Ushikawa didn’t want them to be upset with him forever. They paid him well, but they were a dangerous bunch. Ushikawa was one of the few who knew how they had secretly disposed of Leader’s body, which made him a potential liability. He knew he had to come up with something concrete to show them so they would know he was a valuable resource, someone worth keeping alive.

He had no proof that the old dowager from Azabu was mixed up in Leader’s murder. At this point it was pure speculation. He did know that some deep secret lay hidden inside that mansion with its magnificent willows. Ushikawa’s sense of smell told him this, and his job was to bring that truth to light. It wouldn’t be easy. The place was under heavy guard, with professionals involved.

Yakuza?

Perhaps. Businessmen, those involved in real estate in particular, are often involved in secret negotiations with yakuza. When the going gets rough, the yakuza get called in. It was possible the old dowager might be making use of their influence. But Ushikawa wasn’t very certain of this—the old dowager was too well bred to deal with people like them. Also, it was hard to imagine that she would use yakuza to protect women who were victims of domestic violence. Probably she had her own security apparatus in place, one that she paid for herself. Her own personal system she had refined. It would cost her, but then, she wasn’t hurting for funds. And this system of hers might employ violence when there was a perceived need.

If Ushikawa’s hypothesis was correct, then Aomame must have gone into hiding somewhere far away, with the aid of the old dowager. They would have carefully erased any trail, given her a new identity and a new name, possibly even a new face. If that was the case, then it would be impossible for Ushikawa’s painstaking little private investigation to track her down.

At this point the only thing to do was to try to learn more about the dowager. His hope was that he would run across a seam that would lead him to discover something about Aomame’s whereabouts. Things might work out, and then again they might not. But Ushikawa had some strong points: his sharp sense of smell and his tenaciousness. He would never let go of something once he latched onto it. Besides these, he asked himself, what other talents do I have worth mentioning? Do I have other abilities I can be proud of?

Not one, Ushikawa answered himself, convinced he was right.

CHAPTER 5

Aomame

NO MATTER HOW LONG YOU KEEP QUIET

Aomame didn’t find it painful to be shut away, living a monotonous, solitary existence. She got up every day at six thirty and had a simple breakfast. Then she would spend an hour or so doing laundry, ironing, or mopping the floor. For an hour and a half in the morning she used the equipment Tamaru had obtained for her to do a strenuous workout. As a fitness instructor she was well versed in how much stimulation all the various muscles needed every day—how much exercise was just right, and how much was excessive.

Lunch was usually a green salad and fruit. The afternoon was spent sitting on the sofa and reading, or taking a short nap. In the evening she would spend an hour preparing dinner, which she would finish before six. Once the sun set, she would be out on the balcony, seated on her garden chair, keeping watch over the playground. Then to bed at ten thirty. One day was the same as the next, but she never felt bored.

She was not very social to begin with, and never had a problem going long stretches without seeing or talking with other people. Even when she was in elementary school, she seldom talked with her classmates. More accurately, unless it was absolutely necessary, no one else ever spoke to her.

Compared with the harsh days of her childhood, being holed up in a neat little apartment, not talking to anybody, was nothing. Compared with staying silent while those around her chatted away, it was much easier—and more natural—to be silent in a place where she was all alone. And besides, she had a book she should read. She had started reading the Proust volumes that Tamaru had left for her. She read no more than twenty pages a day. She read each and every word carefully, working her way through each day’s reading. Once she finished that section, she read something else. And just before bed she made sure to read a few pages of Air Chrysalis. This was Tengo’s writing, and it had become a sort of manual she followed to live in 1Q84.

She also listened to music. The elderly dowager had sent over a box of classical music cassettes: Mahler symphonies, Haydn chamber music, Bach keyboard pieces—all varieties and types of classical music. There was a tape of Janáček’s Sinfonietta as well, which she had specifically requested. She would listen to the Sinfonietta once a day as she noiselessly went through her exercise routine.

Autumn quietly deepened. She had the feeling that her body was slowly becoming transparent. Aomame tried her best to keep her mind clear of any thoughts, but it was impossible not to think of anything. Nature abhors a vacuum. At the very least, though, she felt that now there was nothing for her to hate. There was no need to hate her classmates and teacher anymore. Aomame was no longer a helpless child, and no one was forcing her to practice a religion now. There was no need to hate the men who beat up women. The anger she had felt before, like a high tide rising up within her—the overwrought emotions that sometimes made her want to smack her fists against the closest wall—had vanished before she’d realized it. She wasn’t sure why, but those feelings were entirely gone. She was grateful for this. As much as possible, she wanted never to hurt anyone, ever again. Just as she didn’t want to hurt herself.

On nights when she found it hard to sleep, she thought of Tamaki Otsuka and Ayumi Nakano. When she closed her eyes, the memory of holding their bodies close came rushing back to her. Both of them had had soft, lustrous skin and warm bodies. Gentle, profound bodies, with fresh blood coursing through them, hearts beating regular, blessed beats. She could hear them sigh softly and giggle. Slender fingers, hardened nipples, smooth thighs.… But these two women were no longer in the world.

Like dark, soft water, sadness took over Aomame’s heart, soundlessly, and with no warning. The best antidote at a time like this was to just shut off that stream of memories and think only of Tengo. Focus, and recall the touch of the ten-year-old boy’s hand as she had held it for a fleeting moment. And then she called forth from memory the thirty-year-old Tengo sitting on top of the slide, she imagined what it would feel like to be held in those large, strong arms.

He was almost within reach.

Maybe if I hold out my hand the next time, I really will be able to reach him. In the darkness she closed her eyes and immersed herself in that possibility. She gave herself up to her longing.

But if I never do see him again, she thought, her heart trembling, then what? Things had been a whole lot simpler when there was no actual point of contact between them. Meeting the adult Tengo had been a mere dream, an abstract hypothesis. But now that she had seen the real him before her very eyes, his presence was more concrete, more powerful, than it had ever been before. She had to see him, to have him hold her, caress every part of her. Just the very thought that this might not come to pass made her feel as if her heart and body were being ripped in two.

Maybe back there in front of the Esso tiger on the billboard, I should have shot that 9mm bullet into my skull. Then I wouldn’t have to live like this, feeling such sadness and pain. But she just couldn’t pull the trigger. She had heard a voice. From far off, someone calling her name. I might be able to see Tengo again, she had thought—and once this thought had struck her, she had to go on living. Even if what Leader had said was true, that doing so would make things dangerous for Tengo, she had no other choice. She had felt an unbearably strong surge of the life force, beyond the bounds of logic. The upshot was that she was burning with a fierce desire for him. It was a thirst that wouldn’t quit, and a premonition of despair.