own expense, or something like that. He would probably just drink a beer at a local bar and then head to bed.

The people staying at this hotel were a completely different sort, though. They wouldn't agree to go on a business trip to Tokyo unless they could take the executive car on the bullet train and stay in a high-class hotel. Once their work was finished, they would come to the hotel bar to relax by drinking expensive sake. Most of these people were managers for first-rate companies. They were independent consultants, perhaps, or doctors or lawyers. Being middle-aged, money was no object for them. They were more or less accustomed to doing whatever they wanted. Aomame reminded herself that he might be that type of guy.

Ever since she had been twenty years old, Aomame had been attracted to men with thinning hair, although she herself didn't understand why. Rather than being completely bald, she preferred that they had a little hair left. Just being bald wasn't enough, however. Their heads had to have the right shape. Ideally their heads would be shaped just like Sean Connery's. His head was very beautifully shaped. Just looking at it was enough to make her heart flutter. Sitting two seats away from the man at the counter, she thought the shape of his head wasn't so bad. Of course, it wasn't as perfect as Sean Connery's, but it had the same feeling about it. Most of his hair had retreated to the back of his head, but a few strands of hair remained, giving the impression of a frosty meadow at the end of fall. Aomame looked up from the pages of her book for a moment to admire the shape of his head. His face wasn't particularly impressive. He wasn't fat, but the skin on his jaw was beginning to droop. There were also bag-like things forming under his eyes. He was the kind of middle-aged man you'd find anywhere. But there was something intriguing about the shape of his head.

The bartender brought over a menu and a napkin, and the man, without looking at the menu, ordered a scotch highball. “Do you have a favorite brand?” the bartender asked. “I don't have a special favorite. I don't really care,” the man said. He had a calm, quiet voice. She could detect a Kansai accent. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he asked if they might have any Cutty Sark. The bartender said that they did. Not bad, Aomame thought. Other than Chivas Regal, she didn't really have a taste for refined malts. In Aomame's personal opinion, the kind of people who drank sake in bars weren't interested in sex. Just why she thought that, she didn't know.

Aomame liked Kansai accents. She especially liked people who had been born and raised in Kansai then moved to Tokyo, because it was so obviously out of place when they tried to use Tokyo phrases unsuccessfully. When the vocabulary and the intonation didn't match up, there was nothing better. Strangely, hearing those odd sounds would calm her mind. Go for this guy, her heart decided. It felt as if she wanted to fiddle with his remaining hair with her fingers. When the bartender brought over the Cutty Sark highball, she caught him and, intentionally speaking so that the man would hear her, said “Cutty Sark, on the rocks.” “No problem,” the bartender replied with a blank expression.

A navy blue patterned necktie had been loosened over the unbuttoned top button of his shirt. The collar of the shirt was pale blue. While waiting for her Cutty Sark to come, she continued reading her book. Meanwhile, she casually unfastened the top button of her blouse. The band was playing “It's Only a Paper Moon”. The pianist sang the chorus. Once her drink arrived, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. She knew that the man was sneaking a glance at her. Aomame lifted her face from between the pages of the book and glanced in his direction. She did so casually, so that it felt accidental. Meeting his eye, she may or may not have looked like she was smiling. Then she moved her eyes a little past his face to look out the window at the nighttime scenery.

The timing was perfect for him to talk to her. She had taken care to arrange it that way. But the man didn't speak. It's perfect already, say whatever you want, Aomame thought. Since he probably wasn't very experienced with this sort of thing, Aomame assumed that her signals must have been too subtle. He probably just didn't have the courage to do it, Aomame speculated. He was probably concerned that he was fifty while she was in her twenties, and old bald guys weren't in the habit of breaking the silence. Well then. I can tell casual isn't going to work.

She shut her book and put it in her bag. Then she spoke to him herself.

“Is Cutty Sark your favorite?” Aomame asked.

He looked at her, seemingly surprised. The expression on his face seemed to say, “I just heard something, but I don't really understand what it means.” Then the expression disappeared. “Uh, yeah, Cutty Sark,” he said as if just remembering. “I've always been interested in the label, so I drink it sometimes. Because it's got a picture of a sailboat on it.”

“Because you like ships?”

“That's right, because I like sailboats.”

Aomame raised her glass. The man only slightly raised his highball glass. It was as if they were toasting. Then Aomame picked up her shoulder bag from the seat next to her, slung it over her shoulder, picked up her scotch, and moved over two seats to sit down next to the man. The man seemed a little surprised, but he tried not to let it show.

“I'm supposed to be meeting an old classmate from high school, but it seems that she stood me up,” Aomame said. “I think I'll wait for a little bit longer, so would you mind if we chatted while I wait? Unless you're alone on purpose...?”

“No, it's nothing like that. Not at all,” the man said in a rather disjointed voice. Knitting his eyebrows, he looked at Aomame with eyes that seemed to be evaluating the risk. As if he suspected that she might be a prostitute looking for clients. But Aomame didn't have that kind of feeling about her. However you looked at it, she wasn't a prostitute. Because of this, the tension lessened slightly.

“Are you staying in this hotel?” the man asked.

Aomame shook her head. “No, I like in Tokyo. I normally only come here to meet up with friends. You?”

“I'm on a business trip,” he said. “I came from Osaka. I'm here for a meeting. It's a trivial meeting, but since our headquarters are in Osaka, there was no one from around here who could attend.”

Aomame smiled politely. Really, I don't give a shit about what kind of work you do, Aomame thought to herself. I'm only interested in the shape of your head. But of course she didn't say that out loud.

“When one job is finished, there's always more to do. Tomorrow I have another job to do in the afternoon, then I go back to Osaka.”

“I just finished a big job myself,” Aomame said.

“Oh? What sort of job?”

“I don't really want to talk about my work, but, well, it's a specialized profession.”

“A specialized profession,” he repeated. “The kind of thing that ordinary people can't do, the kind of work that required special skills and training.”

What are you, a walking dictionary, Aomame thought. But she didn't say this out loud either; instead she smiled as usual. “Well, something like that.”

The man took another drink from his highball, then a few nuts from the bowl. “I'm interested in what kind of work you do, but it's not something you want to walk about at all.”

She nodded. “For now.”

“Maybe, could you be someone who works with words? Like and editor, or a university researcher?”

