1q84

by Haruki Murakami

  Compared with her, Tengo was much easier to deal with. In the photo he was standing at the entrance, also looking in his direction. Like Fuka-Eri, he carefully examined his surroundings. But there was nothing in his eyes. Pure, ignorant eyes like those couldn’t locate the camera hidden behind the curtains, or Ushikawa.

  Ushikawa turned to the photos of the mystery woman. There were three photos. Baseball cap, dark-framed glasses, gray muffler up to her nose. It was impossible to make out her features. The lighting was poor in all the photos, and the baseball cap cast a shadow over her face. Still, this woman perfectly fit his mental image of Aomame. He picked up the photos and, like checking out a poker hand, went through them in order, over and over. The more he looked at them, the more convinced he was that this had to be Aomame.

  He called the waitress over and asked her about the day’s dessert. Peach pie, she replied. Ushikawa ordered a piece and a refill of coffee.

  If this isn’t Aomame, he thought as he waited for the pie, then I might never see her as long as I live.

  The peach pie was much tastier than expected. Juicy peaches inside a crisp, flaky crust. Canned peaches, no doubt, but not too bad for a dessert at a chain restaurant. Ushikawa ate every last bite, drained the coffee, and left the restaurant feeling content. He picked up three days’ worth of food at a supermarket, then went back to the apartment and his stakeout in front of the camera.

  As he continued his surveillance of the entrance, he leaned back against the wall, in a sunny spot, and dozed off a few times. This didn’t bother him. He felt sure he hadn’t missed anything important while he slept. Tengo was away from Tokyo at his father’s funeral, and Fuka-Eri wasn’t coming back. She knew he was continuing his surveillance. The chances were slim that the mystery woman would visit while it was light out. She would be cautious, and wait until dark to make a move.

  But even after sunset the mystery woman didn’t appear. The same old lineup came and went—shopping bags in hand, out for an evening stroll, those coming back from work looking more beaten and worn out than when they had set off in the morning. Ushikawa watched them come and go but didn’t snap any photos. There wasn’t any need. Ushikawa was focused on only three people. Everyone else was just a nameless pedestrian. But to pass time Ushikawa called out to them, using the nicknames he had come up with.

  “Hey, Chairman Mao.” (The man’s hair looked like Mao Tse-tung’s.) “You must have worked hard today.”

  “Warm today, isn’t it, Long Ears—perfect for a walk.”

  “Evening, Chinless. Shopping again? What’s for dinner?”

  Ushikawa kept up his surveillance until eleven. He gave a big yawn and called it a day. After he brushed his teeth, he stuck out his tongue and looked at it in the mirror. It had been a while since he had examined his tongue. Something like moss was growing on it, a light green, like real moss. He examined this moss carefully under the light. It was disturbing. The moss adhered to his entire tongue and didn’t look like it would come off easily. If I keep up like this, he thought, I’m going to turn into a Moss Monster. Starting with my tongue, green moss will spread here and there on my skin, like the shell of a turtle that lives in a swamp. The very thought was disheartening.

  He sighed, and in a voiceless voice decided to stop worrying about his tongue. He turned off the light, slowly undressed in the dark, and snuggled into his sleeping bag. He zipped the bag and curled up like a bug.

  It was dark when he woke up. He turned to check the time, but his clock wasn’t where it should be. This confused him. His long-standing habit was to always check for the clock before he went to sleep. So why wasn’t it there? A faint light came in through a gap in the curtain, but it only illuminated a corner of the room. Everywhere else was wrapped in middle-of-the-night darkness.

  Ushikawa felt his heart racing, working hard to pump adrenaline through his system. His nostrils flared, his breathing was ragged, like he had woken in the middle of a vivid, exciting dream.

  But he wasn’t dreaming. Something really was happening. Somebody was standing right next to him. Ushikawa could sense it. A shadow, darker than the darkness, was looming over him, staring down at his face. His back stiffened. In a fraction of a second, his mind regrouped and he instinctively tried to unzip the sleeping bag.

