1q84

by Haruki Murakami

  “Oh, yeah? I don’t remember a thing.”

  “I thought you might not. I was worried about you. That’s why I’m calling,” Ayumi said. “I wanted to make sure you got home okay. I did manage to get you into a cab at Roppongi Crossing and tell the driver your address, though.”

  Aomame sighed. “I don’t remember, but I guess I made it here. I woke up in my own bed.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “I’m working, what I’m supposed to be doing,” Ayumi said. “I’ve been riding around in a mini patrol and writing parking tickets since ten o’clock. I’m taking a break right now.”

  “Very impressive,” Aomame said. She meant it.

  “I’m a little sleep deprived, of course. Last night was fun, though! Best time I ever had, thanks to you.”

  Aomame pressed her fingertips against her temples. “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much of the second half. After you guys came to our room, I mean.”

  “What a waste!” Ayumi said in all seriousness. “It was amazing! The four of us did everything. You wouldn’t believe it. It was like a porno movie. You and I played lesbians. And then—”

  Aomame rushed to cut her off. “Never mind all that. I just want to know if I was using condoms. That’s what worries me. I can’t remember.”

  “Of course you were. I’m very strict about that. I made absolutely sure, so don’t worry. I mean, when I’m not writing tickets I go around to high schools in the ward, holding assemblies for the girls and teaching them, like, the right way to put on condoms. I give very detailed instructions.”

  “The right way to put on condoms?” Aomame was shocked. “What is a policewoman doing teaching stuff like that to high school kids?”

  “Well, the original idea was for me to give information to prevent sex crimes, like the danger of date rape or what to do about gropers on the subway, but I figure as long as I’m at it, I can add my own personal message about condoms. A certain amount of student sex is unavoidable, so I tell them to make sure they avoid pregnancy and venereal disease. I can’t say it quite that directly, of course, with their teachers in the room. Anyhow, it’s like professional instinct with me. No matter how much I’ve been drinking, I never forget. So you don’t have to worry. You’re clean. ‘No condom, no penetration.’ That’s my motto.”

  “Thank you,” Aomame said. “That’s a huge relief.”

  “Hey, want to hear about all the stuff we did?”

  “Maybe later,” Aomame said, expelling the congealed air that had been sitting in her lungs. “I’ll let you tell me the juicy details some other time. If you did it now, my head would split in two.”

  “Okay, I get it. Next time I see you, then,” Ayumi said brightly. “You know, ever since I woke up I’ve been thinking what a great team we can make. Mind if I call you again? When I get in the mood for another night like last night, I mean.”

  “Sure,” Aomame said.

  “Oh, great.”

  “Thanks for the call.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Ayumi said, and hung up.

  Her brain was much clearer by two o’clock, thanks to the black coffee and a nap. Her headache was gone, too, thankfully. All that was left of her hangover was a slight heavy feeling in her muscles. She left the apartment carrying her gym bag—without the special ice pick, of course, just a change of clothes and a towel. Tamaru met her at the front door as usual.

  He showed her to a long, narrow sunroom. A large open window faced the garden, but it was covered by a lace curtain for privacy. A row of potted plants stood on the windowsill. Tranquil baroque music played from a small ceiling speaker—a sonata for recorder and harpsichord. In the middle of the room stood a massage table. The dowager was already lying facedown on top of it, wearing a white robe.

  When Tamaru left the room, Aomame changed into looser clothing. The dowager turned her head to watch Aomame change from her perch on the massage table. Aomame was not concerned about being seen naked by a member of the same sex. It was an everyday occurrence for team athletes, and the dowager herself was nearly naked during a massage, which made checking the condition of her muscles that much easier. Aomame took off her cotton pants and blouse, putting on a matching jersey top and bottom. She folded her street clothing and set them down in a corner.

  “You’re so firm and well toned,” the dowager said. Sitting up, she took off her robe, leaving only thin silk on top and bottom.

  “Thank you,” Aomame said.

  “I used to be built like you.”

  “I can tell that,” Aomame said. Even now, in her seventies, the dowager retained physical traces of youth. Her body shape had not disintegrated, and even her breasts had a degree of firmness. Moderate eating and daily exercise had preserved her natural beauty. Aomame guessed that this had been supplemented with a touch of plastic surgery—some periodic wrinkle removal, and some lifting around the eyes and mouth.

  “Your body is still quite lovely,” Aomame said.

  The dowager’s lips curled slightly. “Thank you, but it’s nothing like it used to be.”

  Aomame did not reply to this.

  “I gained great pleasure from my body back then. I gave great pleasure with it, too, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Aomame said.

  “And are you enjoying yours?”

  “Now and then,” Aomame said.

  “Now and then may not be enough,” the dowager said, lying facedown again. “You have to enjoy it while you’re still young. Enjoy it to the fullest. You can use the memories of what you did to warm your body after you get old and can’t do it anymore.”

  Aomame recalled the night before. Her anus still retained a slight feeling of having been penetrated. Would memories of this actually warm her body in old age?

  Aomame placed her hands on the dowager’s body and concentrated on stretching one set of muscles after another. Now the earlier remaining dullness in her own body was gone. Once she had changed her clothes and touched the dowager’s flesh, her nerves had sharpened into clarity.