“What makes you think that?”

The man took his necktie in his hand, and straightened it properly again. He also fixed the top button of his shirt. “Nothing really. Just because you seemed to be reading that book so intently.”

Aomame flicked the rim of her glass with her fingernail. “I like reading books. That's got nothing to do with my work.”

“Well, I give up. I have no idea.”

“I don't think you'll guess,” Aomame said. Probably not for even after an eternity of guessing, she added to herself.

The man nonchalantly looked over her body. Aomame leaned forward as if she had dropped something so that he could look at her cleavage to his heart's content. He ought to be able to see her breasts a little. And her white, lacy bra. Then she raised her head and took a drink of her Cutty Sark on the rocks. There was a heavy clank of round ice chunks within her glass.

“Do you want another? I'm having another, but...” the man said.

“Please,” Aomame said.

“It's a strong drink, isn't it?”

Aomame smiled vaguely. Then she suddenly became serious. “Oh, that's right, I just remembered. There's something I want to ask.”

“What kind of something?”

“Have police uniforms changed recently? As well as the kind of guns they can carry?”

“What do you mean by recently?”

“Within the last week.”

The man made a slightly odd face. “The uniforms and guns certainly changed, but that was years ago. The tight uniforms became something more casual like a jumper, and they exchanged their guns for newer automatic models. After that, I don't think there have been any big changes.”

“Don't all Japanese police officers carry old fashioned revolvers? At least up until last week?”

The man shook his head. “That's not right. All Japanese policemen have been carrying automatic pistols for quite a while now.”

“Are you sure about that?”

The man shrunk a little at her tone. The space between his eyebrows wrinkled, and he began to search his memory seriously. “No, when people heard that they were changing things like that, there was pandemonium, right? They wrote in all the newspapers about how the police were getting new guns. It was a big issue at the time. Citizens' groups were protesting against the increase in firepower, for example.”

“How many years ago?” Aomame said.

The man called over the elderly bartender and asked him when the police had gotten new guns and uniforms.

“Two years ago, in the spring,” he answered after a moment.

“You see, first-rate hotel bartenders know everything,” the man said with a smile.

The bartender smiled too. “No, that's not true. Actually, my younger brother just happens to be a policeman, so I remember it quite well. My brother didn't like the style of the new uniforms, so he complained all the time. And the gun was too heavy. He still complains to this day. With the new Beretta 9mm guns, they could reload the semiautomatics by hitting a single switch. I think Mitsubishi even got a license to manufacture them domestically. Since there aren't many gunfights in Japan, such high power guns aren't really necessary. In fact, the biggest problem is if they get stolen. The government has made it a priority to reinforce the police force.”

“What happened to all the old revolvers?” Aomame asked, suppressing her tone as best she could.

“They ought to have all been recalled and decommissioned,” the bartender said. “I saw them being taken to be destroyed on the news. They probably only decommissioned the guns, though; it would be a lot of trouble to destroy all the bullets.”

“It would probably be OK to sell them to foreign countries,” the businessman with thinning hair said.

“It's forbidden by the constitution to export weapons,: the bartender pointed out modestly.

“You see, first class hotel bartenders-”

“You mean that two years ago Japanese police stopped using revolvers? Is that what you're saying?”

“As far as I know.”

Aomame frowned slightly. Am I going crazy? I just saw a policeman wearing the old uniform and carrying an old-fashioned revolver earlier this morning. I didn't hear anything about every single revolver being destroyed without exception. But I can't believe that both this middle aged man and this bartender would be mistaken or lying. Therefore it must be me who's wrong.

“Thanks. That's very interesting,” Aomame said to the bartender. The bartender flashed a professional smile like it was a punctuation mark, then returned to work.

“Are you interested in police officers,” the middle-aged man asked.

“I wouldn't say that,” Aomame said. Then she said vaguely, “It was just something I couldn't quite remember.”

They drank their new Cutty Sarks that had been brought. The man talked about yachts. He had his own small yacht moored in Nishinomiya Harbor. On holidays he would take it out on the ocean. “The feeling of the wind on your body which alone at sea is amazing,” he told her enthusiastically. Aomame didn't want to listen to any more talk about his useless yacht. She'd rather talk about history of ball bearings or the current state of distribution of natural resources in Ukraine. She glanced at her watch.

“It's getting kind of late, so would it be alright if I asked you an honest question?”

“Go ahead.”

“What I'm trying to say is, it's a rather personal question.”

“I'll answer if I can.”

“Do you have a big penis?”

Mouth open slightly, he gazed at Aomame's face for a while. He didn't seem able to believe his ears. However, Aomame kept a straight face the whole time. There was no reason to joke. You could understand that much from looking into her eyes.

“That's right,” he answered seriously. “I'm not really sure, but it's not exactly average. Since you were able to suddenly ask that sort of thing, is there anything else you want to ask?”

“How old are you,” Aomame asked.

“Last month I turned 51,” he said in an awkward voice.

“So, you're a man over fifty, with an ordinary job and a yacht, and yet you can't really tell if your penis is bigger or smaller than average?”

“Yes, well, maybe it's a little big,” he said hesitantly after thinking for a moment.

“Really?”

“Why are you interested in that sort of thing?”

“Interested? Did anyone say I'm interested?”

“No, no one said that, but...” he said timidly while raising himself up on his stool. “But it seems that way since you're asking about it now.”

“Asking doesn't mean anything, not at all,” Aomame said flatly. “Personally, I usually prefer big penises. Visually. I'm not saying that it doesn't have to feel big. Ordinary sized is just no good. I'm just saying that I like them big. Is that wrong? Everyone probably has something that they like. But idiots are bad. Because they're just a pain. You know?”

“OK, so maybe you're not interested. I think it's bigger than average, but I wouldn't say that it's ridiculously huge. What I'm saying is that it's just moderately big.”

“You're not lying?”

“There's no way I'd lie about something like that.”

“Hmm. Well then, would you let me have a look about it?”

“Right here?”

Aomame restrained herself from scowling. “Right here? How could you do that? You're old enough to know better. You're wearing a nice suit, and even a tie; don't you have any common sense? Why on earth would you take out your penis in a place like this? What would all these people think if they saw? Let's go back to your room, and you can take off your pants and show me there. Just the two of us. What do you think about that?”

