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.

Chapter 3: Changing Some Facts (Aomame)

1Q84, Volume 1

By Murakami Haruki

Chapter 3: Changing Some Facts (Aomame)

Barefoot except for her stockings, Aomame climbed down the narrow emergency stairs. The wind whistled as it rushed by. Her miniskirt was tight, but every now and then it would catch a strong gust and swell up like a sail on a yacht, shakily pressing up against her body. Firmly gripping the railing with her bare hands, she turned around backwards and descended one step at a time. Every so often she would stop to pull her bangs out of her face or to adjust the strap of her shoulder bag as though it were a decorative Shinto sash.

Route 246 ran below her. She was surrounded by all kinds of sounds of the city: engines running, horns honking, car alarms blaring, right-wing propaganda trucks playing old war songs, and sledge hammers breaking up concrete. On all sides, from all directions, from top to bottom, this flood of sounds was caught by the whirling wind. When she heard these sounds (not that she particularly wanted to hear them, but since her hearing wasn't bad, she had no choice) she slowly began to have an uncomfortable feeling which was something akin to nausea.

After she had been descending for a while, she came to a catwalk the returned to the middle of the highway. Once in the middle it turned straight down and began to descend. Separated from the emergency stairs by the road, a small five-story mansion was visible. It was a new building constructed with brown tiles. There were several verandas facing Aomame, but all the windows were shut and the blinds and curtains were all tightly closed. Just what kind of architect builds a mansion right under the nose of the Shuto Expressway and then goes out of his way to build verandas? There wasn't anyone out hanging up sheets, and there wouldn't normally be any people sipping gin and tonics during an evening traffic jam. Even so, there were nylon clotheslines stretching across each of the verandas, as though it were some sort of rule. A single garden was placed near a potted rubber tree. It was a shabby, washed-out-looking rubber tree. The leaves looked worn out, and here and there some of them were brown and withering. Aomame couldn't help but feel sorry for the plant. If she were going to be reincarnated, she'd want to be anything but that miserable little plant.

Because the stairs were almost never used, there were spiderwebs spread out all over the place. There were small black spiders, pressing themselves against the wall, waiting with the greatest of patience for their prey to come along. If they tried, spiders could be incredibly patient without even thinking about it. Since spiders didn't have any particular skills other than spinning webs, they didn't exactly have many alternative lifestyle choices. Waiting in one place for their prey to come, they might shrivel up and die as the life drained out of them. It's something that was written into their genes long ago. They don't have any hesitation, any despair, or any remorse. They don't have any questions of metaphysics or morals. Probably. But I'm not like that. I can't help but move toward my goals; for this reason, even if it's bad for my stockings, I'll climb down these emergency stairs of the 3^rd lane of the Shuto Expressway near Sangen-Jaya all by myself, even if I don't understand my reasons for doing so. While clearing away the annoying spiderwebs, she gazed at the rotting plant on the impractical veranda.

I'm moving forward. Therefore, I am myself.

While Aomame was climbing down the stairs, she found herself thinking about Ootsuka Tamaki. She didn't mean to think about her, but once the thoughts had popped into her head she couldn't stop thinking about her. Tamaki had been Aomame's best friend in high school; the two of them had been in the same softball club. Back then they went everywhere together and did all sorts of things together. Once they had even pretended to be lesbians. While on a trip during summer break, they had slept in the same bed together. There had been nothing but semi-double rooms available. Lying next to each other in the same bed, they had touched each others bodies in various places. But it wasn't because they were lesbians. Driven by a curiosity which was normal for young girls, they just wanted to experiment. Neither of them had boyfriends at the time, so they both had zero sexual experience. Even now, the memory of this episode of “exceptionally strong curiosity” was the event most strongly stuck in her memory. Even as she was climbing down these stair, the memory of touching Tamaki's body seemed to make Aomame feel warm inside. She could remember with strange clarity the feeling of touching Tamaki's round breasts, her thin pubic hair, the beautiful bulge of her butt and the delicate shape of her clitoris.

While she was experiencing this vivid memory, the festive ensemble of wind instruments from Janacek's Sinfonietta seemed to resonate in the back of Aomame's mind. With the palm of her hand she had caressed the forbidden parts of Tamaki's body. Tamaki had started to tickle her, but Aomame had managed to prevent herself from giggling. Her breathing changed. This music had been composed as a fanfare for a sports festival. The music gave an overall impression of wind flowing easily across the Bohemian plains. She knew the Tamaki's nipples were becoming hard. Her own nipples were becoming just as hard. Then the timpani began to trace out a complex rhythm.

Aomame stopped walking and shook her head slightly a few times. This is no play to be thinking about these sorts of things. I should be focusing on getting down these stairs, she thought. But the thoughts refused to stop. Various images from that time kept popping into her head. They were incredibly vivid. The summer night, the narrow bed, the faint smell of sweat. Words that were said. Feeling that couldn't help but be expressed. Forgotten promises. Unfulfilled hopes. The lost longing for somewhere to go. A gust of wind lifted her hair, then snapped it back against her cheeks. The pain made tears well up in her eyes. Then the next gust of wind dried those tears.

Just when was that, Aomame wondered. Trying to remember a timeline, however, is like holding onto a thread. If you lose the end, everything gets tangled up every which way. The drawers had all been rearranged. Why can't I remember? Right now it's 1984. I was born in 1954. That much I can remember. Such time stamps were rapidly losing their reality within her mind, however. The image of a bunch of white cards with years printed on them being scattered by a strong wind floated before her eyes. Even if she were to run, it seemed that she'd only be able to catch one at the most. But the wind was too strong. All of the numbered cards were being lost. 1954, 1984, 1645, 1881, 2006, 771, 2041... These years were being blown away one after the other. As the order was lost, her knowledge began to disappear and her train of thought collapsed.

Aomame and Tamaki were in the same bed. There were both 17 and enjoying the freedom that came with that age. So, for the first time, the two of them had set out on a trip as traveling companions. They were both very excited. Having bathed in the hot springs and split a can of cold beer between the two of them, the turned out the lights and crawled into bed. At first the two had just been horsing around normally. Just for fun, they had nudged each other. Then at one point, Tamaki's hand reached out and, though the T-shirt of her pajamas, had gently pinched Aomame's nipple. Something like electricity ran throughout Aomame's body. Soon enough they had taken off their shirts and were naked except for their underwear. It was a summer night. Where were we traveling? I don't remember. It could have been anywhere. Without either of them having suggested it, they began to closely inspect each others' bodies. Gazing, feeling, stroking, kissing, and licking. Sometimes jokingly, sometimes seriously. Tamaki was kind of small, and you might say she was a bit chubby. Her breasts were large. Aomame, on the other hand, was tall and skinny. Her breasts were muscular and not very large. Tamaki was always saying that she needed to go on a diet, but Aomame thought she looked wonderful.

Tamaki had soft skin with a smooth texture. Her swelling nipples looked beautifully round. They were a lot like olives. Her pubic hair was thin and delicate, like a feathery willow tree. Aomame's was stiff and hard, They had both laughed at the difference. They touched the sensitive parts of each others' bodies, exchanging information about which things felt the best. There were places they agreed to touch, and places that were forbidden. That said, they extended their fingers and touched each others' clitorises. They both had experience masturbating. Lots of experience. Touching yourself is a completely different thing though, they had both decided. The wind came rushing over the green fields of Bohemia.

Aomame stopped and shook her head again. She took a deep breath and, once more firmly gripped the railing. These thoughts aren't going to stop. I can't concentrate on climbing down. I should already be more than halfway down, Aomame thought. And on top of that, why am I hearing such terrible music? Why is the wind so strong? It feels like I'm being accused of something and am being punished.

Anyhow, once I get to the bottom of these stairs, if there's anyone there, what would be a good answer if they asked me what I'm doing? “There was a traffic jam on the Shuto Expressway, so I decided to use the emergency stairs to get down. Because there's something urgent I need to do.” Would that be enough to keep me out of trouble? I don't even know if I could get in trouble for something like this. Aomame had no desire to be involved in any trouble. Especially not today.

