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by Haruki Murakami

  Ayumi was no longer in this world. She was now a cold corpse that was probably being sent for forensic dissection. When that ended, they would sew her back together, probably give her a simple funeral, send her to the crematorium, and burn her. She would turn into smoke, rise up into the sky, and mix with the clouds. Then she would come down to the earth again as rain, and nurture some nameless patch of grass with no story to tell. But Aomame would never see Ayumi alive again. This seemed warped and misguided, in opposition to the flow of nature, and horribly unfair.

  Ayumi was the only person for whom Aomame had been able to feel anything like friendship since Tamaki Otsuka left the world. Unfortunately, however, there had been limits to her friendship. Ayumi was an active-duty police officer, and Aomame a serial murderer. True, she was a murderer motivated by conviction and conscience, but a murderer is, in the end, a murderer, a criminal in the eyes of the law.

  For this reason, Aomame had to make an effort to harden her heart and not respond when Ayumi sought to deepen their ties. Ayumi must have realized this to some extent—that Aomame had some kind of personal secret or secrets that caused her deliberately to put a certain distance between them. Ayumi had excellent intuition. At least half of her easy openness was an act, behind which lurked a soft and sensitive vulnerability. Aomame knew this to be true. Her own defensiveness had probably saddened Ayumi, making her feel rejected and distanced. The thought was like a needle stabbing Aomame in the chest.

  And so Ayumi had been murdered. She had probably met a man in the city, had drinks with him, and gone to the hotel. Then, in the dark, sealed room, their elaborate sex game had begun. Handcuffs, a gag, a blindfold. Aomame could picture the scene. The man tightened the sash of his bathrobe around the woman’s neck, and as he watched her writhe in agony, his excitement mounted until he ejaculated. But the man tightened the sash with too much force. What was supposed to have ended at the point of crisis did not end.

  Ayumi must have feared that such a thing might happen. She needed intense sexual activity at regular intervals. Her flesh needed it—and so, perhaps, did her mind. Like Aomame, she did not want a regular lover. But Ayumi tended to wade in deeper than Aomame. She preferred wilder, riskier sex, and perhaps, unconsciously, she wanted to be hurt. Aomame was different. She was more cautious, and she refused to be hurt by anyone. She would fiercely resist if a man tried such a thing; but Ayumi tended to respond to a man’s desire, whatever it might be, and she looked forward to finding out what he would give her in return. It was a dangerous tendency. These sexual partners of hers were, ultimately, passing strangers. It was impossible to find out what desires they possessed, what tendencies they were hiding, until the critical moment. Ayumi herself recognized the danger, of course, which was why she needed a stable partner like Aomame—someone to put on the brakes and watch over her with care.

  In her own way, Aomame, too, needed Ayumi, who possessed abilities that she herself happened to lack—an open, cheerful personality that put people at ease, a friendly manner, a natural curiosity, a positive attitude, a talent for interesting conversation, large breasts that attracted attention. All Aomame had to do was stay next to Ayumi with a mysterious smile on her face. The men would want to find out what lay behind that smile. In that sense, Aomame and Ayumi were an ideal team—an invincible sex machine.

  I should have been more open and accepting with that girl, Aomame thought. I should have reciprocated her feelings and held her tight. That was the one thing she was hoping for—to be accepted and embraced unconditionally, to be comforted by someone, if only for a moment. But I could not respond to her need. My instinct for self-preservation is too strong, and so is my determination to keep Tamaki Otsuka’s memory unsullied.

  So Ayumi went out to the city at night alone, without Aomame, to be strangled to death, shackled by the cold steel of genuine handcuffs, blindfolded, her stockings or underwear stuffed in her mouth. The thing that Ayumi had always feared had become a reality. If Aomame had accepted her more willingly, Ayumi would probably not have gone out that night. She would have called and asked Aomame to go with her. They would have gone to a safer place, and checked on each other as they lay in their men’s arms. But Ayumi had probably been hesitant to impose on Aomame. And Aomame had never once called Ayumi to suggest an outing.

  It was nearly four o’clock in the morning when Aomame found that she could no longer bear to stay alone in her apartment. She stepped into a pair of sandals and went out, walking aimlessly through the predawn streets, wearing only shorts and a tank top. Someone called out to her, but she kept walking straight ahead. She walked until she was thirsty. Then she stopped by an all-night convenience store, bought a large carton of orange juice, and drank it on the spot. Then she went back to her apartment to cry. I loved Ayumi, she thought, even more than I realized. If she wanted to touch me, I should have let her touch me anywhere she liked, as much as she liked.

  The next day’s paper carried another report, under the heading “Policewoman Strangled in Shibuya Hotel.” The police were doing everything in their power to catch the man, it said, and the woman’s fellow officers were utterly perplexed. Ayumi was a cheerful person who was well liked by everyone, a responsible and energetic individual who had always earned high marks for her police work. Several of her relatives, including her father and brother, were also police officers, and their family ties were strong. All were puzzled as to how such a thing could have happened to her.