“I'd show it to you, and then what?” the man said nervously.

“What would we do after you show me?” Aomame said, holding her breath and raising her eyebrows boldly. “We'd probably decide to have sex. What else would we want to do? Do you think I'd go to all the trouble of going to your room to see your penis, then just say 'thanks a lot for showing me something good. Well, goodnight,' and go home? Is that what you had in mind?”

The man held his breath when he saw the dramatic change in Aomame's face right before his eyes. Most men would cower in fear whenever she scowled. They might even pee their pants like a small child. Her frowning face was that shocking. I wonder if I overdid it a little, Aomame thought. Her companion couldn't get that scared; she had to finish this before he did. She quickly fixed her face, and forced a smile. Then she spoke up again to try and persuade him.

“What I'm saying is, let's go back to your room, get into bed, and have sex. You're not gay or impotent, right?”

“I don't think so... I do have two children, after all...”

“Hey, nobody asked you how many kids you have. It's not like I'm doing a government census, so there's no big reason to talk about every little detail of your life. All I'm asking is, when you do to bed with a woman, does your penis work properly? That's all I want to know.”

“Up until now, I don't think I've needed help even once,” the man said. “But, you said you're a pro... So, what you meant is that you're the sort of person who does this for a living, right?”

“No way. Nothing like that. I'm not that kind of pro. And I'm not a pervert either. I'm just an ordinary person. Just a simple, law-abiding everyday citizen looking for sex. It's not unusual, it happens all the time. Where's the harm in it? I just finished a difficult job, the sun has gone down. I'm drinking a little, and I want to blow off some steam by having sex with someone I don't know. I want to calm my nerves. That's what I need to do. Since you're a man, you should understand my feelings.”

“Of course I understand what you're saying, but...”

“I don't want a single cent of your money. If you give me what I want, you won't have to spend any money for the rest of the night. As long as you wear a condom, you won't even need to worry about any diseases. Understand?”

“I understand that, but...”

You seem reluctant somehow. Is there something wrong with me?”

“No, it's nothing like that. I just don't know. You're so young and pretty, and I'm probably old enough to be your father...”

“Don't even mention such a silly thing again. Please. Even though our ages are very different, I'm not your daughter and you're not my father. You know that. This doesn't mean anything more than just releasing the tension. I just like your bald head. I like the shape. Understand?”

“But I'm not bald like you're saying. My hairline is just a little...”

“Shut up already,” Aomame said, losing patience and frowning completely. Then she softened her voice a little. There's no need to scare him any further. “That doesn't matter. I already asked nicely, so please don't contradict me.”

No matter what this guy thinks, there's no doubt about it, he's definitely bald, Aomame thought. If government censuses asked about baldness, you'd certainly have check the box. If you go to heaven, you'll go to a bald heaven. If you go to hell, you'll go to a bald hell. Understand? If you understand, then stop ignoring the facts. Well let's go. For now you're going straight to bald heaven.

The man paid his bar tab, then the two of them went to his room together.

His penis was probably bigger than average, but it wasn't especially big. His claim wasn't wrong. Aomame had a knack for this sort of thing, so it became big and hard. Aomame took off her blouse, then took off her skirt.

“You probably think my breasts are small,” Aomame said coldly, looking down on him. “Your penis is big, but my breasts are small, so you're probably an idiot. You must feel like you've lost.”

“No, that's not at all what I'm thinking. Your breasts aren't especially small. You've got a very pretty body.”

“Is that so?” Aomame asked. “Well, you say that, but I never wear lacy bras like this. I'm only doing it for my job. So that people could see my breasts.”

“About that; what sort of work do you do?”

“Well, it's difficult to say anything more. This kind of work is the kind of work that you don't talk about. Anyway, no matter what sort of work it is, women have all kinds of troubles.”

“But men have all kinds of troubles, too.”

“It's probably not necessary for them to wear lace bras, though.”

“That's true, but...”

“Well, it's not the kind of thing you can understand by talking about it. There are many things that are more difficult for women than men. Have you ever had to climb down steep stairs in high heeled shoes? Have you ever had to climb over a fence while wearing a tight miniskirt?”

“No,” the man apologized obediently.

She reached her hands around her back for her bra, then tossed it on the ground. She rolled her stockings into a ball, then tossed them on the floor as well. Then she laid down on the bed and once again began to play with the man's penis. “Well now, isn't this thing quite nice. I'm impressed. The shape is good, it's just about the perfect size, and it's as hard as the root of a tree.”

“Thanks for saying so,” the man said as if relieved.

“Look here, I'm going to give you something really sweet. Because I love to flirt.”

“I'm glad I didn't shower before this. I'd just be all sweaty again anyway.”

“Shut up, will you?” Aomame said. Then, as if to warn him, she smacked his right testicle lightly with her fingers.

“Listen, I came here to have sex. I didn't come here to take a shower. OK? That's all. So I can relax. I don't care how sweaty you are. I'm not some blushing schoolgirl.”

“I understand,” the man said.

After the sex was over, the man was lying on the bed naked, face down as if exhausted, and Aomame was stroking the scruff of his neck with her fingers when she felt a strong desire to pierce that spot with the sharp needle. The ice pick is in my bag wrapped in cloth. The tip which took hours to sharpen is stuck in the specially-made soft cork. If I think about it, it would be easy to do. The needle would slide right into the right side of his neck all the way up to the handle. He would be dead before he knew what was happening. There would be no pain. It would probably be treated as a natural death. But of course it had to remain just a thought. There was no reason to remove this man from society. Aomame didn't have any particular reason, either. She shook her head and banished these dangerous thoughts from her mind.

This man isn't such a bad guy, Aomame thought to herself. When it comes to sex, he was pretty good. He didn't have any regrets about not making her climax. She liked the shape of his head and the fact that he was bald. And the size of his penis was perfect. His manners were good, he had good taste in clothing, and he wasn't pushy at all. He probably came from a good family. His way of speaking was definitely really boring, and really annoying. But that wasn't a crime that deserved death. Probably.

“Is it alright if I turn on the TV,” Aomame asked.

“Go ahead,” the man said while lying on his face.