  In the blink of an eye, the person wrapped his arm around Ushikawa’s throat. He didn’t even have time to get out a sound. Ushikawa felt a man’s strong, trained muscles around his neck. This arm constricted his throat, squeezing him mercilessly in a viselike grip. The man never said a word. Ushikawa couldn’t even hear him breathing. He twisted and writhed in his sleeping bag, tearing at the inner nylon lining, kicking with both feet. He tried to scream, but even if he could, it wouldn’t help. Once the man had settled down on the tatami he didn’t budge an inch, except for his arm, which gradually increased the amount of force he applied. A very effective, economical movement. As he did, pressure grew on Ushikawa’s windpipe, and his breathing grew weaker.

  In the midst of this desperate situation, what flashed through Ushikawa’s mind was this: How had the man gotten in here? The door was locked, the chain inside set, the windows bolted shut. So how did he get in? If he picked the lock, it would have made a sound.

  This guy is a real pro. If the situation called for it, he wouldn’t hesitate to take a person’s life. He is trained precisely for this. Was he sent by Sakigake? Have they finally decided to get rid of me? Did they conclude that I was useless to them, a hindrance they had to get rid of? If so, they’re flat-out wrong. I’m one step away from locating Aomame. Ushikawa tried to speak, to tell the man this. Listen to me first, he wanted to plead. But no voice would come. There wasn’t enough air to vibrate his vocal cords, and his tongue in the back of his mouth was a solid rock.

  Now his windpipe was completely blocked. His lungs desperately struggled for oxygen, but none was to be found, and he felt his body and mind split apart. His body continued to writhe inside the sleeping bag, but his mind was dragged off into the heavy, gooey air. He suddenly had no feeling in his arms and legs. Why? his fading mind asked. Why do I have to die in such an ugly place, in such an ugly way? There was no answer. An undefined darkness descended from the ceiling and enveloped everything.

  When he regained consciousness, Ushikawa was no longer inside the sleeping bag. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs. All he knew was that he had on a blindfold and his cheek felt pressed up against the tatami. He wasn’t being strangled anymore. His lungs audibly heaved like bellows breathing in new air. Cold, winter air. The oxygen made new blood, and his heart pumped this hot red liquid to all his nerve endings at top speed. He coughed wretchedly and focused on breathing. Gradually, feeling was returning to his extremities. His heart pounded hard in his ears. I’m still alive, Ushikawa told himself in the darkness.

  Ushikawa was lying facedown on the tatami. His hands were bound behind him, tied up in something that felt like a soft cloth. His ankles were tied up as well—not tied so tightly, but in an accomplished, effective way. He could roll from side to side, but that was all. Ushikawa found it astounding that he was alive, still breathing. So that wasn’t death, he thought. It had come awfully close to death, but it wasn’t death itself. A sharp pain remained, like a lump, on either side of his throat. He had urinated in his pants and his underwear was wet and starting to get clammy. But it wasn’t such a bad sensation. In fact he rather welcomed it. The pain and cold were signs that he was still alive.

  “You won’t die that easily,” the man’s voice said. Like he had been reading Ushikawa’s mind.

  CHAPTER 23

  Aomame

  THE LIGHT WAS DEFINITELY THERE

  It was past midnight, the day had shifted from Sunday to Monday, but still sleep wouldn’t come.

  Aomame finished her bath, put on pajamas, slipped into bed, and turned out the light. Staying up late wouldn’t accomplish a thing. For the time being she had left it all up to Tamaru. Much better to get some sleep and think aga
in in the morning when her mind was fresh. But she was wide awake, and her body wanted to be up and moving. It didn’t look like she would be getting to sleep anytime soon.

  She gave up, got out of bed, and threw a robe over her pajamas. She boiled water, made herbal tea, and sat at the dining table, slowly sipping it. A thought came to her, but what it was exactly, she couldn’t say. It had a thick, furtive form, like far-off rain clouds. She could make out its shape but not its outline. There was a disconnect of some kind between shape and outline. Mug in hand, she went over to the window, and looked out at the playground through a gap in the curtains.

