1q84

by Haruki Murakami

  “Let’s talk, then, based on that hypothesis,” Buzzcut quietly began. “What we’re going to say from now on is an extension of that hypothesis of yours, all based on the assumption that this is indeed the case. Is that acceptable?”

  “That would be fine,” Komatsu replied. They were going to talk about this as indirectly as they could. This was not a bad sign. If they were planning not to let him out of here alive, they wouldn’t go to the trouble.

  “As an editor at a publishing house, you were in charge of publishing Eriko Fukada’s Air Chrysalis. Am I correct?”

  “You are,” Komatsu admitted. This was common knowledge.

  “Based on our understanding, there was some fraud involved in the publication. Air Chrysalis received a literary prize for debut novelists from a literary journal. But before the selection committee received the manuscript, a third party rewrote it considerably at your direction. After the work was secretly revised, it won the prize, was published as a book, and became a bestseller. Do I have my facts correct?”

  “It depends on how you look at it,” Komatsu said. “There are times when a submitted manuscript is rewritten, on advice of the editor—”

  Buzzcut put his hand up to cut him off. “There’s nothing dishonest about the author revising parts of the novel based on the editor’s advice. You’re right. But having a third party rewrite the work is unscrupulous. Not only that, but forming a phony company to distribute royalties—I don’t know how this would be interpreted from a legal standpoint, but morally speaking these actions would be roundly condemned. It’s inexcusable. Newspapers and magazines would have a field day over it, and your company’s reputation would suffer. I’m sure you understand this very well, Mr. Komatsu. We know all the facts, and have incontrovertible proof we can reveal to the world. So it’s best not to try to talk your way out of it. It’s a waste of time, for both of us.”

  Komatsu nodded.

  “If it did come to that, obviously you would have to resign from the company. Plus, you know that you would be blackballed from the field. There would be no place left for you in publishing. For legitimate work, at least.”

  “I imagine not,” Komatsu said.

  “But at this point only a limited number of people know the truth,” Buzzcut said. “You, Eriko Fukada, Professor Ebisuno, and Tengo Kawana, who rewrote the book. And just a handful of others.”

  Komatsu chose his words carefully. “According to our working hypothesis, this handful of others would be members of Sakigake.”

  Buzzcut nodded, barely. “Yes. According to our hypothesis, that would be the case.”

  Buzzcut paused, allowing the hypothesis to sink in. And then he went on.

  “And if that hypothesis is indeed true, then they can do whatever they want to you. They can keep you here as their guest of honor for as long as they like. No problem at all. Or, if they wanted to shorten the length of your stay, there are any number of other choices they can make—including ones that would be unpleasant for both sides. Either way, they have the power and the means. I believe you already have a pretty good grasp of that.”

  “I think I do,” Komatsu replied.

  “Good,” Buzzcut said.

  Buzzcut raised a finger, and Ponytail left the room. He soon returned with a phone. He plugged it into a jack on the wall and handed the phone to Komatsu. Buzzcut directed him to call his company.

  “You have had a terrible cold and a fever and have been in bed for a few days. It doesn’t look like you’ll be able to come in to work for a while. Tell them that and then hang up.”

  Komatsu asked for one of his colleagues, briefly explained what he had to say, and hung up without responding to his questions. Buzzcut nodded and Ponytail unplugged the phone from the jack and took the phone and left the room. Buzzcut intently studied the back of his hands, then turned to Komatsu. There was a faint tinge of kindness in his voice.

  “That’s it for today,” he said. “We’ll talk again another day. Until then, please consider carefully what we have discussed.”

  The two of them left, and Komatsu spent the next ten days in silence, in that room. Three times a day the masked young man would bring in the mediocre meals. After the fourth day, Komatsu was given a change of clothes—a cotton pajama-like top and bottom—but until the very end, they didn’t let him take a shower. The most he could do was wash his face in the tiny sink attached to the toilet. His sense of time’s passage grew more uncertain.