Lying naked on the bed, they watched the 11 o'clock news all the way to the end. In the middle east, Iraq and Iran were continuing to spill fresh blood in battle, same as always. The war was becoming a quagmire, and there didn't seem to be any hint of a resolution. In Iraq, any draft-dodgers that were found were hung from power lines. The Iranian government was accusing Saddam Hussein of using biological weapons and nerve gas. In the American presidential race Walter Mondale and Gail Hart were running as the candidates for the Democratic Party. Neither one seemed like the smartest person in the world. It seemed that maybe smart presidents became targets for assassination, so only normal people without sharp minds could be elected president.

Construction was proceeding on an observation base on the moon. The Americans and the Soviets had agreed to a rare cooperation. It seemed to be the same case as the South Pole observation base. A base on the surface of the moon? Aomame shook her head. I haven't heard any talk about it. How could that be? It wasn't something to which she gave much thought, however. For the time being, there were more important problems. There was an accidental fire in a coal mine in Kyushu that resulted in lots of deaths; the government was investigating the cause. Aomame found it rather surprising that people were still digging for coal in the same era that moon bases were being built. Japan was being confronted by an American demand for the opening of the financial markets. Because of pressure on the government from companies like Merril Lynch and Morgan Stanley, there were always new ways to make a quick buck. In Shimane Prefecture, they interviewed an intelligent cat. This cat could open windows on its own to go outside, then close the window behind it. Its master had trained it to do it. Aomame turned her back on the skinny black cat, stretched out her arm, and with an expressive gaze opened the window and admired the scenery.

That was all of the news. But there was no report about a body being discovered in a Shibuya hotel. Once the news was over she pushed a button on the remote control to turn off the TV. Everything was quiet. She could hear the faint sounds of the middle-aged man sleeping next to her.

That man should still be lying in the same position. He ought to look like he's in a deep sleep. Just like this man next to me. Only you can't hear him breathing. It's completely impossible that that dirty rat will ever get up again. Aomame started at the ceiling and recalled the image of the body. Shaking her head slightly she frowned to herself. Then she got out of bed and gathered up all the clothes she had thrown on the floor.

Chapter 4: This Will Happen Because You Want It To (Tengo)

1Q84, Volume 1,By Murakami Haruki

Chapter 4: This Will Happen Because You Want It To (Tengo)

Tengo was awakened by the sound of his phone ringing. The glowing display on his clock said that it was a little past 1 o'clock. It goes without saying that it was pitch black. He knew immediately that it was Komatsu calling. He was the only one who would call at 1 in the morning and not give up until someone answered. Komatsu had no concept of time. When he had an idea, he would call right away, no matter what time it was. He didn't even consider the time. Whether it was the middle of the night, or early morning, or your honeymoon, or your deathbed, Komatsu would call to annoy you with his thoughts on literature that just seemed to pop into his egg-shaped head.

No, no one else would have a reason to call now. But Komatsu was the one who paid his salary. No one else would have a reason to copy such crazy behavior. Since they were partners, Tengo could handle it. As far as Komatsu was concerned, Tengo was more or less an extension of himself. The same as an arm or a leg. There was no difference. So if he was awake, then he just naturally assumed that his partner would be awake as well. Unless he had some special reason not to, Tengo went to bed at 10 at night and woke up at 6 in the morning. He lived a perfectly regular life. He slept soundly. If something woke him up, though, he couldn't get back to sleep. On that matter he was very fussy. He had told Komatsu about it many times. He had asked Komatsu directly to please stop calling in the middle of the night. He had begged like a farmer pleading with God to be spared from a plague of locusts before harvest. “Understood. I won't call in the middle of the night anymore,” Komatsu had said. However, since he had about as much focus as a cheese grater, a single light rain was all it took to wash such a promise from his mind.

Tengo got out of bed, tripped over something on his way to the phone in the kitchen, barely making it in one piece. The whole time, the bell continued to ring without a hint of mercy.

“I spoke with Fukaeri,” Komatsu said. As usual, there wasn't anything even close to a greeting. There was no introduction. Not even a “Were you asleep?” or a “Sorry for calling so late at night.” It was something important. He was excited, as usual.

Tengo frowned silently in the dark. When he was woken up suddenly in the middle of the night, it took a little while for his head to begin functioning properly.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Anyway, I spoke with her on the phone. Well, it was really more of a one-sided conversation, since she mostly just listened; naturally it wasn't a very long call. She's a rather quiet child, you see. She has a rather strange way of talking. If you could hear for yourself, I think you'd understand. Anyway, I explained my plan to give 'The Chrysalis of Air' to a third party to be rewritten and then submit it for the Newcomer Award once it's finished and see how it does. Well, since it was over the phone, that's about all I said. If it had been a face to face conversation, then I'd have tried asking about her interests. Taken more of a roundabout path. Because just getting straight to the point leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Well?”

“She didn't answer.”

“She didn't answer?”

Komatsu took a moment to respond. He took a cigarette and lit it with a match. Even though he was only hearing it over the phone, Tengo could see the scene in his head. Komatsu never used a lighter.

Fukaeri said she wants to meet you first,” Komatsu said, exhaling smoke. “She didn't exactly say she wasn't interested. She didn't say whether she would do it or not. It seems to depend on meeting you in person. She'll decide once she's met you. That's a big responsibility, don't you think?”

“So, what now?”

“Are you free tomorrow evening?”

He lectured at the cram school in the morning until 4 in the afternoon. For better or worse, he didn't anything planned after that. “I'm free,” Tengo said.

“Tomorrow night at 6 o'clock, go to Nakamura's in Shinjuku. There's a quiet table in the back reserved in my name. Since it's a business meeting, feel free to order whatever you want. Then the two of you should discuss everything completely.”

“Does that mean you won't be coming?”

“Fukaeri's condition was to talk, just the two of you. At this point, it seems she doesn't want me to come.”

Tengo was silent.

“So that's it,” Komatsu said in a bright voice. “Please do a good job, Tengo. You're an adult, so please make a good impression. Since you teach at a cram school, talking to a precocious high school girl should be a snap for you. You'll do much better than I would. Just talk to her and get her to trust you. You'll do fine.”

“Wait a second. This was your idea from the beginning. I won't know how to answer all her questions. This whole time you've been doing all the talking; I don't think I'd be able to properly explain even the most basic parts of this risky plan. I can't even answer any general questions. I haven't even decided whether or not I'm going along with this plan myself, there's no way I'd be able to convince some girl I've never met before.”