Thankfully, there was no one at the bottom of the stairs to see her come down. Once she had reached the ground, Aomame took her shoes out of her bag and put them back on. The bottom of the stairs came out between Route 246 upper and lower roads, in an area filled with construction materials. Surrounded by a metal fence, there were a bunch of metal posts just lying around. They seemed to be left over from some kind of construction project and were just thrown away here to rust. There was a plastic roof set up, under which there were three tons of cloth bags. She didn't know what was inside, but they seemed to be covered with vinyl to prevent rain from getting in. These also seemed to be left over raw construction materials. Since it would be a hassle to carry them away one by one, they seemed to have just been tossed here. Also under the roof were some cardboard boxes. Tons of empty bottles and magazines had been tossed there as well. Other than that, there was nothing. There weren't even any plastic shopping bags because they had all fluttered away in the wind.

There was a gate in the chickenwire fence with a large padlock wrapped around it. It was a tall gate, with barbed wire at the top. It seemed impossible to climb over. If she did try, her clothes would definitely get ripped to shreds. She tried pushing and pulling on it, but it refused to budge. It didn't even open wide enough to let a cat through. Why do they have to go so far in locking it up? It's not like there's anything worth stealing. She frowned, swore, and spit on the ground. Why did I take all the trouble to climb down from the expressway just to get locked in a construction site? She glanced at her watch. I've still got some time. But there's no reason for me to just hang around in a place like this. Of course, there's no reason to go back up to the expressway either.

The heel of her stocking was already torn. After checking to make sure there was nobody watching, she took off her high heels and pulled off her stockings one leg at a time; then she put her shoes back on. This calmed her down a little. She walked around the construction site, carefully looking around, It was about as wide as an elementary school classroom. It didn't take very long to make do a complete lap. There really was only one way in or out: just the locked gate. Since they had been sitting out for so long, the bolts on the gate were overgrown with weeds. Without the use of tools, they wouldn't come off. It was hopeless.

She inspected the cardboard boxes piled under the plastic roof. They seemed to shaped like a bed; there was a pile of newspapers that could be used as a blanket. None of them were very old. There was probably a homeless person who spent nights here. That was probably why there were magazines and newspapers all over the place. There was no doubt about it. Aomame thought about it. If there was someone sleeping here at night, there must be some way in and out. he must have been very observant to have found such a good place to avoid the wind and the rain. Anyway, he had stealthily hidden his secret passage as if he were an animal covering his tracks.

Aomame carefully examined each of the metal panels in the fence, one at a time. She tried pushing each one with her hand to see if they would pry loose. As expected, she found one panel that shook loose; the bolts seemed to have been broken off with something. She tried pushing it in various directions. If she twisted it and pulled a little, she could make a space large enough for a single person to fit through. The homeless person probably came in through here when it got dark to sleep under the roof. Since it would be difficult to do here, he probably went out during the day to gather food or collect empty bottles to earn some change. Aomame was grateful to the nameless nighttime inhabitant of this place. In the underbelly of this large city, Aomame considered this nameless person who was forced to go back and forth through this place to be a friend.

Aomame bent down and slipped through the narrow opening. She took special care that her expensive suit didn't catch on anything and rip. It wasn't just that she liked the suit; it was actually the only one she owned. Usually she didn't wear suits. Putting on high heels wasn't something she usually did either. However in this kind of work sometimes she was forced to change her appearance. Thus, there was no reason to ruin such a nice suit.

Fortunately, there was no one outside the fence. After Aomame checked her clothes one more time and regained her composure, she walked to the next stoplight on Route 246 and went into the first drugstore she saw to buy a new pair of stockings. She asked the clerk if there was a place in the back where she could put them on; after that she was in a much better mood. The unpleasant feeling that had been upsetting her stomach was completely gone. She thanked the clerk and left the shop.

Probably because news of the traffic accident had spread, there was more traffic than usual running along the Route 246. Because of this, Aomame gave up on taking a taxi and instead decided to take the Tokyu Shin-Tamakawa line from the station nearby. There was no other choice. Besides, she had already tried taking a taxi and had gotten stuck in traffic.

On the way to the Sangen-Jaya Station, the only person she saw was a policeman. The tall young policeman was walking at a very quick pace as if he had somewhere he needed to be. For a moment she was nervous, but the policeman seemed to be in a hurry; he looked straight ahead and didn't even glance in Aomame's direction. As the policeman passed, she noticed something strangely different about his clothes. It wasn't the police uniform she was used to seeing. The jacket was the same shade of navy blue, but the details were different. It had been made more casual. And that wasn't all. The material had become softer. The small collar was now a paler shade of navy blue. Also the shape of his gun was different. It was attached to his hip and was a large automatic. Japanese policemen carried revolvers as sidearms. Since there weren't many shootings in Japan, and since most police officers were rarely involved in gunfights, there wasn't a need for anything more than old-fashioned revolvers. Revolvers had a simple mechanism, were cheap, rarely broke, and were easy to use. So why was this policeman allowed to carry a around a new model semi-automatic? It could hold sixteen 9mm bullets; probably a Glock or a Beretta. What could have happened? Had the standard uniform and sidearm been changed and she simply didn't know about it? No, that wasn't possible. She always checked the articles in newspapers. If there had been a change like that, it should have been big news. And anyway, she had always paid attention to the appearance of policemen. Up until this morning, up until mere hours ago, policemen always wore the same coarse uniforms and carried the same rough revolvers. She remembered it clearly. How strange.

However Aomame didn't have time for such thoughts; she had work to do.

Aomame left her coat in a coin locker in Shibuya Station and, wearing only her suit, walked briskly up the hill to a hotel. It was an average city hotel; it wasn't particularly luxurious, but it had fairly decent facilities and was clean, so dubious guests didn't stay there. On the first floor was a restaurant and a convenience store, and it had a good location very close to the station.

When she entered the hotel, she went straight to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was unoccupied. She immediately sat down on the toilet and proceeded to pee. It was a rather long pee. She closed her eyes and didn't think about anything; the sound of her own urination sounded like the splashing of distant waves. When she finished she went to the sink and carefully washed her hands with soap, brushed her hair, and blew her nose. She took out her toothbrush and toothpaste and brushed her teeth. Since she didn't have tons of time, she skipped flossing. Just brushing was enough. It wasn't as though she was going on a date. She turned to the mirror and applied a layer of lipstick. She also plucked her eyebrows. She took off the jacket of her suit; as she adjusted the position of the wires in her bra and smoothed out the wrinkles in her white blouse, she checked under her arms for the smell of sweat. There was no smell. Then she closed her eyes and recited the words of a prayer. The words didn't hold any meaning for her. She didn't care what the meant; the important thing was the act of reciting the prayer.

When she finished the prayer, she opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the mirror. OK. No matter how you look at it, I look like a capable business woman. Her back was straight and her mouth was tense. This big fat bag seems a little out of place. I should probably be carrying and attache case instead. This just seems more practical, though. To put her mind at ease, she checked the contents of her shoulder bag one more time. There was no question; everything was packer right where it should be. Everything she needed was within reach.

The only other thing left to do is just to decide to actually go through with it. With unwavering principles and cruelty, she had no choice but to take the path which was laid out before her. Aomame unbuttoned the top button of her blouse so that her chest would be more visible when she leaned forward. This would work a little better if I had bigger breasts, she thought with regret.

No one was watching as she took the elevator up to the fourth floor and walked down the hallway to find the door of room 426. She pulled a specially prepared clipboard out of her shoulder bag and, holding it against her chest, knocked on the door. It was a light, brief knock. She waited for a moment. Then she knocked again. Only this time a little harder and with a little more force. From inside she heard an uneasy grunt, and the door opened a crack; a man's head peaked out. He was about 40 years old. He was wearing a marine blue shirt and grey flannel slacks. He looked like a businessman who had just taken off his coat and tie. His eyes were red, most likely from lack of sleep, so he had an ill-tempered look about him. His face showed surprise at seeing a business-suit-clad Aomame; he had probably expected her to be a maid coming to restock the refrigerator.

“I'm sorry for disturbing your rest. I'm Miss Itou from the hotel management; we've been having some complaints about our air conditioning system, so I've come to check on yours. Would if be OK if I came inside for five minutes?” Aomame said in a businesslike tone while smiling genially.