  Komatsu thought that he had been taken to the cult’s headquarters in Yamanashi. He had seen it on TV. It was deep in the mountains, surrounded by a tall fence, like some independent realm. Escape, or finding help, was out of the question. If they did end up killing him (which must be what they had meant by an unpleasant choice), his body would never be found. He had never felt death so real, or so close.

  Ten days after he had made that forced call to his company (most likely ten days, though he wouldn’t bet on it), the same duo made another appearance. Buzzcut seemed thinner than before, which made his cheekbones all the more prominent. His cold eyes were now bloodshot. As before, he sat down on the folding chair he had brought, across the table from Komatsu. He didn’t say a word for a long time. He simply stared at Komatsu with his red eyes.

  Ponytail looked the same. Again he stood, ramrod straight, in front of the door, his emotionless eyes fixed on an imaginary point in space. They were again dressed in black trousers and white shirts, most likely a sort of uniform.

  “Let’s pick up where we left off last time,” Buzzcut finally said. “We were saying that we can do whatever we like with you.”

  Komatsu nodded. “Including choices that wouldn’t be pleasant for either side.”

  “You really do have a great memory,” Buzzcut said. “You are correct. An unpleasant outcome is looming.”

  Komatsu was silent. Buzzcut went on.

  “In theory, that is. Practically speaking, they would much prefer not to make an extreme choice. If you were suddenly to disappear now, Mr. Komatsu, that would lead to unwanted complications. Just like it did when Eriko Fukada disappeared. There aren’t many people who would be sad if you were gone, but you’re a respected editor, prominent in your field. And I’m sure that if you fall behind in your alimony payments, your wife will have something to say about it. For them, this would not be a very favorable development.”

  Komatsu gave a dry cough and swallowed.

  “They’re not criticizing you personally, or trying to punish you. They understand that in publishing Air Chrysalis you weren’t intending to attack a specific religious organization. At first you didn’t even know the connection between the novel and that organization. You perpetrated this fraud for fun and out of ambition. And money became a factor, too, as things developed. It’s very hard for a mere company employee to pay alimony and child support, isn’t it? And you brought Tengo Kawana—an aspiring novelist and cram school instructor who didn’t know anything about the circumstances—into the mix. The plan itself was smart, but your choice of the novel and the writer? Not so much. And things got more complicated than you imagined. You were like ordinary citizens who had wandered across the front lines and stepped into a minefield. You can’t go forward, and can’t go back. Am I correct in this, Mr. Komatsu?”

  “That might sum it up, I suppose,” Komatsu replied.

  “There still seem to be some things you don’t entirely understand,” Buzzcut said, his eyes narrowing a fraction. “If you did, you wouldn’t pretend that this has nothing to do with you. Let’s make things crystal clear. You are, frankly, in the middle of a minefield.”

  Komatsu silently nodded.

  Buzzcut closed his eyes, and ten seconds later opened them. “This situation has put you in a bind, but understand that it has created some real problems for them as well.”

  Komatsu took the plunge and spoke. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “If it’s something I can answer.”

  “By publishing Air Ch
rysalis we created a little trouble for the religious organization. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “More than a little trouble,” Buzzcut said. He grimaced slightly. “The voice no longer speaks to them. Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “No,” Komatsu croaked, his voice dry.

  “Fine. I can’t explain any more to you than that. And it’s better for you not to know. The voice no longer speaks to them. That’s all I can tell you now.” Buzzcut paused. “And this unhappy turn of events was brought about by the publication of Air Chrysalis.”

  Komatsu posed a question. “And did Eriko Fukada and Professor Ebisuno expect that by making Air Chrysalis public, they would bring about this unhappy turn of events?”

  Buzzcut shook his head. “No, I don’t think Professor Ebisuno knew things would turn out this way. It’s unclear what Eriko Fukada’s intentions were. Saying it was unintentional is just conjecture. But even if you assume it was intentional, I don’t believe it was her intention.”