Komatsu was completely silent for a moment. Then he said, “Hey, Tengo, we've already had this conversation. There's no reason to stop the train now. It's decided in my gut. You've pretty much decided in your gut as well. You and I are in this together.”

Tengo shook his head. In this together? Well, a lot of things were suddenly happening at once.

“But haven't you been saying this whole time that I should take plenty of time to decide?”

“But we've only got five days left. How much more time could you take?”

Tengo was at a loss for words. “I still haven't decided yet,” he said honestly.

“Either way, wouln't it be OK for you to go talk with Fukaeri? Then you'll be able to decide afterward, right?”

Tengo pressed his fingertips hard against his temple. His head still wasn't working properly. “I get it. At any rate, I'll meet with this Fukaeri kid. Tomorrow at 6 o'clock at Nakamura's in Shinjuku. And I'll try explaining the situation all by myself. But I can't promise anything more than that. Maybe I'll be able to explain it, but even if I try I probably won't be able to convince her.”

“That's fine, of course.”

“Anyway, just how much does she know about me?”

“I more or less told her everything. That you're about twenty-nine or thirty years old, unmarried, and a lecturer at a Yoyogi cram school. You a big guy, but you're not a bad person. Not the sort of person who gobbles up young girls. You lead a modest life and you look at things with a kindhearted eye. And, your works are very interesting. That's about it.”

Tengo let out a sigh. No matter what he tried to think about, it seemed as though reality was slipping away on all sides.

“Hey, Komatsu, is it OK if I go back to bed? It's almost 1:30, and I'd like to get back to sleep before dawn. I've got three lectures tomorrow morning.”

“That's fine. Goodnight,” Komatsu said. “Sweet dreams.” Then he simply hung up.

Tengo looked at the receiver in his hand for a moment, then hung it up. He would have preferred to go back to sleep if he could. However, having been forcefully awakened and drawn into this troublesome conversation, he knew that he simply wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. It might be possible if he drank some sake. But he didn't seem to be in the mood to drink. Eventually he drank a glass of water, got into bed, turned on the light and started reading a book. He meant to read until he got tired, but sleep didn't come until just before dawn.

After his three lectures at the cram school, he took a train to Shinjuku. He bought a few books at the Kinokuniya bookstore, then went to Nakamura's. He gave Komatsu's name at the entrance and was shown to a quiet table in the back. Fukaeri hadn't arrived yet. “I'm waiting for someone else,” Tengo explained to the waiter. When the waiter asked if he'd like anything to drink while he waited, Tengo said he didn't need anything. The waiter brought him a menu and a glass of water. Tengo opened one of the books he had just bought and began to read. It was a book about magic. The subject was the function of the curse at the heart of Japanese society. Jinxes were once as a “vital part” of the ancient community. The role of curses was to cover up inconsistencies in the system of the community. It was a truly interesting era.

It was 6:15 and Fukaeri still hadn't appeared. It didn't bother Tengo; he just kept on reading his book. He wasn't really surprised that Fukaeri was late. She didn't really even know the reason for the meeting. Nobody could complain if she was late when she didn't even know why she was coming. It wouldn't be strange at all if she simply completely changed her mind. That said, he would much rather that she came. It would simply be better to talk to her. If she didn't come after an hour, then he would just have to explain that to Komatsu. What would happen after that, Tengo didn't know. It would probably be OK if he ate alone and went home. Then his obligation to Komatsu would have been fulfilled.

At 6:22, he caught his first glimpse of Fukaeri. The waiter guided her to the table, and she sat down. She gently laid her hands on the table, took off her coat, and stared fixedly at Tengo's face. No “sorry for being late” or “did you have to wait long?” Not even a “nice to meet you” or a “hello.” She just kept her lips tightly closed and looked Tengo straight in the eye. She might as well have been watching the scenery. Tengo thought it was amazing.

Every part of Fukaeri's body was delicate, and she was even more beautiful than her picture. More than anything else on her face, her eyes attracted attention. They were deep, impressive eyes. Staring into the space of that pair of jet-black pupils, Tengo felt an uncomfortable sort of feeling. She almost never blinked. She didn't even appear to be breathing. It seemed as if each of her hairs had been straightened out, one by one, with a ruler, and her eyebrows had been recently plucked. She was as beautiful as any teenage girl, but her expression lacked a sense of life. And there was something about her that felt off balance. Her pupils were deep, but Tengo couldn't tell if they were different sizes. Looking at them gave you an uncomfortable feeling. No matter how you thought about it, it wasn't the kind of thing you could measure. This meant that she didn't have the same kind of beauty that it took to be a model in a magazine, or a famous singer. There something provocative about her, though, that attracted attention.

Tengo closed his book and set it on the table, straightened his back and adjusted his posture, then took a drink of water. Komatsu was probably right. If this girl won the Newcomer Award, the mass media would never let go of her. No doubt about it, it would be a big deal. If that were to happen, then that would be the end of normalcy for her.

The waiter came over and placed a glass of water and a menu in front of her. Even so, Fukaeri still didn't move. Without touching her menu, she continued staring at Tengo's face. Tengo could help it; he said “Hello.” In front of her, his body felt especially large.

Fukaeri didn't return the greeting, but just kept staring at Tengo's face. “I know you” she eventually said in a small voice.

“You know me?” Tengo asked.

“You teach math.”

Tengo nodded. “Yeah.”

“I've seen you twice.”

“At my lectures?”

“Right.”

Her way of talking had several distinctive features. She left out a lot of modifiers in her sentences, she lacked a consistent accent, and she had a limited vocabulary (at least, she gave the listener the impression that she had a limited vocabulary. Just as Komatsu had said, she was certainly a strange one.

“So, you're saying that you're a student at my cram school?” Tengo asked.

Fukaeri shook her head. “I only go for emergencies.”

“But without a student ID, you shouldn't be able to get into the classroom.”
Fukaeri shrugged her shoulders. A very adult habit; it was as if she were saying, “What are you, an idiot?”

“How were the lectures?” Tengo asked. Another pointless question.

Looking away, Fukaeri took a sip of water. She didn't answer. Tengo supposed that it didn't give such a bad impression, the second time around. If he couldn't get her attention after one more attempt, then he out to just give up.

“You're a third year high school student, right?”

“For the moment.”