The man squinted his eyes in displeasure. “I'm in the middle of some urgent work right now. I'll be leaving my room in about an hour, so couldn't you wait until then? At the moment there doesn't seem to be any problem with the air conditioning in this room.”

“I'm very sorry, but since it's an emergency check for leaks, I'd really prefer to finish as quickly as possible. In this kind of situation I have to go through each room one-by-one. If you'll please cooperate, it will only take five minutes.”

“That's no good,” the man said, clicking his tongue. “The whole reason I went to the trouble of renting this room was so that I would be able to work without being interrupted.”

He pointed to some papers on the desk. It was a pile of computer printouts of detailed diagrams. He was probably preparing all the necessary materials for the meeting that evening. There was a calculator and a memo pad with lots of numbers written on it.

Aomame knew that this man worked for an oil company. He was an expert in investments involving equipment in the developing countries of the Middle East. He was very skilled at giving information. You could that just by looking at him. He had an air of good breeding, earned a high salary, and drove a new Jaguar. He had been spoiled as a child, studied abroad, spoke English and French, and always had lots of confidence. He was the type of person who, no matter the situation, couldn't tolerate any sort of requests from others. He also had no patience for criticism. Especially from women. On the other hand, he never asked anyone else for anything at all. When his wife was struck with a golf club and broke several ribs, he didn't feel any concern. He thought the world revolved around him. He probably felt that without him the earth would cease to turn. He became annoyed whenever anyone interrupted or contradicted him. He would even get violently angry. The thermostat would just keep on rising.

“I'm sorry for the inconvenience,” Aomame said in a straightforward manner with a bright smile. Then, as if it was already an established fact, she pushed her way halfway into the room, and with back pressed against the door she held out her clipboard and started filling something in. “Sir, you're, um... Mr Miyama, is that correct?” she asked. She remembered studying his photograph countless times, but she couldn't afford a case of mistaken identity. A mistake would be impossible to fix.

“That's right, I'm Miyama,” the man said in an indifferent sort of voice. Then he let out a sigh of defeat. It was as if he were saying “fine, do whatever you want.” With that, he took his pen in hand and returned to his desk, where he picked up the papers he'd been reading. A suit jacket and a striped tie had been thrown violently onto the well-made double bed. Both looked expensive. Aomame, shoulder bag slung over her shoulder, went straight to the closet. She had learned beforehand that that was where the air conditioning's control panel was located. In the closet hung a trench coat made of soft material and a dark grey kashmir muffler. The only baggage was a leather briefcase. There wasn't even an overnight bag. He probably didn't intend to stay the night here. Room service food and a coffee pot sat on the desk. After spending thirty seconds inspecting the panel, she spoke.

“Thank you very much for your cooperation Mr Miyama. There's no problem with this room's air conditioning.”

“I said from the beginning that there wasn't a problem with the air conditioning in this room,” Miyama said in an arrogant tone of voice, turning to face her.

“Um, Mr. Miyama,” Aomame said hesitantly. “I beg your pardon, but there seems to be something on the back of your neck.”

“On the back of my neck?” Miyama repeated, moving his hand to the back of his neck. Then he rubbed it slightly and look suspiciously at the palm of his hand. “There doesn't seem to be anything there.”

“Excuse me,” Aomame said while moving closer to the desk. “But is it OK if I take a closer look?”

“Um, OK, but...” Miyama said with a look on his face that said he didn't understand her reasoning. “What sort of thing is it?”

“It's some sort of paint. It's bright green.”

“Paint?”

“I don't know. It's like some shade of paint. I know it's rude, but can I touch it? I might be able to get it off.”

“OK,” Miyama said, turning his neck to face Aomame. He seemed to have recently gotten a haircut, since there was no hair covering the back of his neck. Aomame took a deep breath and held it, and with total concentration quickly found that spot. Then, as it it were a target, she pressed the tip of her finger over it. Closing her eyes, she could tell from the feel that she hadn't made a mistake. That's right, right there. Usually she preferred to feel it more slowly, but at this point there wasn't time. Even though everything was going smoothly, she had to get moving. “Sorry, but could you stay just like that for a second? I'm going to get my penlight out of my bag; I can't see it very well in this light.”

“Just what kind of paint would get stuck in a place like that?” Miyama asked.

“I'm not sure. I'm checking right now.”

With her finger pressed against that one spot on the man's neck, Aomame reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a plastic case; she opened the lid and took out something wrapped in a small cloth. She skillfully unwrapped it with one hand; it resembled something like a small ice pick. The whole thing was less than 10cm long. The handle was made of firm wood. It wasn't an ice pick, though. It's purpose wasn't to break up ice. She had designed and made it herself. The tip was as sharp as a sewing needle. To keep the tip sharp and unbroken, it had been stuck into a small cork. It was a specially made cork that was soft like cotton. She carefully removed the cork and slipped it into her pocket. Then she placed the bare tip of the needle against that spot on Miyama's neck Steady, this is the important part, she heard herself think. She couldn't permit a mistake of even a single millimeter. If she was off by the tiniest bit, the whole effort would have a waste. More than anything else, she needed to concentrate.

“Do you need more time? How long will this take?” the man asked impatiently.

“Sorry, I'll be done in a second,” Aomame said.

It's OK, it'll all be over in an instant, she said to the man within her own head. Just wait a little bit longer. After this you won't have to think about anything at all. You won't need to think about the oil production system, about the shifts in the crude oil market, about the quarterly investment group reports, about reserving flights to Bahrain, about bribing government officials, or about buying gifts for your wife. Having said that though, is it really so bad to have to think about those sorts of things? So, I'm sorry, but please just wait for a little while. Since I'll be concentrating very hard on this job, please don't interrupt, OK? Please?

Once she had gotten into position and made up her mind, she raised up her right palm, held her breath, paused for a second, then dropped her hand with a thump. She twisted the wooden handle. She didn't use much force. If she used too much power, the tip of the needle would break off under the skin. There was no reason to leave a trace of the needle behind. Lightly, almost lovingly, at the correct angle and with the correct amount of strength, she pressed down with her had; with no resistance from gravity, it fell smoothly. She pushed on that spot as insistently and naturally as breathing. Deeply, smoothly, and fatally. The important thing was the angle and the power of the push- No, rather it was the lack of power. When she thought about it, it was a lot like cutting tofu. The tip of the needle pushed into the flesh; when it reached the lower portion of the brain, his heart stopped like a candle being blown out. Everything ended in a single moment. Almost too quickly. It was something only Aomame could do. This kind of subtle point was something no one else could find. But she could find it. She had the special gift of a sixth-sense in her fingertips.

She heard the man suppress a surprised gasp. All the muscles in his body twitched and contracted. After she felt this, she quickly pulled out the needle. Then she immediately took some specially prepared gauze from her pocket and covered the wound, in order to stop the bleeding. She pulled out the needle only a few seconds after inserting it. There was very little blood. She had to make sure of that. She couldn't leave a trace of blood. A single drop of blood would be fatal. Aomame had to be careful.

Once Miyama's body went rigid, time passed slowly as the life drained from the body. It was like letting the air out of a basketball. While keeping her fingers pressed against the spot on his neck, she flipped his body over onto the desk. His face rested on the papers like a pillow, with the rest of his body slumped over sideways on the desk. There was no fear. There was no pain either. There was only pure, ordinary surprise. Something unusual had happened to his body. However, just what had happened, he couldn't understand. Whether it was a pain, or an itch, or a pleasure, or perhaps even some sort of revelation, he couldn't tell. There are lots of ways to die in this world, but there probably weren't many ways to die that were more comfortable than this.

Your death was probably too comfortable, Aomame thought, frowning. And too simple. I probably could have broken a few of your ribs with a 5-iron; then there'd have been plenty of pain and death would have seemed merciful. That miserable sort of death would be fit for a wretched rat. That's what happened to your wife. But, while it's unfortunate, I'm not free to make that choice. The mission I was given is to send this man to the other world, quickly and secretly. I've accomplished my mission now. This man was just perfectly fine. But now he's dead. He didn't even seem to be aware of the distinction between life and death until it was too late.