  There was no one there, of course. Past one a.m. now, the sandbox, swings, and slide were deserted. It was a particularly silent night. The wind had died down, and there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky, just the two moons floating above the frozen branches of the trees. The position of the moons had shifted with the earth’s rotation, but they were still visible.

  Aomame stood there, thinking about Bobblehead’s run-down apartment building, and the name card in the slot on the door of apartment 303. A white card with the typed name Kawana. The card wasn’t new, by any means. The edges were curled up, and there were faint moisture stains on it. The card had been in the slot for some time.

  Tamaru would find out for her if it was really Tengo Kawana who lived there, or someone else with the same last name. At the latest, he would probably report back by tomorrow. He wasn’t the kind of person who wasted time. Then she would know for sure. Depending on the outcome, she thought, I might actually see Tengo before much longer. The possibility made it hard to breathe, like the air around her had suddenly gotten thin.

  But things might not work out that easily. Even if the person living in 303 was Tengo Kawana, Bobblehead was hidden away somewhere in the same building. And he was planning something—what, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t be good. He was undoubtedly hatching a clever plan, breathing down their necks, doing what he could to prevent them from seeing each other.

  No, there’s nothing to worry about, Aomame told herself. Tamaru can be trusted. He’s more meticulous, capable, and experienced than anyone I know. If I leave it up to him, he will fend off Bobblehead for me. Bobblehead is a danger not just to me, but to Tamaru as well, a risk factor that has to be eliminated.

  But what if Tamaru decides that it isn’t advisable for Tengo and me to meet, then what will I do? If that happens, then Tamaru will surely cut off any possibility of Tengo and me ever seeing each other. Tamaru and I are pretty friendly, but his top priority is what will benefit the dowager and keep her out of harm’s way. That’s his real job—he isn’t doing all this for my sake.

  This made her uneasy. Getting Tengo and her together, letting them see each other again—where did this fall on Tamaru’s list of priorities? She had no way of knowing. Maybe telling Tamaru about Tengo had been a fatal mistake. Shouldn’t I have taken care of everything myself?

  But what’s done is done. I’ve told Tamaru everything. I had no choice. Bobblehead must be lying in wait for me, and it would be suicide to waltz right in all alone. Time is ticking away and I don’t have the leisure to put things on hold and see how they might develop. Opening up to Tamaru about everything, and putting it all in his hands, was the best choice at the time.

  Aomame decided to stop thinking about Tengo—and stop looking at the moons. The moonlight wreaked havoc on her mind. It changed the tides in inlets, stirred up life in the woods. She drank the last of her herbal tea, left the window, went to the kitchen, and rinsed out the mug. She longed for a sip of brandy, but she knew she shouldn’t have any alcohol while pregnant.

  She sat on the sofa, switched on the small reading lamp beside it, and began rereading Air Chrysalis. She had read the novel at least ten times. It wasn’t a long book, and by now she had nearly memorized it. But she wanted to read it again, slowly, attentively. She figured she might as well, since she wasn’t about to get to sleep. There might be something in it she had overlooked.

  Air Chrysalis was like a book with a secret code, and Eriko Fukada must have told the story in order to get a message across. Tengo rewrote it, creating something more polished, more effective. They had formed a team to create a novel with a wider appeal. As Leader had said, it was a collaborative effort. If Leader was to be believed, when Air Chrysalis became a bestseller and certain secrets were revealed within, the Little People lost their power, and the voice no longer spoke. Because of this, the well dried up, the flow was cut off. This is how much influence the novel had exerted.

  She focused on each line as she read.

  By the time the clock showed 2:30, she was already two-thirds of the way through the novel. She closed the book and tried to put into words the strong emotions she was feeling. Though she wouldn’t go so far as to call it a revelation, she had a strong, specific image in her mind.

  I wasn’t brought here by chance.

  This is what the image told her.

  I’m here because I’m supposed to be.