“How are college entrance exams going?”

She shook her head.

Tengo couldn't tell if that meant “I don't want to talk about college entrance exams,” or “I'm not going to take any college entrance exams.” He remembered that Komatsu had said on the phone that she was a terribly quiet girl.

The waiter came to take their order. Fukaeri put her coat back on. She ordered a salad with bread. “That's it,” she said, handing the menu to the waiter. Then she added “white wine” almost as an afterthought.

The young waiter seemed to be about to ask her age, but when Fukaeri looked him in the eye intently, he blushed and swallowed his words. Amazing, Tengo though for the second time. Tengo ordered the seafood linguine. Then he joined his companion in ordering a glass of white wine.

“You're a teacher and a novelist,” Fukaeri said. Somehow, it seemed to be a question for Tengo. Asking questions without question marks was apparently one of the quirks of her way of speaking.

“For the moment, at least,” Tengo said.

“You don't seem like either one.”

“Maybe not,” Tengo said. He tried to smile, but couldn't. “I'm qualified to be a teacher, but since I'm just a lecturer at a cram school, you couldn't say I'm a proper teacher; and while I do write novels, since I've never been published, I'm still not really a novelist yet either.”

“So you're not anything.”

Tengo noidded. “You're exactly right. At the moment, I'm not much of anything at all.”

“You like math.”

Tengo tacked a question mark onto the end of her sentence and answered the question. “I like it. I've always enjoyed math, so I still like it.”

“What about it?”

“What do I like about math?” Tengo filled in. “Well, when I'm in front of numbers, I just become very clam. It's like fitting something into a slot that it was made to go into.”

“Hearing about calculus was interesting.”

“You mean during my lectures?”

Fukaeri nodded.

“Do you like math?”

Fukaeri slightly shook her head. She didn't like math.

“But you thought hearing about calculus was interesting?” Tengo asked.

Fukaeri shrugged her shoulders slightly again. “It seemed important.”

“Is that so?” This was the first time anyone had said something like that to him.

“It seemed like it was the talk of someone important,” the girl said.

“I was probably more passionate during my lecture on sequences,” Tengo said. “That's my favorite topic in the high school curriculum.”

“You like sequences,” Fukaeri asked, once again without a question mark.

“For me, it's like the temperament of Bach. I can't say that I ever get tired of it. There's always something new to discover.”

“I know about temperament.”

“Do you like Bach?”

Fukaeri nodded. “Sensei is always listening to him.”

“Sensei?” Tengo asked. “You mean one of your teachers at school?”

Fukaeri didn't answer. It's still too soon to talk about that, the expression on her face seemed to say to Tengo.

Then, as though just remembering, she took off her coat. She moved restlessly like a bug shedding its skin as she slipped out of her coat; she folded it up and placed it on the back of a nearby chair. Under her coat, she was wearing a pale green tight-neck sweater and white jeans. She wasn't wearing any accessories. She wasn't wearing any makeup, either. Even so, she stood out. Her body was slender, and even though her breasts weren't too big, they attracted attention. Their shape was very beautiful. Tengo had to concentrate to keep from looking at them. Even while he thought this, though, his eyes drifted back to her chest. It was like they were at the center of whirlpool.

She raised her glass of white wine. Fukaeri took a single sip. Then, gazing at the glass as though deep in thought, she placed it on the table. Tengo only drank a little. He had important things to talk about after this.

Fukaeri combed through her straight black hair with her fingers. It was a charming gesture. They were charming fingers. Each finger looked as though it had a mind of its own. It felt like there was something magical about them.

“What do I like about math?” Tengo asked himself again out loud while dividing his attention between her fingers and her chest.

“I guess it's the way that math flows,” Tengo said. “Of course, there are some difficult theorems, but the fundamental theorems are all simple. Numbers flow just like water seeking the shortest path from the high ground to the low. If you stare at the numbers hard enough, the correct path appears on its own. All you have to do is look for it. You don't have to do anything. If you just focus, everything becomes clear. In the whole world, there's nothing clearer to me than numbers.”

Fukaeri though about that for a moment.

“Why do you write novels,” she asked without emphasis.

Tengo converted her question into a longer sentence. “If math is so much why do I feel the need to go to the trouble of writing novels? Why isn't math enough by itself? Is that what you're to say?”

Fukaeri nodded.

“You're probably right. But there's more to life than just math. It doesn't always flow along the shortest path. For me, you might say that numbers are almost too perfect. To me, it's like seeing beautiful scenery. It's just that there's something there. There's no reason to try to change it. In math, I'm only interested in things that become clear gradually. Sometimes, it gets pretty scary.”

Fukaeri looked Tengo straight in the eye, without looking away. Her face might as well have been staring into space through a window.

Tengo spoke. “By writing novels, I'm able to use words to change the scenery around me to better suit me. This is to say, I can reconstruct it. By doing this, I can examine my human existence in this world. It's completely different from when I work in the world of mathematics.”

“You examine your existence,” Fukaeri said.

“I'm not saying I can do it perfectly, yet,” Tengo said.

Fukaeri didn't look satisfied with Tengo's explanation, but she didn't say anything else. She just brought the wine glass to her mouth, then sucked up the wine without a sound, as though drinking through a straw.

“I'd say that you do effectively the same thing. You reconstruct the scenes the you see around you by changing them with your words. And you examine the condition of your human existence,” Tengo said.

Fukaeri held the wine glass in her hand and thought about that for a moment. But she didn't voice her opinion.

“But it lacks form. Your writing,” Tengo said. “If your works could just arouse arouse sympathy or approval in lots of people, then they would be objectively valuable works of literature.”

Fukaeri shook her head flatly. “Form holds no interest for me.”

“Form holds no interest for you,” Tengo repeated.

“Form has no meaning.”

“Well, if that's true, then why did you apply for the Newcomer Award?”

Fukaeri put her wine glass on the table. “It wasn't me who did that.”

Tengo picked up his glass and took a sip of water to compose himself. “Are you saying that you didn't apply for the Newcomer Award?”

Fukaeri nodded. “It wasn't me.”

“Well, just who would have submitted a novel that you wrote to the publisher to for the Newcomer Award?”

Fukaeri shrugged her shoulders slightly. There was silence for about 15 seconds. Then she said, “Someone.” “Someone,” Tengo repeated. Then he slowly breather out through pursed lips. Well, things don't seem to be going well. That's what I think.