Aomame held the gauze tightly against the wound for five minutes. She did so patiently using only the strength of her fingers. During that time, her eyes didn't leave the second hand of her watch. It was a long five minutes. It felt like that five minutes might last for all eternity. If someone were to open the door and come in, then they would see her with the small weapon in one hand and pressing against the man's neck with the other, and everything would be over. There would be no getting away with it. For all she knew a bellboy might be coming to refill the coffee pot. At any moment there might be a knock at the door. However, these five minutes were something important that couldn't be skipped. She quietly took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Don't rush. You mustn't lose your cool. You have to be the same, cool Miss Aomame as always.

She could hear her heart beating. Her heartbeats were in sync with the opening fanfare of Janacek's Sinfonietta, which was resounding in her head. The was almost no sound as the winds blew softly across the green Bohemian plains. She felt that her body was being split in two. Half of her was extraordinarily cool, continuing to push against the dead man's neck. But the other half was terribly afraid. I feel like I just want to throw everything away and run out of this room. I'm here, but at the same time I'm not. I'm in two places at once. It violates Einstein's theory, but that's just how it is. Call it the Zen of a murderer.

The five minutes finally ended. However, Aomame added one more minute just to be safe. I'll wait one more minute. Even if the job is urgent, it OK to be certain. She stood completely still as she waited for this serious one minute to end. Then she slowly removed her finger and inspected the wound with her penlight. What remained was no bigger than a mosquito bite.

This death from being stabbed in that special point in the lower portion of the brain with an extremely thin needle very closely resembled a natural death. An average doctor wouldn't be able to tell the difference between this and an average heart attack. It would look like he had had a sudden heart attack and died just like that while working at the desk. Too much work and stress. There was nothing unusual about that. There wouldn't be any obvious reason for an autopsy.

He had been pretty successful, but he had worked a little too hard. He earned a high salary, but that wasn't something he could use now that he was dead. Even if he wore Armani suits and drove a new Jaguar, he still had to die eventually, the same as even a common ant. Work, work; there's no point to it when death comes. He had forgotten the important things in life. “How sad that he dies while he was still so young,” people might say. Or maybe they wouldn't.

Aomame pulled the cork out of her pocket and stuck the tip of the needle in it. Then she once again wrapped the delicate tool in the cloth, put it in the hard case and returned it to the bottom of her shoulder bag. She took a hand towel from the bathroom and wiped off all the fingerprints she had left. The only places she had left fingerprints were the doorknob and the air conditioning control panel. Other than that she hadn't touched anything else in the whole room with her hands. Then she replaced the towel. She loaded the coffeepot onto the room service tray and placed it out in the hallway. This way when the bellboy came to collect the coffeepot he wouldn't have to knock, so the body wouldn't be discovered right away. The cleaning maid wouldn't come and discover the body until well after checkout tomorrow.

When he didn't show up to his meeting tonight, people would probably call this room. But no one would answer. They would probably think it was strange and get the manager to open the door. Maybe they wouldn't open the door without a special reason. That all depended on the circumstances.

Aomame stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked to make sure her clothes weren't messy. She fastened the top button of her blouse. She didn't need anyone staring at her breasts. Actually, though, it's not as though I get lots of looks anyhow. She didn't think very much about people. She frowned moderately. Then she fixed her hair and loosened her muscles by lightly massaging them with her fingers; she faced the mirror and gave a pleasant smile. She had just been to the dentist, so her teeth gleamed white. OK, in a moment I'm going to leave this dead man's room and return the same old real world. This atmosphere has to change. I'm not a calm murderer yet. I'm just a competent business woman wearing a sharp suit.

Aomame opened the door just a little and peaked outside; she didn't see anyone in the hall so she slipped out of the room. She didn't want to use the elevator, so she walked down the stairs. When she entered the lobby no one paid her any attention. She straightened her back, looked straight ahead and walked out quickly. But not so quickly as to attract attention. She was a pro. An almost perfect pro. If her breasts were just a little bigger, then she would be a perfect pro, she thought with a hint of regret. She frowned again. But she wasn't complaining. Nothing had happened to complain about.

Chapter 2: Another Unfinished Idea (Tengo)

1Q84, Volume 1,By Murakami Haruki
Chapter 2: Another Unfinished Idea (Tengo)

Tengo's first memory was from when he was one and a half years old. His mother took off her blouse, pulled down the shoulder strap of her white slip, and a man who was not his father sucked on her nipple. There was a baby in a crib; it was probably Tengo. He saw himself in the third person. Maybe it was actually his twin brother. No, that couldn't be. It was most likely one and a half year old Tengo himself. It was something he understood in his gut. The sleeping baby had his eyes closed and was making little noises in his sleep. This was Tengo's first memory in his entire life. This roughly 10 second long scene was burned into the walls of his consciousness. There was nothing before it nor after it. Like a town built on high ground during a great flood sticking out above the muddy water, that memory was completely isolated in his head.

Whenever he had the chance, Tengo would ask the people around him how old they were in the first memory. Most people would answer four or five years old. The earliest was three years old. There wasn't a single year instance where someone had an earlier memory than that. Children don't develop the ability to remember what happens around them until after they turn three years old. Before that stage, children are unable to understand what's going on around them and everything seems like chaos. To them, the world was unstable, and unable to hold its shape, like a simmering bowl of rice pudding. Since they were unable to form memories in their brains, their memories would go right out the window.

Of course, a one and a half year old infant shouldn't be able to understand what it means when a man who is not his father sucks his mother's nipples. That much is obvious. Therefore, if this memory of Tengo's was in fact real, he probably hadn't understood it at all even as it was burned into his retinas. It was just like how a camera takes a mixture of ordinary light and shadow and mechanically records it as an object on film. Therefore, as he became more self-aware, little by little he carefully analyzed the image, and invested time in understanding what it meant. But, was this memory really something based on reality? Just what was it about babies was it that made it impossible for them to form these sorts of memories?

Perhaps it was only a fake memory. If his subconscious had a good reason, couldn't it have just made the whole thing up? That is was all just a creation of his memory-Tengo had considered that possibility very deeply. Afterward, though, he had reached a decision. Made up memories aren't this vivid, and don't have such persuasive power. In this memory, there was light, and smell, and the feel of his own heartbeat. It felt so overwhelmingly real that he couldn't believe it was fake. Anyhow, assuming that the scene had in fact really happened, it explained a few things very well. Both logical things and emotional things.

The vivid 10 second scene would come without warning. If there had been signs, then they must have gotten delayed. There was no knock at the door or anything like that. When he was riding on a train, when he was writing an equation on the black board, when he was talking to someone sitting across from him (like he was this time, for example) the memory would suddenly come to him and flood his mind completely. Once he noticed it, the scene would appear before his eyes and his arms and legs would go completely numb. The flow of time would stop. The air around him would become thin, and he would become unable to breathe. The people and things around him would become irrelevant. His whole body would become covered with sweat. His sense of the world would darkly close off, and his consciousness would fade for no reason. It was as though a train had switched tracks. Some of his senses would become rather sharp. There would be no fear. But he wouldn't be able to open his eyes. His eyelids would remain tightly shut. The sounds around him would fade away. He had seen this familiar scene many times like this. Sweat would poor over his entire body; he knew that the armpits of his shirt would be soaked. His whole body would begin to tremble slightly. His heartbeats would become fast and load.

If there was anyone around during these situations, Tengo would pretend that he had just become dizzy from standing too quickly. In fact, it was actually very similar to the feeling of standing up too quickly. Usually he would completely recover after a little time had passed. He would take his handkerchief and hold it over his mouth. With his hand, he would make a signal that there was nothing to worry about. It would last for somewhere between 30 seconds to a minute. During that time the same scene would play like a video tape set to automatically repeat. His mother would pull down the shoulder strap of her slip, and as her nipples became hard a man from who-knows-where would suck them. Her eyes closed, she would let out a tremendous sigh. The nostalgic smell of breast milk would faintly hang in the air. To a baby, smell was a very important sense to have. A smell could give lots of information. In this case, it gave all the information. There weren't any sounds to hear. The air would become like a thick liquid; the only sound he could catch were his own faint heartbeats.

“Look at this,” his heartbeats would say. “Look only at this,” they would say. “You're hear now, and you can't go anywhere else,” they would say. He'd received this message many, many times.