  Aomame’s fingers traced the dowager’s muscles as though following roads on a map. She remembered in detail the degree of each muscle’s tension and stiffness and resistance the way a pianist memorizes a long score. In matters concerning the body, Aomame possessed minute powers of memory. And if she should forget, her fingers remembered. If a muscle felt the slightest bit different than usual, she would stimulate it from various angles using varying degrees of strength, checking to see what kind of response she got from it, whether pain or pleasure or numbness. She would not simply loosen the knots in a pulled muscle but direct the dowager to move it using her own strength. Of course there were parts of the body that could not be relieved merely by her own strength, and for those parts, Aomame concentrated on stretching. What muscles most appreciated and welcomed, however, was daily self-help efforts.

  “Does this hurt?” Aomame asked. The dowager’s groin muscles were far stiffer than usual—nastily so. Placing her hand in the hollow of the dowager’s pelvis, Aomame very slightly bent her thigh at a special angle.

  “A lot,” the dowager said, grimacing.

  “Good,” Aomame said. “It’s good that you feel pain. If it stopped hurting, you’d have something seriously wrong with you. This is going to hurt a little more. Can you stand it?”

  “Yes, of course,” the dowager said. There was no need to ask her each time. She could tolerate a great deal of pain. Most of the time, she bore it in silence. She might grimace but she would never cry out. Aomame had often made big, strong men cry out in pain from her massages. She had to admire the dowager’s strength of will.

  Setting her right elbow against the dowager like a fulcrum, Aomame bent her thigh still farther. The joint moved with a dull snap. The dowager gasped, but she made no sound with her voice.

  “That should do it for you,” Aomame said. “You’ll feel a lot better.”

  The dowag
er released a great sigh. Sweat glistened on her forehead. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Aomame spent a full hour unknotting muscles all over the dowager’s body, stimulating them, stretching them, and loosening joints. The process involved a good deal of pain, but without such pain nothing would be resolved. Both Aomame and the dowager knew this perfectly well, and so they spent the hour almost wordlessly. The recorder sonata ended at some point, and the CD player fell silent. All that could be heard was the calls of birds in the garden.

  “My whole body feels so light now!” the dowager said after some time had passed. She was slumped facedown on the massage table, the large towel spread beneath her dark with sweat.

  “I’m glad,” Aomame said.

  “It’s such a help to have you with me! I’d hate for you to leave.”

  “Don’t worry, I have no plans to go anywhere just yet.”

  The dowager seemed to hesitate for a moment, and only after a brief silence she asked, “I don’t mean to get too personal, but do you have someone you’re in love with?”

  “I do,” Aomame said.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Unfortunately, though, he’s not in love with me.”

  “This may be an odd thing to ask, but why do you think he doesn’t love you? Objectively speaking, I think you are a fascinating young woman.”

  “He doesn’t even know I exist.”

  The dowager took a few minutes to think about what Aomame had said.

  “Don’t you have any desire to convey to him the fact that you do exist?”

  “Not at this point,” Aomame said.

  “Is there something standing in the way—something preventing you from taking the initiative?”

  “There are a few things, most of which have to do with my own feelings.”

  The dowager looked at Aomame with apparent admiration. “I’ve met lots of odd people in my lifetime, but you may be one of the oddest.”

  Aomame relaxed the muscles around her mouth somewhat. “There’s nothing odd about me. I’m just honest about my own feelings.”

  “You mean that once you’ve decided on a rule, you follow it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “So you’re a little stubborn, and you tend to be short-tempered.”

  “That may be true.”

  “But last night you went kind of wild.”

  Aomame blushed. “How do you know that?”

  “Looking at your skin. And I can smell it. Your body still has traces of it. Getting old teaches you a lot.”

  Aomame frowned momentarily. “I need that kind of thing. Now and then. I know it’s nothing to brag about.”

  The dowager reached out and gently placed her hand on Aomame’s.

  “Of course you need that kind of thing once in a while. Don’t worry, I’m not blaming you. It’s just that I feel you ought to have a more ordinary kind of happiness—marry someone you love, happy ending.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that myself. But it won’t be so easy.”

  “Why not?”

  Aomame did not answer this. She had no simple explanation.

  “If you ever feel like talking to someone about these personal matters, please talk to me,” the dowager said, withdrawing her hand from Aomame’s and toweling the sweat from her face. “About anything at all. I might have something I can do for you.”

  “Thanks very much,” Aomame said.

  “Some things can’t be solved just by going wild every now and then.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  “You are not doing anything that will destroy you?” the dowager said. “Nothing at all? You’re sure of that, are you?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Aomame said. She’s right. I’m not doing anything that is going to destroy me. Still, there is something quiet left behind. Like sediment in a bottle of wine.

  Even now, Aomame still recalled the events surrounding the death of Tamaki Otsuka. It tore her apart to think that she could no longer see and talk to Tamaki. Tamaki was the first real friend she ever had. They could tell each other everything. Aomame had had no one like that before Tamaki, and no one since. Nor could anyone take her place. Had she never met Tamaki, Aomame would have led a far more miserable and gloomy life.

