While fixing dinner, he noticed that his appetite had disappeared. He had been quite hungry, but now he didn’t want to eat a thing. He covered the half-made food in plastic wrap and put it away in the refrigerator. Then he sat in a kitchen chair and drank his beer in silence while staring at the calendar on the wall. It was a free calendar from the bank containing photos of Mount Fuji. Tengo had never climbed Mount Fuji. He had never gone to the top of Tokyo Tower, either, or to the roof of a skyscraper. He had never been interested in high places. He wondered why not. Maybe it was because he had lived his whole life looking at the ground.

Komatsu’s prediction came true. The magazine containing Fuka-Eri’s Air Chrysalis nearly sold out the first day and soon disappeared from the bookstores. Literary magazines never sold out. Publishers continued to absorb the losses each month, knowing that the real purpose of these magazines was to find and publish fiction that would later be collected and sold in a hardcover edition—and to discover new young writers through the prize competitions. No one expected the magazines themselves to sell or be profitable. Which is why the news that a literary magazine had sold out in a single day drew as much attention as if snow had fallen in Okinawa (though its having sold out made no difference to its running in the red). Komatsu called to tell him the news.

“This is just great,” Komatsu said. “When a magazine sells out, people can’t wait to read the piece to find out what it’s like. So now the printers are going crazy trying to rush the book version of Air Chrysalis out—top priority! At this rate, it doesn’t matter whether the piece wins the Akutagawa Prize or not. Gotta sell ’em while they’re hot! And make no mistake about it, this is going to be a bestseller, I guarantee you. So, Tengo, you’d better start planning how you’re going to spend all your money.”

One Saturday-evening newspaper’s literary column discussed Air Chrysalis under a headline exclaiming that the magazine had sold out in one day. Several literary critics gave their opinions, which were generally favorable. The work, they claimed, displayed such stylistic power, keen sensitivity, and imaginative richness that it was hard to believe a seventeen-year-old girl had written it. It might even hint at new possibilities in literary style. One critic said, “The work is not entirely without a regrettable tendency for its more fantastical elements to sometimes lose touch with reality,” which was the only negative remark Tengo noticed. But even that critic softened his tone at the end, concluding, “I will be very interested to see what kind of works this young girl goes on to write.” No, there was nothing wrong with the wind direction for now.

Fuka-Eri called Tengo four days before the hardcover version of Air Chrysalis was due out. It was nine in the morning.

“Are you up,” she asked in her usual uninflected way, without a question mark.

“Of course I’m up,” Tengo said.

“Are you free this afternoon.”

“After four, any time.”

“Can you meet me.”

“I can,” Tengo said.

“Is that last place okay,” Fuka-Eri asked.

“Fine,” Tengo said. “I’ll go to the same café in Shinjuku at four o’clock. Oh, and your photos in the paper looked good. The ones from the press conference.”

“I wore the same sweater,” she said.

“It looked good on you,” Tengo said.

“Because you like my chest shape.”

“Maybe so. But more important in this case was making a good impression on people.”

Fuka-Eri kept silent at her end, as if she had just set something on a nearby shelf and was looking at it. Maybe she was thinking about the connection between the shape of her chest and making a good impression. The more he thought about it, the less Tengo himself could see the connection.

“Four o’clock,” Fuka-Eri said, and hung up.

.    .    .

Fuka-Eri was already waiting for Tengo when he walked into the usual café just before four. Next to her sat Professor Ebisuno. He was dressed in a pale gray long-sleeved shirt and dark gray pants. As before, his back was perfectly straight. He could have been a sculpture. Tengo was somewhat surprised to find the Professor with her. Komatsu had said that the Professor almost never “came down from the mountains.”

Tengo took a seat opposite them and ordered a cup of coffee. The rainy season hadn’t even started, but the weather felt like midsummer. Even so, Fuka-Eri sat there sipping a hot cup of cocoa. Professor Ebisuno had ordered iced coffee but hadn’t touched it yet. The ice had begun to melt, forming a clear layer on top.

“Thanks for coming,” the Professor said.

Tengo’s coffee arrived. He took a sip.

Professor Ebisuno spoke slowly, as if performing a test of his speaking voice: “Everything seems to be going as planned for now,” he said. “You made major contributions to the project. Truly major. The first thing I must do is thank you.”

“I’m grateful to hear you say that, but as you know, where this matter is concerned, officially I don’t exist,” Tengo said. “And officially nonexistent people can’t make contributions.”

Professor Ebisuno rubbed his hands over the table as if warming them.

“You needn’t be so modest,” the Professor said. “Whatever the public face of the matter may be, you do exist. If it hadn’t been for you, things would not have come this far or gone this smoothly. Thanks to you, Air Chrysalis became a much better work, deeper and richer than I ever imagined it could be. That Komatsu fellow really does have an eye for talent.”

Beside him, Fuka-Eri went on drinking her cocoa in silence, like a kitten licking milk. She wore a simple white short-sleeved blouse and a rather short navy-blue skirt. As always, she wore no jewelry. Her long, straight hair hid her face when she leaned forward to drink.

“I wanted to be sure to tell you this in person, which is why I troubled you to come here today,” Professor Ebisuno said.

“You really don’t have to worry about me, Professor. Rewriting Air Chrysalis was a very meaningful project for me.”

“I still think I need to thank you for it properly.”

“It really isn’t necessary,” Tengo said. “If you don’t mind, though, there’s something personal I want to ask you about Eri.”

“No, I don’t mind, if it’s a question I can answer.”

“I was just wondering if you are Eri’s legal guardian.”

The Professor shook his head. “No, I am not. I would like to become her legal guardian if possible, but as I told you before, I haven’t been able to make the slightest contact with her parents. I have no legal rights as far as she is concerned. But I took her in when she came to my house seven years ago, and I have been raising her ever since.”

“If that’s the case, then, wouldn’t the most normal thing be for you to want to keep her existence quiet? If she steps into the spotlight like this, it could stir up trouble. She’s a minor, after all …”

“Trouble? You mean if her parents sued to regain custody, or if she were forced to return to the commune?”

“Yes, I don’t quite get what’s involved here.”

“Your doubts are entirely justified. But the other side is not in any position to take conspicuous action, either. The more publicity Eri receives, the more attention they are going to attract if they attempt anything involving her. And attention is the one thing they most want to avoid.”

“By ‘they,’ I suppose you mean the Sakigake people?”

“Exactly,” the Professor said. “The Religious Juridical Person Sakigake. Don’t forget, I’ve devoted seven years of my life to raising Eri, and she herself clearly wants to go on living with us. Whatever situation her parents are in, the fact is they’ve ignored her for seven long years. There’s no way I can hand her over just like that.”