This time the “attack” lasted for a long time. Tengo closed his eyes and as always brought his handkerchief to his mouth while he bit down tightly. How long this lasted he didn't know. When it was finally all over, his whole body was tired but he had no idea why. His body was terribly exhausted. It was the first time he had ever felt such fatigue. It took time just for him to be able to open his eyes. He immediately tried to regain his bearings, but his muscles and his internal organs resisted. His eyes were like hibernating animals that were being woken up early in the wrong season.

“Hey, Tengo,” someone had said before. He heard the voice dimly as if it were coming from the back of a cave. Tengo realized that that was his own name. “What is it? Was it that again? Are you OK?” the voice said. This time when he heard the voice it seemed to be closer.

He finally opened his eyes and regained his senses; he look down at his own right hand which was gripping the edge of the table. That the world had not fallen apart and still existed confirmed for him that he was still himself within that world. Though it was still a little numb, this was probably his own right hand. Also, he could smell the scent of his own sweat. Like the smell in front of some animal's cage at a zoo, it was a strangely sharp smell. Yet, there was no room for doubt that it was the smell that his own body gave off.

His throat was dry. Tengo reached out for the glass of water on the table and, taking special care not to spill it, drank half of it. He paused to catch his breath, then drank the other half. His mind returned to its usual state, and his body began to feel normal again. Having completely emptied the glass, he wiped his lips with his handkerchief.

“I'm sorry. I'm OK now,” he said. He confirmed that he was meeting someone named Komatsu. The two of them had a meeting in a coffee shop near Shinjuku Station, He could hear the usual background conversations now. The two people sitting at the next table over were looking over at him suspiciously as though something weird had happened. The waitress standing nearby had a nervous expression on her face. He wasn't sure, but she seemed as though she might have been worried that he would throw up in his seat. Tendo looked up and turned to her and, smiling, nodded. It was as though he was saying “don't worry, I won't throw up.”

“That wasn't a seizure, was it?” Komatsu asked.

“It's nothing as serious as that. It's just something like the ordinary dizziness you get from standing up too quickly. It's no more severe than that,” Tengo said. He still couldn't tell if his voice was indeed his own voice. But that wasn't really something urgent.

“If it were to were to happen while you were driving, it would be pretty serious,” Komatsu said, looking him in the eye.

“I'm not driving.”

“That's not the point. I know someone who's allergic to pollen, and while he was driving he started to sneeze and crashed into a telephone pole. You too, Tengo, don't know when you might sneeze. The first time it could just be a coincidence, but once it happens twice it's a pattern.”

“I'm sorry.”

Tengo took his coffee cup in his hand and drank everything that was in it in a single gulp. The flavor didn't matter. He just needed something warm to pass down his throat.

“Should I go get you more water?” Komatsu asked.

Tengo shook his head. “No, I'm OK. I've already recovered.”

Komatsu took a box of Marlboros from his pocket, put a cigarette in his mouth, then lit it with one of the coffee shop's matches. After that he glanced at his watch.

“Anyway, what were we talking about?” Tengo asked. He was quickly returning to normal.

“Um, just what were we talking about?” Komatsu said, staring off into space and thinking for a bit. Or, perhaps he only appeared to be thinking. Tengo couldn't be sure which it was. Few of Komatsu movements made it seem like he wanted to talk. “Oh, that's right, we were talking about a girl named Fukaeri. That and 'the Chrysalis of the Air'.”

Tengo nodded. They had been talking about the Fukaeri and “the Chrysalis of the Air”. Tengo had been in the middle of explaining something to Komatsu when his “attack” had interrupted the conversation. Tengo pulled a bunch of copies of the manuscript out of his bag and set them on the table. Holding up a manuscript in his hand, he looked over it one more time.

“We spoke about it briefly on the phone, but the best thing about this 'the Chrysalis of the Air' is that it's not imitating anyone else. It's an unusual work for a newcomer, and it's not really trying to be like anything else,” Tengo said, carefully choosing his words. “The word choices are poor, probably because the sentence structure is so rough. As for the title, it's easy to get 'chrysalis' and 'cocoon' mixed up. If you're interested, I could point out a bunch of other flaws. But even if these kinds of stories are rare, there's something about them that draws people in. Even though the whole thing is a fantasy, the detailed descriptions make it seem awfully real. The balance is very good. How necessary things like originality or proper word choice are, I don't really know. I'm not really sure if I'd say she's reached that level. But after you've finished reading you're left with a genuine kind of response. For example, you feel uncomfortable, but you can't really explain why you feel so strange.”

Komatsu looked at Tengo's face and said nothing. Then again, he didn't ask many questions.

Tengo continued. “Even though the writing is bad in spots, I don't want to simply drop this from consideration. In all my years of work, I've read mountains of application manuscripts. Well, I guess you'd say it's more like I've skimmed them rather than actually read them. Of course, most were overwhelmingly bad, but I've gotten some relatively good works, and the difference between the good and the bad ones is the difference between sticks and chopsticks. But, anyway, during that time, out of all the manuscripts I've looked over, only this 'the Chrysalis of the Air' made me feel such a reaction. For the first time, after I had finished reading I felt like going back and reading it one more time.”

“Huh,” Komatsu said. Then, in a disinterested sort of way, he puckered his lips and took a drag on his cigarette. Because he had know Komatsu for a long time, though, Tengo wasn't fooled by this simple expression. Often times this guy's expression would have nothing to do with what he was thinking, and sometimes it be the exact opposite. Knowing this, Tengo just waited patiently for him to speak.

“I read it as well,” Komatsu said after a while had passed. “Right after you told me about it on the phone, I read the manuscript. But, well, it was actually awful. Since there aren't any sentence particles, I couldn't understand what the sentences were supposed to mean. Before writing a novel, it would probably be better if she went back and studied the basics of writing and editing, I think.”

“But you did read it all the way to the end. Right?”

Komatsu smiled. His smile seemed like something taken out of a drawer that was almost never opened.

“That's right, it's just as you say; I read it all the way to the end. I was surprised myself. I've never ever read a Newcomer Award-winning manuscript straight through. And on top of that, I even had a slight desire to reread it. That's as rare as the planets aligning. I'll give you that much.”

“That's because there's something there. Am I right?”

Komatsu put his cigarette in the ashtray and rubbed the side of his nose with the middle finger of his right hand. He didn't answer Tengo's question, though.

Tengo spoke up. “This girl is still a 17 year old high school student. She did this without any special training for reading or writing. If we're already talking about winning the Newcomer Award, then it might not be impossible. It's good enough to make it to the final round of selections. You can do that much on your own. If you want it to, it will make it to the final round.”

“Huh,” Komatsu said again, yawning as though bored. Then he drank his glass of water in a single gulp. “Well, you've certainly thought this through, haven't you? You'd really dare to send this kind of rough story on to the final round of selections? The professors on the selection committee will probably overrule you. It might even make them angry. They probably won't even read it all the way to the end in the first place. The selection committee is made up of four current writers. Everyone's busy with work. They'll throw it out after flipping through the first two pages. You couldn't even say that it's as good as an elementary school student's story. With such well polished stories in the running, even if I wave my hands and give a passionate speech, who's going to listen to me? Even if I use all the influence I have, you've got way too high of expectations for me.”

“Saying that, don't you think you're giving up a little too quickly?”

“I didn't say I was giving up,” Komatsu said while continuing to rub the side of his nose. “I have something a little different in mind for this story.”

“Something a little different in mind,” Tengo repeated. He had sensed something ominous in the way Komatsu said that.

“You're saying you have high expectations for her next work,” Komatsu said. “I also have high hopes for her, of course. After some time passes and the young writer grows up to become famous, it would be a delight to be her editor. My heart skips a beat knowing that soon when someone looks up into the clear night sky they'll find a new star there. Honestly speaking, it's difficult to imagine what's next. While I may not be a famous author myself, I've been doing this for 20 years. During that time I've seen various authors come and go. Because of this, I can mostly tell the difference between which people are going to be famous next, and which people won't. If I had to say, this girl won't be the next person to be famous. I'm sorry, but she won't be the one after the next one either. Or the one after the one after the next one. The first thing she needs to do in order to improve her writing is not just to pile on a lot of studying. It won't do any good no matter how long you wait; you'd just be waiting in vain. Just why that is, I'm not sure, but they're just something missing if she really intends to write a good novel, to write a complete novel. Whether it's natural talent or whether she became good due to constant effort, I'm not sure. For this kid named Fukaeri, it doesn't matter. Since she seems to be missing natural talent, she'll probably try to make up for it by putting forth a lot of effort. Whether that will help, I'm not sure. But just saying you have an interest in writing isn't what's important. You need determination to write a story. She definitely does have determination, I'll admit that. That's probably what attracted you to such a rough work, and what made me read the manuscript all the way to the end. Depending on how you think about it, that's really something. Even so, she has no future as a writer. Less than the dung of a bedbug. I know it will disappoint you, but if you want my opinion, that's it.”