  None of them know, Aomame thought. But I know. Ayumi had a great emptiness inside her, like a desert at the edge of the earth. You could try watering it all you wanted, but everything would be sucked down to the bottom of the world, leaving no trace of moisture. No life could take root there. Not even birds would fly over it. What had created such a wasteland inside Ayumi, only she herself knew. No, maybe not even Ayumi knew the true cause. But one of the biggest factors had to be the twisted sexual desires that the men around Ayumi had forced upon her. As if to build a fence around the fatal emptiness inside her, she had to create the sunny person that she became. But if you peeled away the ornamental egos that she had built, there was only an abyss of nothingness and the intense thirst that came with it. Though she tried to forget it, the nothingness would visit her periodically—on a lonely rainy afternoon, or at dawn when she woke from a nightmare. What she needed at such times was to be held by someone, anyone.

  Aomame took the Heckler & Koch HK4 from the shoe box, loaded the magazine with practiced movements, released the safety, pulled back the slide, sent a bullet into the chamber, raised the hammer, and aimed the gun at a point on the wall with both hands solidly on the grip. The barrel was rock steady. Her hands no longer trembled. Aomame held her breath, went into a moment of total concentration, and then let out one long breath. Lowering the pistol, she reset the safety and tested the weight of the gun in her hand, staring at its dull gleam. The gun had almost become a part of her body.

  I have to keep my emotions in check, Aomame told herself. Even if I were to punish Ayumi’s uncle or brother, they wouldn’t know what they were being punished for. And nothing I could do to them now would bring Ayumi back. Poor kid, something like this had to happen sooner or later. Ayumi was on a slow but unavoidable approach toward the center of a deadly whirlpool. And even if I had been warmer to her, there were probably limits to how much that could have accomplished. It’s time for me to stop crying. I’ll have to change my attitude again. I’ll have to put the rules ahead of my self. That’s the important thing, as Tamaru said.

  On the morning of the fifth day after Ayumi died, the pager finally rang. At the time, she was in the kitchen, boiling water to make coffee and listening to the news on the radio. The pager was sitting on the kitchen table. She read the telephone number displayed on the small screen. It was not one she knew. But it had to be a message from Tamaru. She went to a nearby pay phone and dialed the number. Tamaru answered after the third ring.

  “All set to go?” Tamaru asked.

&nbs
p; “Of course,” Aomame answered.

  “Here is Madame’s message: seven o’clock tonight in the lobby of the Hotel Okura’s main building. Dress for work as usual. Sorry for the short notice, but this could only be arranged at the last minute.”

  “Seven o’clock tonight in the lobby of the Hotel Okura’s main building,” Aomame repeated mechanically.

  “I’d like to wish you luck, but I’m afraid a good luck wish from me won’t do any good,” Tamaru said.

  “Because you don’t believe in luck.”

  “Even if I wanted to, I don’t know what it’s like,” Tamaru said. “I’ve never seen it.”

  “That’s okay, I don’t need good wishes. There’s something I’d like you to do for me instead. I have a potted rubber plant in my apartment. I’d like you to take care of it. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “A rubber plant’s a lot easier to take care of than a cat or a tropical fish. Anything else?”

  “Not a thing. Just throw out everything I leave behind.”

  “When you’ve finished the job, go to Shinjuku Station and call this number again. I’ll give you your next instructions then.”

  “When I finish the job, I go to Shinjuku Station and call this number again,” Aomame repeated.

  “I think you know not to write down the telephone number. When you leave home, break the pager and get rid of it somewhere.”

  “I see. Okay.”

  “We’ve lined up everything to the last detail. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Just leave the rest to us.”

  “I won’t worry,” Aomame said.

  Tamaru kept silent for a moment. “Do you want my honest opinion?”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t mean to say that what you two are doing is useless, I really don’t. It’s your problem, not mine. But I do think that, at the very least, it’s reckless. And there’s no end to it.”

  “You may be right,” Aomame said. “But it’s beyond changing now.”

  “Like avalanches in the spring.”

  “Probably.”

  “But sensible people don’t go into avalanche country in avalanche season.”

  “A sensible person wouldn’t be having this conversation with you.”

  “You may be right,” Tamaru had to admit. “Anyhow, are there any relatives we should be contacting in case an avalanche does occur?”

  “None at all.”

  “You mean there aren’t any, or they’re there but they’re not.”

  “They’re there but they’re not.”

  “That’s fine,” Tamaru said. “It’s best to travel light. A rubber plant is just about the ideal family.”

  “Seeing those goldfish in Madame’s house suddenly made me want to have some of my own. They’d be nice to have around. They’re little and quiet and probably don’t make too many demands. So I went to a shop by my station the next day thinking I was going to buy some, but when I actually saw them in the tank I didn’t want them anymore. Instead, I bought this sad little rubber plant, one of the last ones they had.”

  “I’d say you made the right choice.”

  “I might never be able to buy goldfish—ever.”

  “Maybe not,” Tamaru said. “You could buy another rubber plant.”

  A short silence ensued.

  “Seven o’clock tonight in the lobby of the Hotel Okura’s main building,” Aomame said again to reconfirm.

  “You just have to sit there. They’ll find you.”

  “They’ll find me.”

