I should go out and follow her. Tengo isn’t back yet, and I have the time to find out where she’s going. It couldn’t hurt to find out where she’s moving to. But somehow Ushikawa couldn’t stand up from the floor. His body was numb. That sharp gaze she had sent through the viewfinder had robbed him of the strength he needed to take action.

It’s okay, Ushikawa told himself as he sat there on the floor. Aomame is the one I have to locate. Eriko Fukada is a fascinating girl, but she’s not my main priority here. She’s just a supporting actress. If she’s leaving, why not just let her go?

Once on the main street, Fuka-Eri hurried off toward the station. She didn’t look back. Through the gap in the sun-bleached curtains, Ushikawa watched as she went. Once the green shoulder bag, swinging back and forth, disappeared from view, he practically crawled away from the camera and leaned against the wall again, waiting for his strength to return. He took out a Seven Stars, lit it, and inhaled the smoke deeply. But the cigarette was tasteless.

His strength didn’t return. His arms and legs still felt numb. He suddenly realized a strange space had formed inside him, a kind of pure hollow. This space signified a simple lack, a nothingness. Ushikawa sat there in the midst of this unknown void, unable to rise. He felt a dull pain in his chest—not exactly pain, but more like the difference in air pressure at the point where the material and the immaterial meet.

He sat for a long time at the bottom of that void, leaning against the wall, smoking tasteless cigarettes. When that girl left, she left behind this void. No, maybe not. Maybe she just showed me something that was already there, inside me.

Ushikawa knew that Eriko Fukada had literally shaken him to his core. Her unwavering, pointed gaze shook him not only physically, but to the center of his being, like someone who had fallen passionately in love. He had never felt this way before in his life.

No, that can’t be right, he thought. Why should I be in love with that girl? We have to be the most ill-matched pair one could possibly imagine. He didn’t need to check himself out in the mirror to confirm this. But it wasn’t just about looks. In every possible aspect, he decided, no one is further removed from her than me. Sexually, he wasn’t attracted to her. As far as sexual desire was concerned, a couple of times a month Ushikawa called a prostitute he knew, and that was enough. Call her up, have her over to a hotel room, and have sex—like going to the barber.

It had to be something on a more spiritual level, Ushikawa concluded. It was hard to accept, but Ushikawa and that lovely girl had—while staring at each other through opposite ends of the camouflaged telephoto lens—reached a kind of understanding that emanated from the deepest, darkest recesses of their beings. It had happened in an instant, yet they had laid bare their very souls. And then she had gone off, leaving Ushikawa behind, alone in this void.

The girl knew I was secretly observing her through this telephoto lens, and she must have known, too, that I followed her to the supermarket near the station. She never looked back even once then, but she definitely knew I was there. But he hadn’t seen any criticism in her eyes. Ushikawa felt that somehow, in some far-off, deep place, she had understood him.

The girl had shown up, then left. We came from different directions, our paths happened to cross, our eyes met for an instant, then we moved off in different directions once more. I probably won’t ever run across Eriko Fukada again.

Leaning against the wall, Ushikawa looked through the gap in the curtain and watched people coming and going. Maybe Fuka-Eri would come back. Maybe she would remember something important she had left back in the apartment. But she didn’t. She had made up her mind to move on to somewhere else, and she would never return.

Ushikawa spent the afternoon feeling deeply powerless. This sense of impotence was formless, weightless. His blood moved slowly, sluggishly, through his veins. It was as if his vision were covered by a fine mist, while the joints in his arms and legs felt creaky and dull. When he shut his eyes, the ache of her gaze stabbed at his ribs, the ache rolling in and out like gentle waves at the shore, rolling in again, then receding. Sometimes the pain was so great it made him wince. At the same time, though, Ushikawa realized it gave him a warm feeling, like nothing he had ever experienced.

His wife and two daughters, his snug little house with a lawn in Chuorinkan—they had never made him feel this warm. He had always had something like a clod of frozen dirt stuck in his heart—a hard, cold core he had always lived with. He had never even felt it as cold. For him this was the normal temperature. Even so, Fuka-Eri’s gaze had, if even for a moment, melted that icy core. And it brought on the dull ache. The warmth and the pain came as a pair, and unless he accepted the pain, he wouldn’t feel the warmth. It was a kind of trade-off.

In a little sunny spot, Ushikawa experienced the pain and the warmth simultaneously. Quietly, without moving a muscle. It was a calm, peaceful winter’s day. People on the street passed through the delicate sunshine as they strolled by, but the sun was steadily moving west, hidden in the shadow of the building, and the little pool of sunlight he was in soon disappeared. The warmth of the afternoon was gone, and the cold of the night was gathering around him.

Ushikawa sighed deeply and reluctantly peeled himself away from the wall. His body still had a lingering numbness, but not enough to stop him from moving about the room. He finally rose to his feet, stretched his limbs, and moved his short, thick neck around to work out the kinks. He balled his fists, then stretched out his fingers, again and again. Then he got down on the tatami and did his usual stretching exercises. All his joints crackled dully, and his muscles slowly regained their normal suppleness.

It was now the time of day when people came back from work and school. I need to continue to keep a watch over them, he told himself. This isn’t a question of whether I want to or not, or whether it’s the right thing to do. Once I start something, I have to see it through.

Ushikawa sat down again behind the camera. It was completely dark outside now, and the light at the entrance had come on. It must be on a timer, he thought. Like nameless birds returning to their shabby nests, people stepped into the entrance. Tengo Kawana wasn’t among them, but Ushikawa figured he would be back before long. He couldn’t take care of his sick father forever. Most likely he would be back in Tokyo before the new week started, so he could return to work. Within a few days—or maybe even today or tomorrow.

I may well be just a cheerless, grubby little creature, a bug on the damp underside of a rock. So be it—I’ll be the first to admit it. But I’m a relentlessly capable, patient, tenacious bug. I don’t give up easily. Once I get ahold of a clue, I pursue it to the bitter end. I’ll climb up the highest wall you’ve got. I have to get back that cold core inside me. Right now, that’s exactly what I need.

Ushikawa rubbed his hands together in front of the camera, and checked to make sure all ten fingers were working properly.

There are lots of things ordinary people can do that I can’t. That’s for sure. Playing tennis, skiing, for instance. Working in a company, having a happy family. On the other hand, there are a few things I can do that most other people can’t. And I do these few things very, very well. I’m not expecting applause or for people to shower me with coins. But I do need to show the world what I’m capable of.

At nine thirty Ushikawa ended his surveillance for the day. He heated a can of chicken soup over the portable stove and carefully sipped it with a spoon. He ate two cold rolls, then polished off an apple, peel and all. He peed, brushed his teeth, spread out his sleeping bag, stripped down to his underwear, and snuggled inside. He zipped the bag up to his neck and curled up like a bug.