Tengo thought about it. He decided that Komatsu had a point. After all, Komatsu was a really talented editor.

“But would it really be so bad to give her a chance?” Tengo asked.

“How about we just cast this into the water and see if it sinks or floats?”

“Will it really be that simple?”

“Well, there wouldn't be much of a point to kill it at this point. But I have no desire to see it drown in the end.”

“How can I learn to judge like you?”

“You need to put forth a little more effort,” Komatsu said, choosing her words carefully. “The way I see it, there's no cutting corners. Writing a story is very honest work. Why? It's because you have to like writing. I'll be judging as well, so I can say that for someone who wants to be good, the love of writing is very important.”

“But, it's not enough.”

“Of course. It's not enough. It has have a “special something.” At the very least, it needs something that can't be described. When I talk about how I feel about a novel, I'm judging something that I can't completely explain. Novels that can be entirely understood don't interest me at all. It's only natural. It's the most basic thing.”

Tengo was silent for a moment. Then he opened his mouth. “Does Fukaeri's story have this indescribable something, Komatsu?”

“Yeah. It has it, of course. This girl has something big. Just what kind of something, I don't know, but she's really got it. And she knows it, too. You know it, and I know it too. Like smoke from a big fire on a clear windless afternoon, it's clear to everyone. But, Tengo, whatever this girl has, she doesn't have complete control over it yet.”

“So you don't expect her to float if we throw her in the water?”

“Exactly right,” Komatsu said.

“So then we shouldn't send her off to the final round of selections?”

“Right,” Komatsu said. Then he curled his lips and put both his hands together on top of the table. “At this point, I have to choose my words carefully.”

Tengo took his coffee cup in his hand and checked how much we left. Then he put it back. Komatsu still didn't say anything. Tengo opened his mouth. “So, what did you mean when you said you had 'something a little different in mind' for her?”

Komatsu squinted at him like a teacher in front of a diligent student. Then he slowly nodded.

“I did say that...”

The man called Komatsu had something mysterious about him. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling simply from his expression or tone of voice. This guy seemed to enjoy keeping the people around his wrapped in a dense fog. He was likely very clever. Since he followed his own logic instead of what everyone else expected, others thought he was the judgmental type. He didn't show it off unnecessarily, but since he often read very large books, he had all sorts of detailed knowledge about a wide variety of things. Not only did he know a lot and have a sixth sense for people, but he also had an eye for novels. That probably made him biased, but for him being biased was one of the most important things.

By nature he was a man of few words who hated to explain anything, but if it was necessary he was able to cleverly and logically explain his opinion. When he wanted to, he could become quite severe. He would listen for his opponent's weak spot and then, in the blink of an eye, would peirce straight through it. There were, individually, some people and some novels, who he could tolerate, but there were more by far whom he couldn't tolerate. Thus, while there were of course some people with whom he was friendly, there were far more people with whom he wasn't. But there was a void within himself. From Tengo's point of view, since he rather liked isolating himself, he had lots of fun keeping others at a distance, almost as if he hated them. You might say that he believed that sharpness of mind couldn't be born in a comfortable environment.

Komatsu was 45, 16 years older than Tengo. Since he was a first rate editor of a literary magazine, his name was well known in the working world for all of the work he did, but no one knew a thing about his personal life. Even though he was at the top level of his company, no one ever spoke with him personally. When he was born, where he grew up, where he was currently living; Tengo didn't know any of these things. Even in a long conversation, these sorts of topics never came up. Up to this point, even though he had ignored the literary world and had made no connections, since he was often getting manuscripts which turned people's heads, he was naturally receiving manuscripts from several famous authors. It was thanks to him that the magazine had such a good reputation. So, even if people didn't like him, they all had their eye on him.

He was rumored to have been a leader of one of the student movements during the student revolts of the sixties while he was studying literature at Tokyo University. He was said to have received serious injuries when he was beaten to the point of death by the police during the Michiko Kanba demonstrations. No one knew if this was true. Just because people often said so wasn't enough to prove that it was true. He was tall and thin, with a terribly large mouth and a terribly small nose. His arms and legs were long and his fingertips were stained from cigarettes. He was reminiscent of a revolutionary or the crumbling Intelligentsia, right out of a 19^th Century Russian novel. Although he almost never laughed, when he did a smile would appear on his face. Even then, though, he didn't seem especially happy. He looked more like a magician's apprentice, chuckling while he made an ominous prophecy. He was always clean cut, but as if to show that he didn't care about his appearance, he never wore normal clothing. A tweed jacket, white cotton oxford shirts or pale grey polos, no tie, grey trousers, suede shoes: he wore this outfit like it was his uniform. People imagined that he must have about half a dozen three-button tweed jackets, each with slightly different colors, patterns, materials and sizes hanging in the closet of his house, where he would carefully brush them. They were so indistinguishable, though, that no one knew exactly how many of them there were.

His hair was thin and rough, and he had a few white strands in the front. His ears were hidden beneath his tangle of hair. His hair was so unusually fast growing that within less than a week after a haircut he would need to get another. Just how this was possible, Tengo didn't understand. Sometimes there would be a sharp glint in his eye like a start twinkling in a winter night sky. Whenever something caused him to fall silent, he would remain silent forever, like a rock on the dark side of the moon. The few times that it happened, it even felt the like temperature in the room began to fall.

Tengo had met Komatsu five years previously. When he had applied for the Newcomer Award of the magazine, Komatsu had been the editor who had kept him in the running until the final round of selections. After they had spoken on the phone, Komatsu had said he wanted to speak in person. They met in a coffee shop in Shinjuku (the same coffee shop they were currently in). “It would probably be impossible for this work to win the Newcomer Award,” Komatsu had said (it really hadn't won). “But I personally was interested in your work. You don't have any particular reason to do me a favor, but you should know that I rarely ask favors; normally people are asking me rather than me asking them” (Tengo didn't know it at the time, but it was true). “So, would you let me read the next thing you write, before anyone else?” Komatsu had asked. Tengo said that he would.

Komatsu also wanted to know what sort of person Tengo was. How he had grown up, and what sort of things he was doing now. Tengo explained everything as honestly as he could. He had been born and raised in the city of Ichikawa in the Chiba Prefecture. Tengo's mother had become had become sick while giving birth to him and had died. At least that's what his father had said. He didn't have any brothers. After that his father had never remarried, and raised Tengo by himself. His father had been a collection agent for the NHK, but now he was suffering from Alzheimer's disease, so he had been put in a mental hospital on the southernmost tip of the Fusafusa Peninsula. After he had graduated from Tsukuba University with a degree in the strangely named “1^st Department of Natural Sciences and Mathematics,” he had worked as a math lecturer at a cram school in Yoyogi, during which time he had written his written his novel. After graduation he had the option of becoming a teacher at a local prefectural high school, but he had chosen to be a lecturer at a cram school because of the more flexible schedule. He lived alone in a small apartment in Koenji.

He wanted to become a professional author, but he didn't really know how on his own. Just how much talent he had for writing, he didn't really know either. The only thing he knew for sure was that he couldn't help but work on his novel every day. For him, writing was the same as breathing. Listening fixedly to Tengo, Komatsu had noticed this easily.

