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.