  Up until now, she thought, I believed I was dragged into this 1Q84 world not by my own will. Something had intentionally engaged the switch so the train I was on was diverted from the main line and entered this strange new world. Suddenly I realized I was here—a world of two moons, haunted by Little People. Where there is an entrance, but no exit.

  Leader had explained it this way just before he died. The train is the story that Tengo wrote, and I was trapped inside that tale. Which explains exactly why I am here now—entirely passive, a confused, clueless bit player wandering in a thick fog.

  But that’s not the whole picture, Aomame told herself. That’s not the whole picture at all.

  I am not just some passive being mixed up in this because someone else willed it. That might be partly true. But at the same time I chose to be here. I chose to be here of my own free will. She was sure of this.

  And there’s a clear reason I’m here. One reason alone: so I can meet Tengo again. If you look at it the other way around, that’s the only reason why this world is inside of me. Maybe it’s a paradox, like an image reflected to infinity in a pair of facing mirrors. I am a part of this world, and this world is a part of me.

  There was no way for Aomame to know what sort of plot Tengo’s new story contained. Most likely there were two moons in that world, and it was frequented by Little People. That was about as far as she could speculate. This might be Tengo’s story, she thought, but it’s my story, too. This much she understood.

  She realized this when she got to the scene where the young girl, the protagonist, was working to create an air chrysalis every night in the shed with the Little People. As she read through this detailed, clear description, she felt something warm and oozy in her abdomen, a sort of melting warmth with a strange depth. Though tiny, there was an intense heat source there. What that heat source was, and what it meant, was obvious to her—she didn’t need to think about it. The little one. It was emitting heat in response to the scene in which the protagonist and the Little People together weaved the air chrysalis.

  Aomame put the book on the table next to her, unbuttoned her pajama top, and rested a hand on her belly. She could feel the heat being given off, almost like a dim orange light was there inside her. She switched off the reading lamp, and in the darkened bedroom stared hard at that spot, a luminescence almost too faint to see. But the light was definitely there—no mistake about it. I am not alone. We are connected through this, by experiencing the same story simultaneously.

  And if that story is mine as well as Tengo’s, then I should be able to write the story line too. I should be able to comment on what’s there, maybe even rewrite part of it. I have to be able to. Most of all, I should be able to decide how it’s going to turn out. Right?

  She considered the possibility.

  Okay, but how do I do it?

  Aomame didn’t know, though she knew it had to be possible. At this point it was a mere theory. In the silent darkness she pursed her lips a
nd contemplated. This was critical, and she had to put her mind to it.

  The two of us are a team. Like Tengo and Eriko Fukada made up a brilliant team when they created Air Chrysalis, Tengo and I are a team for this new story. Our wills—or maybe some undercurrent of our wills—are becoming one, creating this complex story and propelling it forward. This process probably takes place on some deep, invisible level. Even if we aren’t physically together, we are connected, as one. We create the story, and at the same time the story is what sets us in motion. Right?

  But I have a question. A very important question.

  In this story that the two of us are writing, what could be the significance of this little one? What sort of role will it play?

  Inside my womb is a subtle yet tangible heat that is emitting a faint orange light, exactly like an air chrysalis. Is my womb playing the role of an air chrysalis? Am I the maza, and the little one my dohta? Is the Little People’s will involved in all this—in my being pregnant with Tengo’s child, although we didn’t have sex? Have they cleverly usurped my womb to use as an air chrysalis? Using me as a device to extract another new dohta?

  No. That’s not what’s going on. She was positive about it. That’s not possible.

  The Little People have lost their power. Leader said so. The popularity of the novel Air Chrysalis essentially blocked what they normally do. So they must not know about this pregnancy. But who—or what power—made this pregnancy possible? And why?

  Aomame had no idea.

  What she did know was that this little one was something she and Tengo had formed. That it was a precious, priceless life. She placed her hand on her abdomen again, pressing gently against the outline of that faint orange glow. She let the warmth she felt there slowly permeate her whole body. I’ve got to protect this little one, at all costs, she told herself. Nobody is ever going to take it away from me, or harm it. The two of us have to keep it safe. In the darkness, she made up her mind.