He didn't understand why, but he seemed to have taken a liking to Tengo. Tengo had a well-built body that resembled that of an early rising farmer (in middle school, Tengo had been a central player in the Judo club). With his hair cut short, his skin always the color of sunburn, and his ears wrinkled like cauliflower, he didn't really look much like a student of literature or a math teacher. Komatsu seemed to like that kind of thing. When Tengo finished a new novel, he would take it to Komatsu. Komatsu would read it and state his opinion. Tengo learned a lot from this advise. When Tengo would revise a work, Komatsu would give instructions about which direction to go with the new version. This way he seemed to raise the bar a little each time. “I don't know how much time it's going to take,” Komatsu said, “but there's no hurry. Eat a good breakfast and then write without stopping everyday. Include only what you absolutely can't cut out. After that, I don't know how much I can help.” Tengo always followed his advice.

Komatsu also got Tengo a job working on literature. He worked on publishing unsigned manuscripts for a women's magazine owned by Komatsu's publishing company. From revising submissions, to writing simple articles introducing new books and movies, to horoscopes; he easily handled whatever was asked of him. Tengo gained a reputation for having a knack for horoscopes. When he wrote “Be careful of early morning earthquakes,” there was actually be a big earthquake that morning. These various kinds of works allowed him to make a little extra money as well as to practice his writing. He was happy that his own writing, no matter what form it took, was being printed and sold in bookstores.

Soon Tengo was given the job of preparing for the Newcomer Award. While he was working on his own submission, he looked at all the entries fairly; it's strange enough to criticize another authors work, so in his own delicate situation he didn't take any special interest in his own work. By reading a mountain of terribly boring submission, he learned for himself just how awful and boring novels could be. He would go over all the novels about a hundred times and select around ten novels who meaning he could understand; these he would take to Komatsu. Then he would write a memo about his impressions of each work and attach it to the submission. Then five of these would be chosen to go on to the final round of selections, where a committee made up of four people would decide which submission would win the Newcomer Award.

There were other part timers preparing for the contest, and several other editors were also doing the selecting. Since the judging was split up like this, there wasn't any reason that Tengo entering the contest would be a problem. There were only a few promising work, two or three from the whole group, so anyone who was reading them would be able to tell which ones were good right away. Tengo's works had made it to the final round three times. Tengo hadn't even chosen his stories, the two other judges had; thus they were sent on to the desk of the editing department, where Komatsu had sent them on to the next round. None of those works had won the Newcomer Award, but Tengo wasn't discouraged. However, since the only thing Komatsu had said, “You need to take more time,” was burned into not just his head but his whole body, at the moment it wasn't as though Tengo wanted to be best friends with Komatsu.

If he made some adjustments to his class schedule, then four days a week he would be able to stay home and work on his hobby. He had worked as a lecturer at the same cram school for seven years, and among the students he had a fairly decent reputation. When speaking, he got straight to the point rather than speaking in a roundabout manner, and he would always give a prompt answer to any sort of question. He himself was surprised at how skilled he was at speaking. He kept the class interested because he was good at explaining things, had a voice that always carried, and would even tell jokes. Until he had become a lecturer, he had thought he was terrible at speaking. Even now, if someone was looking him in the eye while he spoke, he would get nervous and the words just wouldn't come out smoothly. If he was in a small group, he would always take the part of the listener. Up on a platform in front of people from the general public, though, his mind would abruptly become clear, and he would be able to casually talk about anything. I don't understand human beings at all, Tengo would often think to himself.

He couldn't complain about his salary. Whether or not they admitted it, the cram school decided payment based on ability. If your students' scores regularly improved, you would receive better treatment. This was because the school was afraid that other schools would hire away their best speakers (in fact, headhunting was a frequent topic of conversation). Normal schools didn't worry about those kinds of things. The salaries were based on seniority, chosen by the bosses and managers; ability and popularity didn't have any meaning there. Tengo enjoyed working at a cram school. Since most of the students in the class clearly wanted to do well on their college entrance exams, they would earnestly listen to the lectures. In the classroom, a lecturer didn't have to do anything but teach. That was something for which Tengo was grateful. You couldn't really say that there were a lot of delinquent students or rule-breaking going on, so the teachers' heads didn't need to be bothered with such troublesome issues. Normally, when standing on the platform, he would often just explain the solutions to various math problems. One thing Tengo was really proud of was how he could use abstract concepts as if they were tools to solve problems.

On days when he was at home, he would wake up early and write his novels almost until evening. Using a Mont Blanc 1000-year brush and blue ink, he would cram four hundred characters onto a single sheet of his manuscript. As long as he could do that, Tengo would be satisfied. Once a week his married girlfriend would come over to his apartment and the two of them would spend the afternoon together. When having sex with a married woman ten years older than you, it's easier just not to go out anywhere, and Tengo was satisfied with that arrangement. In the evening he would go for long walks, and when the sun set he would read a book alone while listening to music. He didn't watch TV. Whenever NHK collection agents came to his door asking for donations, he would politely refuse, saying, “I'm sorry, but I don't own a TV. I really don't have one; feel free to come in and check for yourself.” But they never came in. NHK collection agents probably weren't allowed to go into people's houses.

“What I think is, it deserves something a little bit bigger,” Komatsu said.

“Something bigger?”

“Right. No one talks about the Newcomer Award very much, so we might as well aim for something bigger.”

Tengo was silent. He didn't know what Komatsu's plans were, but something about this gave him an uneasy feeling.

“The Akutagawa Prize,” Komatsu said after a moment.

“The Akutagawa Prize.” Tengo repeated Komatsu's words as though he were practicing writing big words in the sand with a stick.

“The Akutagawa Prize. That way everyone in the world who hasn't heard of you will know who you are. You'd be in the newspapers in a big way, and also on the TV news.”

“Hey, Komatsu, maybe I'm confused, but by any chance aren't we supposed to be talking about Fukaeri?”

“That's right. We're talking about Fukaeri and 'The Chrysalis of the Air'. No subjects other than those two should come up.”

Tengo bit his lip, firmly feeling the nerves along the back of it. “But, didn't you just say that it was impossible for this work to even win the Newcomer Award? As it is, wouldn't you say that it's not very good?”

“You're absolutely right; as it is, it's not very good. That much is obvious.”

Tengo needed a moment to think. “So, in other words, what you're saying is that you want to edit the work as it was submitted?”

“That's not the only way. For a promising entry, there's always a lot of advise that an editor can give about revising. That's not unusual. But this time it won't be the author herself who rewrites it; it will be someone else.”

“Someone else?” he asked, although before the question could leave his lips he understood the answer. He only asked to make sure.

“You're going to revise it, Tengo,” Komatsu said.

Tengo searched for the right words. But the right words were nowhere to be found. Taking a deep breath, he said, “But, Komatsu, I won't be able to make all the necessary revisions in time. If I don't completely rewrite it from front to back, it won't seem cohesive.”

“Of course you have to rewrite it from front to back. You can just use the framework of the story as it is now. Keep as much as you can of the style and tone. But feel free to make the writing seem more natural. You're in charge of all the real revisions. I'll just be in charge of the publishing.”

“That might work out,” was all Tengo said.

“You see?” Komatsu took his coffee spoon in his hand and faced Tengo like a conductor assigning a solo. “This girl, Fukaeri, she has something special. You can understand that much just by reading 'The Chrysalis of the Air'. That sort of imagination isn't normal. But, while it's unfortunate, her writing isn't going to become anything special. It's really just terrible. The only chance is if you write the story. You've got a good sense of plot. Her writing is bulky, but yours is delicate and sophisticated. It usually has a kind of momentum to it. Completely the opposite of Fukaeri, you could be able to write well, but you haven't gotten a firm grasp on it yet. Therefor, you often can't find the heart of your stories. You've definitely got the need to write inside of you. But it's like a small animal hiding deep inside a burrow; it almost never comes out. You know that it's hiding at the very back of the hole. But, unless it comes out, you won't be able to catch it. That's what I meant when I told you that you needed more time.”

Tengo awkwardly shifted his position in his seat. He didn't say anything.

“It's a simple conclusion,” Komatsu continued while delicately waving his coffee spoon. “It would be better if the two of you got together to become a single new author. Fukaeri has a rough story, and you're going to write it properly. It would be ideal for you to join forces. That way, you'll each only be using your strengths. More importantly, as it stands now, I can't recommend either of you for the Newcomer Award. Right? But if you work together, you could just leave everything to me. With your combined skills, you'd be able to win more than just the Newcomer Award. It would be good enough to aim for even the Akutagawa Prize. I didn't get into this business just to live a life of leisure; I know this business inside and out.”