Before this, Tengo had often met personally with female students. That said, they were all out of cram school and into college. It was always them who contacted him, saying that they wanted to meet; they would get together and talk, then go somewhere together. Just what about him they found attractive, Tengo himself didn't really know. But either way, he was single and they weren't his students anymore. There was no reason to turn down their invitations to go on dates.

Twice the dates had continued to physical relationships. While the relationships lasted a while, however, they eventually faded out. When he was with young college girls, Tengo could relax. He could never get comfortable. It was like getting a kitten; at first it was fun, but you gradually get tired of it. And these girls would become disappointed when they discovered that he actually became a different person when he wasn't up on stage excitedly giving a math lecture. Tengo could understand their feelings.

When he had recovered, he started dating older women. When he thought about not having to lead in everything, it felt like a load was being lifted from his shoulders. And lots of older women seemed to like him. So, about a year earlier, he had stopped dating young girls altogether. Once a week, he would meet his older, married girlfriend in his apartment so they could release their desires (or perhaps it was more like their needs.) Then he'd be left alone in his room to write novels, read books, listen to music, or go swimming in the neighborhood indoor pool. Other than conversations with his coworkers, he almost never spoke to anyone. He didn't have anything in particular to complain about in his life. No, rather, for him, it was almost the ideal lifestyle.

However, where Fukaeri was concerned, Tengo felt a violent tremor in his heart whenever he saw this seventeen year old girl. They were the same tremors he had felt when he first saw her picture, but in person they were much stronger. It wasn't love, or even sexual desire. It was more like something was filling up an empty space inside of him. It was that kind of feeling. Fukaeri hadn't produced this emptiness. It was something that had always been inside of Tengo. It felt as if she was illuminating a spot that had previously been in the dark.

“You have no interest in writing novels, and you didn't apply for the Newcomer Award,” Tengo said, confirming the situation.

Fukaeri nodded without taking her eyes off Tengo's face. Then she hunched her shoulders as if protecting herself from a cold winter wind.

“And you don't think you want to be a novelist,” Tengo asked, suprised to find himself not using a question mark. That way of speaking was probably contagious.

“I don't think so,” Fukaeri said.

At this point the meal was brought out. Fukaeri got her bread and salad in a big bowl. As for Tengo, he got his seafood linguine. Fukaeri carefully inspected her food, turning over every leaf with her fork like a headline newspaper food critic.

“Well, anyway, someone took you 'The Chrysalis of Air' and submitted it to the publishing company for the Newcomer Award. Then, as I was preparing for the contest, your story caught my eye.”

“The Chrysalis of Air,” Fukaeri said. Then she squinted.

“'The Chrysalis of Air' is the title of the novel you wrote,” Tengo said.

Fukaeri continued to squint without saying anything.

“Isn't that the title that you gave it?” Tengo asked, becoming anxious.

Fukaeri shook her head slightly.

Tengo's face showed a bit of confusion, but for the time being the question of the title wasn't the most important thing to focus on. For the moment, he had to move on.

“It doesn't matter either way. Anyway, it's not that bad of a title. It's got feeling, and it attracts attention. That's what I think. Whoever chose it, as far as titles go you can't complain. I don't really know the difference between a chrysalis and a cocoon, but it's not an important issue. What I want to say is, when I read this work, something powerfully attracted me to it. So I took it to Mr. Komatsu. He was also interested in 'The Chrysalis of Air'. But if it was going to try for the Newcomer Award, it needed to be edited, in his opinion. Compared to the strength of the story, the writing was somewhat weak. So he thought that, instead of you, I should be the one to rewrite it. I myself still haven't made up my mind about it. I haven't answered whether I'll do it or not. I'm just not sure if that sort of thing is appropriate.”

At this point, Tengo stopped speaking to gauge Fukaeri's reaction. She didn't react at all.

“What I want to know now is what you think about me rewriting 'The Chrysalis of Air' instead of you. No matter what I decide, without your consent and cooperation, I can't move forward.”

Fukaeri picked up a small tomato with one finger and ate it. Tengo picked up a blue mussel with his fork and ate it.

“Do whatever you want,” Fukaeri said simply. Then she picked up another tomato. “If you want to rewrite it, then go ahead.”

“It's alright if you want more time to think about it more carefully. It's a big decision, after all,” Tengo said.

Fukaeri shook her head. She didn't need more time.

“I'll be rewriting your story,” Tengo explained. “I'll be strengthening the writing without noticeably changing the story. There will probably be some big changes. But in the end, you're the author. The final product will be a novel written by Fukaeri, a 17 year old high school girl. That part won't change. If it wins the Newcomer Award, it will be you who accepts the award. If it gets published as a book, you will be the sole author. We'll be a team. The three of us: you, me, and Mr. Komatsu as the editor. But on the outside cover it will just be your name. We'll be hiding silently behind the scenes. Like stagehands in a play. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Fukaeri put a piece of celery into her mouth with her fork. She nodded slightly. “I understand.”

“The story called 'The Chrysalis of Air' is something that came from within your body. It came out of you. There's no way for me to make it my own. I can only do this with your constant help. And the fact that I lent a hand will have to be kept a secret from everyone. What I mean is, we'll be conspiring to lie to the entire world. No matter how you think about it, that's not an easy thing to do. It's a secret that you'll always hold in your heart.”

“If you say so,” Fukaeri said.

Tengo moved his mussel shells to the side of his plate scooped up some linguine, then paused to reflect. Fukaeri picked up a cucumber, and, seeming to find it tasteless, carefully bit deeply into it.

Tengo spoke, fork in hand. “I already asked, but you really don't have any objections to me rewriting your story?”

“Do what you like,” Fukaeri said when she had finished eating the cucumber.

“You don't care how I rewrite it?”

“I don't care.”

“How can you be so sure? You don't know anything about me.”

Without saying anything, Fukaeri simply shrugged her shoulders.

They bother momentarily continued eating their meals without saying anything. Fukaeri was completely focused on eating her salad. Every so often she would butter a piece of bread and eat it, or reach for her wine glass. Tengo mechanically brought his linguine to his mouth while considering his various options.