  “People read Air Chrysalis as a fantasy novel,” Komatsu said. “A harmless, dreamy little tale written by a high school girl. Actually the novel was criticized quite a lot for being a bit too surreal. No one ever suspected that some great secret, or concrete information, was exposed in the pages of the book.”

  “I imagine you’re right,” Buzzcut said. “The vast majority of people would never notice. But that’s not the issue. Those secrets should never have been made public. In any form whatsoever.”

  Ponytail stood rooted to a spot in front of the door, staring at the wall, at some prospect that no one else could see.

  “What they want is to get the voice back,” Buzzcut said, choosing his words. “The well hasn’t run dry. It has just sunk down deeper, where it can’t be seen. It will be quite difficult to restore, but it can be done.”

  Buzzcut looked deep into Komatsu’s eyes. He looked like he was measuring the depths of something inside, like eyeballing a room to see if a piece of furniture would fit.

  “As I said earlier, all of you have wandered into a minefield. You can’t go forward, and you can’t go back. What they can do is show you the path, so you can get out safely. If they do, you’ll have a narrow escape, and they’ll peacefully manage to get rid of some bothersome intruders.”

  Buzzcut folded his arms.

  “We would like you to quietly withdraw from all this. They aren’t really concerned if you leave here in one piece. But it will present problems if we make a lot of noise here right now. So, Mr. Komatsu, I will show you the way to retreat. I will guide you back to a safe place. What I ask for in return is the following: You must stop publishing Air Chrysalis. You won’t print any more copies, or reprint it in paperback. And all advertising for the book will cease. And you will sever all connections with Eriko Fukada. What do you say? You have enough influence to handle that.”

  “It won’t be easy, but maybe I can manage it,” Komatsu said.

  “Mr. Komatsu, we didn’t bring you all the way here to talk about maybes.” Buzzcut’s eyes grew even redder and sharper. “We’re not asking you to collect all the copies of the book that are out there. Do that, and the media would jump on the story. And we know your influence doesn’t extend that far. We would just like you to quietly take care of things. We can’t undo what has already happened. Once something’s ruined, it can’t go back to the way it was. What they would like is to remove this from the spotlight. Do you follow me?”

  Komatsu nodded.

  “Mr. Komatsu, as I have explained, there are several facts here that must not come to light. If they did, all those involved would suffer repercussions. So for the sake of both parties, we would like to conclude a truce. They will not hold you responsible beyond this point. Peace will be guaranteed. You will have nothing further to do with Air Chrysalis. This isn’t such a bad deal, you know.”

  Komatsu thought it over. “All right. I will begin by making sure Air Chrysalis is no longer published. It may take some time, but I’ll find a way. And speaking personally, I can put this entire matter out of my mind. I think Tengo Kawana can do the same. He wasn’t enthusiastic about it from the very beginning. I got him involved against his will. His role in this is long past. And I don’t think Eriko Fukada will be a problem. She said that she doesn’t plan to write any more novels. Professor Ebisuno is the only one whose reaction I can’t gauge. Ultimately he wanted to determine if his friend, Tamotsu Fukada, was all right. He wants to know where he is now and what he’s doing. Whatever I might tell him, he may continue to pursue information on Mr. Fukada.”

  “Tamotsu Fukada is dead,” Buzzcut said. His voice was quiet, uninflected, but there was something terribly heavy within.

  “Dead?” Komatsu asked.

  “It happened recently,” Buzzcut said. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “He died of a heart attack. It was over in a moment, and he didn’t suffer. Due to the circumstances, we didn’t submit a notification of death, and we held the funeral secretly at our compound. For religious reasons the body was incinerated, the bones crushed and sprinkled in the nearby mountains. Legally, this constitutes desecration of a body, but it would be difficult to make a formal case against us. But this is the truth. We never lie when it comes to matters of life and death. I would like you to let Professor Ebisuno know about this.”

  “A natural death.”

