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 3rd 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.
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