Tengo opened his mouth slightly and looked at Komatsu's face. Komatsu replaced his coffee spoon on his saucer. It made and unnaturally loud sound.

“If we win the Akutagawa Prize, then what?” Tengo asked, catching his breath.

“If you win the Akutagawa Prize, it'll make your reputation. Most people in the world won't understand just how valuable your novel is. But most people won't want to be behind the trends, either, I think. So they'll talk about the prize-winning book, buy it, and read it. Even more so if the author is a girl still in high school. If the book sells alright, there will be some money. Probably enough to divide among three people. I'll be taking care of that part.”

“Right now it's not how we'll divide the money that I'm worried about,” Tengo said in a dry sort of voice. “But if things do get that far, I won't interfere with your professional ethics as an editor. But if we do this, once the truth gets out into the world, there will be lots of questions. The company probably won't be able to handle it.”

“Then we simply won't let it get out. If you're worried about that part, then I can take care of it. Even if it does get out, I'll willingly take the fall in front of the company. Anyhow, I've got kind of a bad reputation, so they don't treat me as well as I deserve. I can just find another job. It's not as though I chose this job for the money. What I want is to make a fool of the literary world. I want to be able to laugh decisively while the literary world give compliments from all sides like a swarm of insects emerging from a dark hole; while they lick their wounds and kick themselves for dragging their feet, the whole lot of them won't be able to do anything but admit that the direction that that literary world has been heading is nothing but a bunch of over-inflated junk. Having outwitted the system, I'd be able to laugh at them forever. Don't you think that would be fun?”

Tengo didn't think it would really be that fun. He didn't really know that much about the literary world in general. No matter how competent Komatsu was, knowing that he would cross such a dangerous bridge for such a childish reason, words failed Tengo.

“What you're suggesting kind of sounds like some sort of fraud to me.”

“Collaborations aren't unusual,” Komatsu said, frowning. “Half of all serialized comics in our magazine are collaborations. Someone on the staff comes up with an idea, then an artist draws a simple outline, and finally some assistants fill in the details and colors. It's just like building alarm clocks on an assembly line. There are similar examples for novels as well. For instance, romance novels are done like that. Most of the time they just hire a bunch of out of work writers who will obey the rules and suggestions of the publishing company. They need a system to divide the work. If they didn't do it like that, they wouldn't be able to mass produce them so fast, right? Since this method isn't officially used in proper literature, though, if we do use this strategy, we'll have to put only Fukaeri's name on the cover. If we don't, I can't know for sure, but there might be a scandal. But there's no reason that we'd actually be breaking the rules. It's just that it's against the current trend. And it's not as though we're talking about Murasaki Shikibu or Balzaac. We're just filling some gaps in the writing of a high school girl to help her complete her novel. What's wrong with that? If the final product ends up being a high quality novel and pleases a lot of readers, isn't that a good thing?”

Tengo though about what Komatsu was saying. Then he carefully selected his next words. “I've got two questions. I should have a lot more, but for now I'm just going to ask two. First, will the actual author approve of having someone else rewrite her story? If she says no, we can't even take a single step forward. Second, even if she does approve, how am I supposed to rewrite the story well? Collaborative work is a very delicate process, so why do you seem to think that it can be done so easily?”

“As long as it's you, it can be done,” Komatsu answered without missing a beat, as though he had been expecting that question. “You won't make a mistake. First of all, it was only because you read 'The Chrysalis of the Air' that this idea even popped into my head. That's why I'm saying that it should be you who rewrites this story. What I'm trying to say it, this is the perfect story for you to revise. It's a story just waiting for you to rewrite. Don't you think so?”

Tengo shook his head. The words wouldn't come out.

“There's no need to rush,” Komatsu said quietly. “It's an important decision. You should think about it for two or three days. And reread 'The Chrysalis of the Air' one more time. Then think some more about whether or not you'll accept my proposal. Oh, that's right, I need to give you this.”

Komatsu reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brown envelope, which he handed to Tengo. Inside the envelope were two color photographs. They were pictures of a girl. The first was a portrait from the chest up, the other was a full body snapshot. They seemed to have been taken at the same time. She was standing in front of some stair somewhere. They were large, stone stairs. She had a classical sort of beauty, with long straight hair. She had on a white blouse. She was small and thin. Her lips were making an effort to smile, but her eyes were resisting. They were serious. Eyes. They were eyes that were searching for something. He looked back and forth between the two pictures. He wasn't sure why, but looking at these pictures reminded him of something in his own past. It made his chest hurt a little. It was an unusual kind of pain, one which he hadn't felt in a long time. It was as though the figure of this girl was awakening this pain from somewhere inside him.

Komatsu said “That's Fukaeri. She's very beautiful, don't you think? She's also the neat and clean type. Seventeen years old. No defects. Her real name is Fukada Eriko. But her real name isn't on her manuscript. She only sent in Fukaeri. If you win the Akutagawa Prize, that unusual name will attract a little attention, don't you think? The mass media will come swooping in like a bunch of bats in the night. The book will sell well from the very start.”

Just where did Komatsu get his hand of these pictures? Tengo thought it was strange. There was no reason that they would have been included in the application. However, he decided not to ask. The answer was difficult to predict; there were some things he preferred not to know.

“You can keep those. They might be of some use to you somehow,” Komatsu said. Tengo returned the pictures to the envelope and placed it on top of the manuscript of “The Chrysalis of the Air”.

“Komatsu, I don't really know much about the circumstances of the literary world. But it's just common sense that this plan is pretty risky. Even if we can fool the world for a little while, we won't be able to keep up the lie forever. We won't be able to keep everything consistent. It's not an easy thing, both mentally and practically. If anyone makes a single mistake anywhere, it'll be the end of the whole thing. Don't you think?”

Komatsu took out a new cigarette and lit it. “That's exactly right. Everything you said is true. It's definitely a risky plan. From this point on there are all sorts of little things which could go wrong. There's no way to predict what will happen. If we make a mistake, we have no idea what sort of unintended consequences might happen. I understand that well. But, Tengo, above all these considerations, my instincts are telling me to go for it. Because this is the kind of chance you almost never get. Up until now, there hasn't been a single such chance. And there probably won't be another one after this, either. It's like illicit gambling, only we don't need to have a lot of money. It's plenty cheap. The conditions are just right. If we miss this chance, we'll regret it for sure.”

Tengo was silent, gazing at the ominous, satisfied sort of smile that had appeared on Komatsu's face.

“Anyhow, the most important thing for us to do now is to revise 'The Chrysalis of the Air'. Obviously the writing needs to be better. That's really important. But not just anyone could do that without removing the something special from the story. You probably already understand that. Let work together on that. At the start of a project, everyone brings their own strengths. We don't need to be ashamed about revealing out motives.”

“But, Komatsu, what reason do we have to lie like this? We may not be ashamed our motives, but it's not like we can actually reveal them to the world. We still have to sneak around behind everyone's backs. 'Fraud' isn't even a strong enough word; 'treachery' would be better. It may not be breaking any rules, but it's definitely questionably moral. If an editor helps write the winner of his own company's literary magazine's Newcomer Award, it will definitely seem like insider dealings to the general public, don't you think?”

“Don't compare the literary world to the general public. The two are completely different things.”

“Just how are they different?”

“Well, for example, you're overlooking one very important fact,” Komatsu said. Looking at his mouth up to this point, it hadn't seemed especially large, but now that Komatsu was enjoying himself it seemed to have expanded. “Or rather, you're deliberately ignoring that fact. Your own body us already begging for this. Your feelings are obviously steering you to revise 'The Chrysalis of the Air'. I can tell that much easily. To hell with risks and morals. You're dying to rewrite 'The Chrysalis of the Air' with your own hand. You're dying to take that special something of Fukaeri's for yourself. So, that's the major difference between the literary world and the general public. We are moved by something other than motives of good and evil or even money. When we go home we carefully check our own feelings. We often look into our own eyes when standing in front of a mirror. Our feelings are firmly written on our faces.”

The air around them seemed to suddenly grow thin. Tengo quickly looked around. Would that same scene return again? But there weren't any signs of it. This thin air had come from some completely different realm somewhere. He withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away his sweat. What Komatsu said was always right. Just why was that?