The next time he saw her, Tengo was in his second year of high school. He belonged to the judo club, but he had injured his calf at the time and was forced to take a two-month break from judo matches. Instead, he was recruited to be a temporary percussionist in the school’s brass band. The band was only days away from a competition, but one of their two percussionists suddenly transferred to another school, and the other one came down with a bad case of influenza. All they needed was a human being who could hold two sticks, the music teacher said, pleading with Tengo to help them out of their predicament since his injury had left him with time to kill. There would be several meals in it for Tengo, and the teacher promised to go easy on his grade if he would join the rehearsals.

Tengo had never performed on a percussion instrument nor had any interest in doing so, but once he actually tried playing, he was amazed to find that it was perfectly suited to the way his mind worked. He felt a natural joy in dividing time into small fragments, reassembling them, and transforming them into an effective row of tones. All of the sounds mentally appeared to him in the form of a diagram. He proceeded to grasp the system of one percussion instrument after another the way a sponge soaks up water. His music teacher introduced him to a symphony orchestra’s percussionist, from whom he learned the techniques of the timpani. He mastered its general structure and performance technique with only a few hours’ lessons. And because the score resembled numerical expression, learning how to read it was no great challenge for him.

The music teacher was delighted to discover Tengo’s outstanding musical talent. “You seem to have a natural sense for complex rhythms and a marvelous ear for music,” he said. “If you continue to study with professionals, you could become one yourself.”

The timpani was a difficult instrument, but it was deep and compelling in its own special way, its combination of sounds hinting at infinite possibilities. Tengo and his classmates were rehearsing several passages excerpted from Janáček’s Sinfonietta, as arranged for wind instruments. They were to perform it as their “free-choice piece” in a competition for high school brass bands. Janáček’s Sinfonietta was a difficult piece for high school musicians, and the timpani figured prominently in the opening fanfare. The music teacher, who doubled as the band leader, had chosen Sinfonietta on the assumption that he had two outstanding percussionists to work with, and when he suddenly lost them, he was at his wit’s end. Obviously, then, Tengo had a major role to fill, but he felt no pressure and wholeheartedly enjoyed the performance.

The band’s performance was flawless (good enough for a top prize, if not the championship), and when it was over, Tengo’s old fifth-grade teacher came over to congratulate him on his fine playing.

“I knew it was you right away, Tengo,” she said. He recognized this small woman but couldn’t recall her name. “The timpani sounded so good, I looked to see who could be playing—and it was you, of all people! You’re a lot bigger than you used to be, but I recognized your face immediately. When did you start playing?”

Tengo gave her a quick summary of the events that had led up to this performance, which made her all the more impressed. “You’re such a talented boy, and in so many ways!”

“Judo is a lot easier for me,” Tengo said, smiling.

“So, how’s your father?” she asked.

“He’s fine,” Tengo responded automatically, though he didn’t know—and didn’t want to know—how his father was doing. By then Tengo was living in a dormitory and hadn’t spoken to his father in a very long time.

“Why are you here?” he asked the teacher.

“My niece plays clarinet in another high school’s band. She wanted me to hear her play a solo. Are you going to keep up with your music?”

“I’ll go back to judo when my leg gets better. Judo keeps me fed. My school supports judo in a big way. They cover my room and board. The band can’t do that.”

“I guess you’re trying not to depend on your father?”

“Well, you know what he’s like,” Tengo said.

She smiled at him. “It’s too bad, though. With all your talents!”

Tengo looked down at the small woman and remembered the night she put him up at her place. He pictured the plain and practical—but neat and tidy—little apartment in which she lived. The lace curtains and potted plants. The ironing board and open book. The small pink dress hanging on the wall. The smell of the sofa where he slept. And now here she stood before him, he realized, fidgeting like a young girl. He realized, too, that he was no longer a powerless ten-year-old boy but a strapping seventeen-year-old—broad-chested, with stubble to shave and a sex drive in full bloom. He felt strangely calm in the presence of this older woman.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” she said.

“I am too,” Tengo replied. He really was glad. But he still couldn’t remember her name.

CHAPTER 15

Aomame

FIRMLY, LIKE ATTACHING AN ANCHOR

TO A BALLOON

Aomame devoted a great deal of attention to her daily diet. Vegetarian dishes were central to the meals she prepared for herself, to which she added seafood, mostly white fish. An occasional piece of chicken was about all the meat she would eat. She chose only fresh ingredients and kept seasonings to a minimum, rejecting high-fat ingredients entirely and keeping her intake of carbohydrates low. Salads she would eat with a touch of olive oil, salt, and lemon juice, never dressings. She did not just eat a lot of vegetables, she also studied their nutritional elements in detail and made sure she was eating a well-balanced selection. She fashioned her own original menus and shared them with sports club members when asked. “Forget about counting calories,” she would always advise them. “Once you develop a knack for choosing the proper ingredients and eating in moderation, you don’t have to pay attention to numbers.”

This is not to say that she clung obsessively to her ascetic menus. If she felt a strong desire for meat, she would pop into a restaurant and order a thick steak or lamb chops. She believed that an unbearable desire for a particular food meant that the body was sending signals for something it truly needed, and she would follow the call of nature.

She enjoyed wine and sake, but she established three days a week when she would not drink at all in order to avoid excessive alcohol intake, as a way to both protect her liver and control the sugar in her bloodstream. For Aomame, her body was sacred, to be kept clean always, without a fleck of dust or the slightest stain. Whatever one enshrined there was another question, to be thought about later.

Aomame had no excess flesh, only muscle. She would confirm this for herself in detail each day, standing stark naked in front of the mirror. Not that she was thrilled at the sight of her own body. Quite the opposite. Her breasts were not big enough, and they were asymmetrical. Her pubic hair grew like a patch of grass that had been trampled by a passing army. She couldn’t stop herself from scowling at the sight of her own body, but there was nothing there for her to pinch.

She lived frugally, but her meals were the only things on which she deliberately spent her money. She never compromised on the quality of her groceries, and drank only good-quality wines. On those rare occasions when she ate out, she would choose restaurants that prepared their food with the greatest care. Almost nothing else mattered to her—not clothing, not cosmetics, not accessories. Jeans and a sweater were all she needed for commuting to work at the sports club, and once she was there she would spend the day in a jersey top and bottom—without accessories, of course. She rarely had occasion to go out in fancy clothing. Once Tamaki Otsuka was married, she no longer had any women friends to dine out with. She would wear makeup and dress well when she was out in search of a one-night stand, but that was once a month and didn’t require an extensive wardrobe.