  Buzzcut nodded deeply. “Mr. Fukada was a very important person for us. No—important is too trite a term to express what he was. He was a giant. His death has only been reported to a limited number of people. They grieved deeply for the loss. His wife—Eriko Fukada’s mother—died several years ago of stomach cancer. She refused chemotherapy, and passed away within our treatment facility. Her husband, Tamotsu, cared for her to the end.”

  “Even so, you didn’t file a notification of her death,” Komatsu asked.

  No words of denial came.

  “And Tamotsu Fukada passed away recently.”

  “Correct,” Buzzcut said.

  “Was this after Air Chrysalis was published?”

  Buzzcut’s gaze went down to the table for a moment, then he raised his head and looked at Komatsu.

  “That’s right. Mr. Fukada passed away after Air Chrysalis was published.”

  “Are the two events related?” Komatsu dared to ask.

  Buzzcut didn’t say anything for a while, pondering how he should respond. Finally, as if he had made up his mind, he spoke. “Fine. I think it might be best to let Professor Ebisuno know all the facts, so he will understand. Mr. Tamotsu Fukada was the real Leader, the one who hears the voice. When his daughter, Eriko Fukada, published Air Chrysalis, the voice stopped speaking to him, and at that point Mr. Fukuda himself put an end to his existence. It was a natural death. More precisely, he put an end to his own existence naturally.”

  “Eriko Fukada was the daughter of Leader,” Komatsu murmured.

  Buzzcut gave a concise, abbreviated nod.

  “And Eriko Fukada ended up driving her father to his death,” Komatsu continued.

  Buzzcut nodded once more. “That is correct.”

  “But the religion still continues to exist.”

  “The religion does still exist,” Buzzcut replied, and he stared at Komatsu with eyes like ancient pebbles frozen deep within a glacier. “Mr. Komatsu, the publication of Air Chrysalis has done more than a little damage to Sakigake. However, they are not thinking to punish you for this. There is nothing to be gained from punishing you at this point. They have a mission they must accomplish, and in order to do so, quiet isolation is required.”

  “So you want everyone to take a step back and forget it all happened.”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Was it absolutely necessary to kidnap me in order to get this message across?”

  Something akin to an expression crossed Buzzcut’s face for the first time, a superficial emotion, located somewhere in the interstice between humor and sympathy. “They went to the trouble of bringin
g you here because they wanted you to understand the seriousness of the situation. They didn’t want to do anything drastic, but if something is necessary, they don’t hesitate. They wanted you to really feel this, viscerally. If all of you do not keep your promise, then something quite unpleasant will occur. Do you follow me?”

  “I do,” Komatsu replied.

  “To tell you the truth, Mr. Komatsu, you were very fortunate. Because of all the heavy fog you may not have noticed this, but you were just a few inches from the edge of a cliff. It would be best if you remember this. At the moment they do not have the freedom to deal with you. There are many more pressing matters at hand. And in that sense, too, you are quite fortunate. So while this good fortune still continues …”

  As he said this he turned his palms faceup, like someone checking to see if it was raining. Komatsu waited for his next words, but there weren’t any. Now that he had finished speaking, Buzzcut looked exhausted. He slowly rose from his chair, folded it, and exited the cube-shaped room without so much as a glance back. The heavy door closed, the lock clicking shut. Komatsu was left all alone.

  “They kept me locked away in that square little room for four more days. We had already discussed what was important. They had told me what they wanted to say and we had come to an agreement. So I couldn’t see the point of keeping me there any longer. That duo never appeared again, and the young man in charge of me never uttered a word. I ate the same monotonous food, shaved with the electric razor, and spent my time staring at the ceiling and the walls. I slept when they turned off the lights, woke up when they switched them on. And I pondered what Buzzcut had told me. What really struck me most was the fact that he said we were fortunate. Buzzcut was right. If these guys wanted to, they could do anything they wanted. They could be as cold-blooded as they liked. While I was locked up in there, I really came to believe this. I think they must have kept me locked up for four more days knowing that would be the result. They don’t miss a beat—they’re very meticulous.”

  Komatsu picked up his glass and took a sip of the highball.