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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 5: A Job that Requires Special Skills and Training

1Q84, Volume 1, By Murakami Haruki

Chapter 5: A Job that Requires Special Skills and Training

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Cutty Sark your favorite?” Aomame asked.

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

“Because you like ships?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? What sort of job?”

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

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

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

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

She nodded. “For now.”

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

“What makes you think that?”

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

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

“Well, I give up. I have no idea.”

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

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

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

“Please,” Aomame said.

“It's a strong drink, isn't it?”

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

“What kind of something?”

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

“What do you mean by recently?”

“Within the last week.”

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

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

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

“Are you sure about that?”

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

“How many years ago?” Aomame said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You see, first class hotel bartenders-”

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

“As far as I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead.”

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

“I'll answer if I can.”

“Do you have a big penis?”

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

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

“How old are you,” Aomame asked.

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

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

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

“Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You're not lying?”

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

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

“Right here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand that, but...”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That's true, but...”

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

“No,” the man apologized obediently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I understand,” the man said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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