  She and Tamaki were the same age. They had been teammates in the softball club of their public high school. From middle school into high school, Aomame had been passionately devoted to the game of softball. She had joined reluctantly at first when begged to help fill out a shorthanded team, and her early efforts were halfhearted at best, but eventually softball became her reason for living. She clung to the game the way a person clings to a post when a storm threatens to blow him away. And though she had never realized it before, Aomame was a born athlete. She became a central member of both her middle and high school teams and helped them breeze through one tournament after another. This gave her something very close to self-confidence (but only close: it was not, strictly speaking, self-confidence). Her greatest joy in life was knowing that her importance to the team was by no means small and that, as narrow as that world might be, she had been granted a definite place in it. Someone needed her.

  Aomame was pitcher and cleanup batter—literally the central player of the team, both on offense and defense. Tamaki Otsuka played second base, the linchpin of the team, and she also served as captain. Tamaki was small but had great reflexes and knew how to use her brain. She could read all the complications of a situation instantaneously. With each pitch, she knew toward which side to incline her center of gravity, and as soon as the batter connected with the ball, she could gauge the direction of the hit and move to cover the proper position. Not a lot of infielders could do that. Her powers of judgment had saved the team from many a tight spot. She was not a distance hitter like Aomame, but her batting was sharp and precise, and she was quick on her feet. She was also an outstanding leader. She brought the team together as a unit, planned strategy, gave everyone valuable advice, and fired them up on the field. Her coaching was tough, but she won the other players’ confidence, as a result of which the team grew stronger day by day. They went as far as the championship game in the Tokyo regional playoffs and even made it to the national interscholastic tournament. Both Aomame and Tamaki were chosen to be on the Kanto area all-star team.

  Aomame and Tamaki recognized each other’s talents and—without either taking the initiative—naturally drew close until each had become the other’s best friend. They spent long hours together on team trips to away games. They told each other about their backgrounds, concealing nothing. When she was a fifth grader, Aomame had made up her mind to break with her parents and had gone to live with an uncle on her mother’s side. The uncle’s family understood her situation and welcomed her warmly as a member of the household, but it was, ultimately, not her family. She felt lonely and hungry for love. Unsure where she was to find a purpose or meaning to her life, she passed one formless day after another. Tamaki came from a wealthy household of some social standing, but her parents’ terrible relationship had turned the home into a wasteland. Her father almost never came home, and her mother often fell into states of mental confusion. She would suffer from terrible headaches, and was unable to leave her bed sometimes for days at a time. Tamaki and her younger brother were all but ignored. They often ate at neighborhood restaurants or fast-food places or made do with ready-made boxed lunches. Each girl, then, had her reasons for becoming obsessed with softball.

  Given all their problems, the two lonely girls had a mountain of things to tell each other. When they took a trip together one summer, they touched each other’s naked bodies in the hotel bed. It happened just that one time, spontaneously, and neither of them ever talked about it. But because it had happened, their relationship grew all the deeper and all the more conspiratorial.

  Aomame kept playing softball after her graduation from high school when she went on to a private college of physical education. Having won a national reputation as an ou
tstanding softball player, she was recruited and given a special scholarship. In college, too, she was a key member of the team. While devoting much energy to softball, she was also interested in sports medicine and started studying it in earnest, along with martial arts.

  Tamaki entered the law program in a first-rank private university. She stopped playing softball upon graduating from high school. For an outstanding student like Tamaki, softball was merely a phase. She intended to take the bar exam and become a lawyer. Though their paths in life diverged, Aomame and Tamaki remained best friends. Aomame lived in a college dormitory with free room and board while Tamaki continued commuting from her family home. The place was as much of an emotional wasteland as ever, but at least it gave her economic freedom. The two would meet once a week to share a meal and catch up. They never ran out of things to talk about.

  Tamaki lost her virginity in the autumn of her first year in college. The man was one year older than Tamaki, a fellow member of the college tennis club. He invited her to his room after a club party, and there he forced her to have sex with him. Tamaki had liked this man, which was why she had accepted the invitation to his room, but the violence with which he forced her into having sex and his narcissistic, self-centered manner came as a terrible shock. She quit the tennis club and went into a period of depression. The experience left her with a profound feeling of powerlessness. Her appetite disappeared, and she lost fifteen pounds. All she had wanted from the man was a degree of understanding and sympathy. If he had shown a trace of it and had taken the time to prepare her, the mere physical giving of herself to him would have been no great problem. She found it impossible to understand his actions. Why did he have to become so violent? It had been absolutely unnecessary!

  Aomame comforted Tamaki and advised her to find a way to punish him, but Tamaki could not agree. Her own carelessness had been a part of it, she said, and it was too late now to lodge any complaints. “I bear some responsibility for going to his room alone,” she said. “All I can do now is forget about it.” But it was painfully clear to Aomame how deeply her friend had been wounded by the incident. This was not about the mere loss of her virginity but rather the sanctity of an individual human being’s soul. No one had the right to invade such sacred precincts with muddy feet. And once it happened, that sense of powerlessness could only keep gnawing away at a person.