Putting his fork down, he said “When I first heard the idea from Mr. Komatsu, I thought that it had to be a joke, it was so ridiculous. That sort of thing seems impossible. Somehow I intended to refuse. But when I went home and thought about it, the desire to do it slowly became stronger. I didn't know whether or not it would be ethical for me to change 'The Chrysalis of Air', a story that you had created. Whatever you say is fine, but it's something that I really want to do.”

No, maybe it's more of a need than a want, Tengo added in his head. Komatsu's prediction was right. It's slowly becoming difficult to suppress this need.

Without saying anything, Fukaeri gazed at Tengo with her beautiful, indifferent eyes, as if from somewhere far away. She looked as though she might understand what Tengo was saying.

“You want to rewrite it,” Fukaeri asked.

Tengo looked her straight in the eye. “I think so.”

There was something faintly sparkling reflected in Fukaeri's pitch black pupils. That's how it seemed to Tengo.

With both hands, Tengo seemed to be feeling for an imaginary box hanging in the air. The gesture didn't have any special meaning, he just needed to use the imaginary something as a medium to express his feelings.

“I wouldn't sat it's perfect, but during the several times that I read 'The Chrysalis of Air' I felt that I could see what you were seeing. Especially when the Little People came out. You imagination is probably something pretty special. No matter what you say about it, there's something infectious about the original.”

Fukaeri put her spoon on her plate and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

“The Little People really exist,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Really exist?”

Fukaeri paused for a moment. Then she spoke.

“The same as you or me.”

“The same as you or me,” Tengo repeated.

“You'd probably think they look strange.”

There was a strange conviction in Fukaeri's concise phrasing. It felt as though there were a lynchpin wedged tightly into every single word. But just how honest of a girl Fukaeri was, Tengo couldn't tell. Somehow, this girl had gone beyond the realm of normalcy. Maybe it was a natural gift. Tengo wasn't sure if he had ever encountered such a real talent in his life. Maybe it wasn't anything more than ordinary pretending. Most teenage girls instinctively passed the time by imagining things in their heads. On the surface, it was just an eccentric pretense. Apparently suggestive words would confuse her. He'd seen examples of that many times. Sometimes it was difficult to tell the real thing from an act. Perhaps it was close to reality.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to start rewriting 'The Chrysalis of Air' tomorrow.”

“If that's what you want.”
“It's what I want,” Tengo replied simply.

“There's someone else you need to see,” Fukaeri said.

“Then I'll meet with him,” Tengo said.

Fukaeri nodded.

“What sort of person?” Tengo asked.

She ignored his question. “You'll talk to this person.”

“If it's something that I need to do, then I have no problem meeting with him.”

“You're free on Sunday,” she asked without a question mark.

“I'm free,” Tengo answered. It's like we're speaking using semaphores, Tengo thought.

When the meal was over, Tengo and Fukaeri split up. Tengo inserted some 10 yen coins into the restaurants payphone and called Komatsu's office. Komatsu was still in his office, but it took some time for him to pick up his phone. Tengo waited with the phone pressed against his ear.

“How was it? Did it go well?” was the first thing Komatsu asked into the phone.

“Fukaeri basically agreed to let me rewrite 'The Chrysalis of Air'. I think that's probably what she said.”

“That's great, isn't it,” Komatsu said. His voice became cheerful. “Wonderful. To be honest, I was a little worried. What I mean is, you don't really have the personality of a negotiator.”

“There wasn't really a reason to negotiate,” Tengo said. “There was no need for persuasion, either. After I explained everything, she seemed to decide of her own free will.”

“That doesn't change anything. You can't argue with the results. With this, the plan can move forward.”

“Not until I meet with someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“I don't know who. Anyway, she wants me to talk to this person.”

Komatsu was silent for a moment. “When will you meet with him?”

“This Sunday. She's going to take me to him.”

“The only rule is to keep this a secret,” Komatsu said in a serious voice. It's fine as long as no one else finds out. Other than the three of us, no one in the world knows about the plan. Just you, me, and Fukaeri; we can't go around increasing the number. Understand?”

“Theoretically, at least,” Tengo said.

After that, Komatsu's voice became soft again. “Either way, Fukaeri had given you permission, in principle. Ultimately, that's the most important part. Anything else doesn't really matter.”

Tengo switched the phone to his right hand. Then, he slowly rubbed his temple with the forefinger of his right hand.

“Hey, Komatsu, I'm nervous about this. I don't have any clear evidence, but I couldn't help but get the feeling that somehow I'm being mixed up in something unusual. I didn't notice it while I was with Fukaeri, but one we separated and I was alone, the feeling gradually became stronger. Call it a premonition or foreboding, but there's something weird about this. Something not normal. I feel it in my body rather than in my head.”

“You felt all that from just meeting with Fukaeri?”

“Maybe. Fukaeri is probably the real thing, I think. Of course, that could just be a hunch.”

“You're saying her talent is real?”

“I don't know how talented she is, I only just met her,” Tengo said. “She didn't seem like a normal girl, but maybe she not what she appears to be. I'm not sure if she really has something. I'm still thinking about it.”

“Would you say she's not right in the head?”

“There are some eccentricities about her, but I don't think she's particularly crazy. She sounded reasonable enough, anyway,” Tengo said. Then he paused for a second. “That's all I thought about her.”

“Either way, she found you interesting,” Komatsu said.

Tengo searched for the correct words, but couldn't find any. “I don't know about that,” he replied.

“After meeting you, she at least thought you were qualified to rewrite 'The Chrysalis of Air'. That means she's interested in you. You did really well, Tengo. I'm not sure what's going to happen next. Naturally there are risks. But risks are just part of life. The first thing to do is to revise 'The Chrysalis of Air'. There's not much time. We've got to quickly rewrite the manuscript and return it to the pile of applications. We'll switch it out with the original. Can you have it written in ten days?”

Tengo sighed. “It'll be tough.”

“It doesn't have to be a final draft. We can make slight changes until the final stage. For the time being it's fine if you just give it a basic form.”

Tengo calculated the amount of work in his head. “Maybe I can get it done in 10 days. It's bad, but there's nothing we can do about it.”

“That's the spirit,” Komatsu said in a bright voice. “Look at the world through her eyes. With your help, Fukaeri's world and the real world will merge together. You can do it, Tengo. I...”

At that point, the 10 yen coins ran out.