  Tamaru cleared his throat. “By the way, do you know the story about the vegetarian cat who met up with the rat?”

  “Never heard that one.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Very much.”

  “A cat met up with a big male rat in the attic and chased him into a corner. The rat, trembling, said, ‘Please don’t eat me, Mr. Cat. I have to go back to my family. I have hungry children waiting for me. Please let me go.’ The cat said, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t eat you. To tell you the truth, I can’t say this too loudly, but I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat any meat. You were lucky to run into me.’ The rat said, ‘Oh, what a wonderful day! What a lucky rat I am to meet up with a vegetarian cat!’ But the very next second, the cat pounced on the rat, held him down with his claws, and sank his sharp teeth into the rat’s throat. With his last, painful breath, the rat asked him, ‘But Mr. Cat, didn’t you say you’re a vegetarian and don’t eat any meat? Were you lying to me?’ The cat licked his chops and said, ‘True, I don’t eat meat. That was no lie. I’m going to take you home in my mouth and trade you for lettuce.’ ”

  Aomame thought about this for a moment. “What’s the point?”

  “No point, really. I suddenly remembered the story when we were talking about luck before. That’s all. You can take whatever you like from it, of course.”

  “What a heartwarming story.”

  “Oh, and another thing. I’m pretty sure they’re going to pat you down and search your bag before they let you in. They’re a careful bunch. Better keep that in mind.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “All right, then,” Tamaru said, “let’s meet again somewhere.”

  “Again somewhere,” Aomame repeated by reflex.

  Tamaru cut the connection. Aomame looked at the receiver for a moment, grimaced slightly, and put it down. Then, after committing the telephone number displayed on the pager to memory, she deleted it. Again somewhere, Aomame repeated to herself. But she knew she would probably never see Tamaru again.

  Aomame scoured the morning paper but found nothing on Ayumi’s murder. This probably meant that the investigation had turned up nothing new. No doubt all the weekly magazines would be mining the case for every weird angle they could find. A young, active-duty policewoman engages in sex games with handcuffs in a Shibuya love hotel and is strangled, stark naked. Aomame didn’t want to read any sensationalistic reports. She had avoided turning on the television ever since it happened, not wanting to hear some female news announcer reporting on Ayumi’s death in the usual artificial high-pitched tones.

  Of course, she wanted the perpetrator to be caught. He had to be punished, no matter what. But would it make any difference if he were arrested, tried, and all the details of the murder came out? It wouldn’t bring Ayumi back, that much was certain. In any case, the sentence would be a light one. It would probably be judged to have been not a homicide but involuntary manslaughter—an accident. Of course, not even a death penalty could make up for what had happened. Aomame closed the paper, rested her elbows on the table, and covered her face with her hands for a while. She thought about Ayumi, but the tears no longer came. Now she was just angry.

  She still had a lot of time until seven o’clock in the evening but nothing to do in the meantime, no work at the sports club. Following Tamaru’s instructions, she had already deposited her small travel bag and shoulder bag in a coin locker at Shinjuku Station. The travel bag contained a sheaf of bills and enough clothing (including underwear and stockings) for several days. She had been going to Shinjuku once every three days to deposit more coins in the slot and double-check on the contents. She had no need to clean her apartment, and even if she wanted to cook, the refrigerator was nearly empty. Aside from the rubber plant, there was almost nothing left in the room that still had the smell of life. She had gotten rid of everything connected to her personal information. All the drawers were empty. And as of tomorrow, I won’t be here, either. Not a trace of me will be left.

  The clothes she would wear that evening were nicely folded and stacked on the bed. Next to them she had placed a blue gym bag. Inside was a complete set of stretching equipment. She checked the contents of the bag once more for safety’s sake: jersey top and bottom, yoga mat, large and small towels, and small hard case containing the fine-pointed ice pick. Everything was there. She took the ice pick out of th
e case, pulled off the cork, and touched the point to make sure it was still plenty sharp. To make doubly sure, she gave it a light sharpening with her finest whetstone. She pictured the needle sinking soundlessly into that special point on the back of the man’s neck, as if being sucked inside. As usual, everything should end in an instant—no screaming, no bleeding, just a momentary spasm. Aomame thrust the needle back into the cork and carefully returned the ice pick to its case.

  Next she pulled the T-shirt-wrapped Heckler & Koch from its shoe box and, with practiced movements, loaded seven 9mm bullets into the magazine. With a dry sound, she sent a cartridge into the chamber. She released the safety catch and set it again. She wrapped the pistol in a white handkerchief and put it in a vinyl pouch. This she hid in a change of underwear.

  Now, was there anything else I had to do?

  She couldn’t think of anything. Standing in the kitchen, Aomame made coffee with the boiled water. Then she sat at the table, drinking it with a croissant.

  This may be my last job, Aomame thought. It’s also going to be my most important and most difficult job. Once I’ve finished this assignment, I won’t have to kill anyone anymore.

  Aomame was not opposed to losing her identity. If anything, she welcomed it. She was not particularly attached to her name or her face and could think of nothing about her past that she would regret losing. A reset of my life: this may be the one thing I’ve longed for most.