“Of course I can do that,” Aomame said, “but I’ll have to ask you to arrange for the personal training away from the gym through the club’s front desk.”

“That’s fine,” the dowager said, “but let’s make scheduling arrangements directly. There is bound to be confusion if other people get involved. I’d like to avoid that. Would that be all right with you?”

“Perfectly all right.”

“Then let’s start next week,” the dowager said.

This was all it took to conclude their business.

The dowager said, “I was tremendously struck by what you said at the gym the other day. About powerlessness. About how powerlessness inflicts such damage on people. Do you remember?”

Aomame nodded. “I do.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question? It will be a very direct question. To save time.”

“Ask whatever you like,” Aomame said.

“Are you a feminist, or a lesbian?”

Aomame blushed slightly and shook her head. “I don’t think so. My thoughts on such matters are strictly my own. I’m not a doctrinaire feminist, and I’m not a lesbian.”

“That’s good,” the dowager said. As if relieved, she elegantly lifted a forkful of broccoli to her mouth, elegantly chewed it, and took one small sip of wine. Then she said, “Even if you were a feminist or a lesbian, it wouldn’t bother me in the least. It wouldn’t influence anything. But, if I may say so, your not being either will make it easier for us to communicate. Do you see what I’m trying to say?”

“I do,” Aomame said.

Aomame went to the dowager’s compound twice a week to guide her in martial arts. The dowager had a large, mirrored practice space built years earlier for her little daughter’s ballet lessons, and it was there that she and Aomame did their carefully ordered exercises. For someone her age, the dowager was very flexible, and she progressed rapidly. Hers was a small body, but one that had been well cared for over the years. Aomame also taught her the basics of systematic stretching, and gave her massages to loosen her muscles.

Aomame was especially skilled at deep tissue massage. She had earned better grades in that field than anyone else at the college of physical education. The names of all the bones and all the muscles of the human body were engraved in her brain. She knew the function and characteristics of each muscle, both how to tone it and how to keep it toned. It was Aomame’s firm belief that the human body was a temple, to be kept as strong and beautiful and clean as possible, whatever one might enshrine there.

Not content with ordinary sports medicine, Aomame learned acupuncture techniques as a matter of personal interest, taking formal training for several years from a Chinese doctor. Impressed with her rapid progress, the doctor told her that she had more than enough skill to be a professional. She was a quick learner, with an unquenchable thirst for detailed knowledge regarding the body’s functions. But more than anything, she had fingertips that were endowed with an almost frightening sixth sense. Just as certain people possess perfect pitch or the ability to find underground water veins, Aomame’s fingertips could instantly discern the subtle points on the body that influenced its functionality. This was nothing that anyone had taught her. It came to her naturally.

Before long, Aomame and the dowager would follow up their training and massage sessions with a leisurely chat over a cup of tea. Tamaru would always bring the tea utensils on the silver tray. He never spoke a word in Aomame’s presence during the first month, until Aomame felt compelled to ask the dowager if by any chance Tamaru was incapable of speaking.

One time, the dowager asked Aomame if she had ever used her testicle-kicking technique in actual self-defense.

“Just once,” Aomame answered.

“Did it work?” the dowager asked.

“It had the intended effect,” Aomame answered, cautiously and concisely.

“Do you think it would work on Tamaru?”

Aomame shook her head. “Probably not. He knows about things like that. If the other person has the ability to read your movements, there’s nothing you can do. The testicle kick only works with amateurs who have no actual fighting experience.”

“In other words, you recognize that Tamaru is no amateur.”

“How should I put it?” Aomame paused. “He has a special presence. He’s not an ordinary person.”

The dowager added cream to her tea and stirred it slowly.

“So the man you kicked that time was an amateur, I assume. A big man?”

Aomame nodded but did not say anything. The man had been well built and strong-looking. But he was arrogant, and he had let his guard down with a mere woman. He had never had the experience of being kicked in the balls by a woman, and never imagined such a thing would ever happen to him.

“Did he end up with any wounds?” the dowager asked.

“No, no wounds,” Aomame said. “He was just in intense pain for a while.”

The dowager remained silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Have you ever attacked a man before? Not just causing him pain but intentionally wounding him?”

“I have,” Aomame replied. Lying was not a specialty of hers.

“Can you talk about it?”

Aomame shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry, but it’s not something I can talk about easily.”

“Of course not,” the dowager said. “That’s fine. There’s no need to force yourself.”

The two drank their tea in silence, each with her own thoughts.

Finally, the dowager spoke. “But sometime, when you feel like talking about it, do you think I might be able to have you tell me what happened back then?”

Aomame said, “I might be able to tell you sometime. Or I might not, ever. I honestly don’t know, myself.”

The dowager looked at Aomame for a while. Then she said, “I’m not asking out of mere curiosity.”

Aomame kept silent.

“As I see it, you are living with something that you keep hidden deep inside. Something heavy. I felt it from the first time I met you. You have a strong gaze, as if you have made up your mind about something. To tell you the truth, I myself carry such things around inside. Heavy things. That is how I can see it in you. There is no need to hurry, but you will be better off, at some point in time, if you bring it outside yourself. I am nothing if not discreet, and I have several realistic measures at my disposal. If all goes well, I could be of help to you.”

Later, when Aomame finally opened up to the dowager, she would also open a new door in her life.

“Hey, what are you drinking?” someone asked near Aomame’s ear. The voice belonged to a woman.

Aomame raised her head and looked at the speaker. A young woman with a fifties-style ponytail was sitting on the neighboring barstool. Her dress had a tiny flower pattern, and a small Gucci bag hung from her shoulder. Her nails were carefully manicured in pale pink. By no means fat, the woman was round everywhere, including her face, which radiated a truly friendly warmth, and she had big breasts.

Aomame was somewhat taken aback. She had not been expecting to be approached by a woman. This was a bar for men to approach women.

“Tom Collins,” Aomame said.

“Is it good?”

“Not especially. But it’s not that strong, and I can sip it.”

“I wonder why they call it ‘Tom Collins.’ ”

“I have no idea,” Aomame said. “Maybe it’s the name of the guy who invented it. Not that it’s such an amazing invention.”

The woman waved to the bartender and said, “I’ll have a Tom Collins too.” A few moments later, she had her drink.

“Mind if I sit here?” she asked.

“Not at all. It’s an empty seat.” And you’re already sitting in it, Aomame thought without speaking the words.

“You don’t have a date to meet anybody here, do you?” the woman asked.

Instead of answering, Aomame studied the woman’s face. She guessed the woman was three or four years younger than herself.