“Me, too,” Ayumi said. “I was just thinking I haven’t seen you for a while. I’d like to get together and talk, that’s all.”

Aomame gave some thought to what Ayumi was suggesting, but she couldn’t make up her mind right away.

“You know, you caught me in the middle of stir-frying,” she said. “I can’t stop now. Can you call me again in half an hour?”

“Sure thing,” Ayumi said. “Half an hour it is.”

Aomame hung up and finished stir-frying her vegetables. Then she made some miso soup with bean sprouts and had that with brown rice. She drank half a can of beer and poured the rest down the drain. She had washed the dishes and was resting on the sofa when Ayumi called again.

“I thought it might be nice to have dinner together sometime,” she said. “I get tired of eating alone.”

“Do you always eat alone?”

“I live in a dormitory, with meals included, so I usually eat in a big, noisy crowd. Sometimes, though, I want to have a nice, quiet meal, maybe go someplace a little fancy. But not alone. You know what I mean?”

“Of course I do,” Aomame said.

“I just don’t have anybody—man or woman—to eat with at times like that. They all like to hang out in cheap bars. With you, though, I thought just maybe, if you wouldn’t mind …”

“No, I wouldn’t mind at all,” Aomame said. “Let’s do it. Let’s go have a fancy meal together. I haven’t done something like that for a long time.”

“Really? I’m thrilled!”

“You said the day after tomorrow is good for you?”

“Right. I’m off duty the day after that. Do you know a nice place?”

Aomame mentioned a certain French restaurant in the Nogizaka neighborhood.

Ayumi gasped. “Are you kidding? It’s only the most famous French restaurant in the city. I read in a magazine it’s insanely expensive, and you have to wait two months for a reservation. That’s no place for anybody on my salary!”

“Don’t worry, the owner-chef is a member of my gym. I’m his personal trainer, and I kind of advise him on his menus’ nutritional values. If I ask him, I’m sure he’ll save us a table—and knock the bill way down, too. I can’t guarantee we’d get great seats, of course.”

“I’d be happy to sit in a closet in that place,” Ayumi said.

“You’d better wear your best dress,” Aomame advised her.

When she had hung up, Aomame was somewhat shocked to realize that she had grown fond of the young policewoman. She hadn’t felt like this about anyone since Tamaki Otsuka died. And though the feelings were utterly different from what she had felt for Tamaki, this was the first time in a very long time that she would share a meal with a friend—or even want to do such a thing. To add to which, this other person was a police officer! Aomame sighed. Life was so strange.

Aomame wore a small white cardigan over a blue-gray short-sleeve dress, and she had on her Ferragamo heels. She added earrings and a narrow gold bracelet. Leaving her usual shoulder bag at home (along with the ice pick), she carried a small Bagagerie purse. Ayumi wore a simple black jacket by Comme des Garçons over a scoop-necked brown T-shirt, a flower-patterned flared skirt, the Gucci bag she carried before, small pearl pierced earrings, and brown low-heeled shoes. She looked far lovelier and more elegant than last time—and certainly not like a police officer.

They met at the bar, sipped mimosas, and then were shown to their table, which turned out to be a rather good one. The chef stepped out of the kitchen for a chat with Aomame and noted that the wine would be on the house.

“Sorry, it’s already been uncorked, and one tasting’s worth is gone. A customer complained about the taste yesterday and we gave him a new bottle, but in fact there is absolutely nothing wrong with this wine. The man is a famous politician who likes to think he’s a wine connoisseur, but he doesn’t know a damn thing about wine. He did it to show off. ‘I’m afraid this might have a slight edge,’ he says. We had to humor him. ‘Oh, yes, you may be right about that, sir. I’m sure the importer’s warehouse is at fault. I’ll bring another bottle right away. But bravo, sir! I don’t think another person in the country could have caught this!’ That was the best way to make everybody happy, as you can imagine. Now, I can’t say this too loudly, but we had to inflate the bill a little to cover our loss. He was on an expense account, after all. In any case, there’s no way a restaurant with our reputation could serve a returned bottle.”

“Except to us, you mean.”

The chef winked. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” Aomame said.

“Not at all,” Ayumi chimed in.

“Is this lovely lady your younger sister, by any chance?” the chef asked Aomame.

“Does she look it?” Aomame asked back.

“I don’t see a physical resemblance, but there’s a certain atmosphere …”

“She’s my friend,” Aomame said. “My police officer friend.”

“Really?” He looked again at Ayumi with an expression of disbelief. “You mean, with a pistol and everything?”

“I’ve never shot anyone,” Ayumi said.

“I don’t think I said anything incriminating, did I?”

Ayumi shook her head. “Not a thing.”

The chef smiled and clasped his hands across his chest. “In any case, this is a highly respected Burgundy that we can serve to anyone with confidence. From a noble domain, a good year. I won’t say how many ten-thousand-yen bills we’d ordinarily have to charge for this one.”

The chef withdrew and the waiter approached to pour their wine. Aomame and Ayumi toasted each other, the clink of their glasses a distant echo of heavenly bells.

“Oh! I’ve never tasted such delicious wine before!” Ayumi said, her eyes narrowed after her first sip. “Who could possibly object to a wine like this?”

“You can always find somebody to complain about anything,” Aomame said.

The two women studied the menu. Ayumi went through every item twice with the sharp gaze of a smart lawyer reading a major contract: was she missing something important, a clever loophole? She mentally scrutinized all the provisos and stipulations and pondered their likely repercussions, carefully weighing profit and loss.

Aomame enjoyed watching this spectacle from across the table. “Have you decided?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Ayumi said.

“So, what are you going to order?”

“I’ll have the mussels, the three-onion salad, and the Bordeaux-braised Iwate veal stew. How about you?”

“I’d like the lentil soup, the warm spring green salad, and the parchment-baked monkfish with polenta. Not much of a match for a red wine, but it’s free, so I can’t complain.”

“Mind sharing a little?”

“Not at all,” Aomame said. “And if you don’t mind, let’s share the deep-fried shrimp to start.”

“Marvelous!”

“If we’re through choosing, we’d better close the menus,” Aomame said. “Otherwise the waiter will never come.”

“True,” Ayumi said, closing her menu with apparent regret and setting it on the table. The waiter came over immediately and took their order.

“Whenever I finish ordering in a restaurant, I feel like I got the wrong thing,” Ayumi said when the waiter was gone. “How about you?”

“Even if you do order the wrong thing, it’s just food. It’s no big deal compared with mistakes in life.”

“No, of course not,” Ayumi said. “But still, it’s important to me. It’s been that way ever since I was little. Always after I’ve ordered I start having regrets—‘Oh, if only I had ordered the fried shrimp instead of a hamburger!’ Have you always been so cool?”

“Well, for various reasons, my family never ate out. Ever. As far back as I can remember, I never set foot in a restaurant, and I never had the experience until much later of choosing food from a menu and ordering what I wanted to eat. I just had to shut up and eat what I was served day after day. I wasn’t allowed to complain if the food was tasteless or if it didn’t fill me up or if I hated it. To tell you the truth, even now, I really don’t care what I eat, as long as it’s healthy”