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by Haruki Murakami

  When they reached the station, she let go of his hand and bought a ticket to Shinano-machi from the machine.

  “Don’t worry about the press conference,” Fuka-Eri said.

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Even if you don’t worry, I can do it okay.”

  “I know that,” Tengo said. “I’m not the least bit worried. I’m sure it will be okay.”

  Without speaking, Fuka-Eri disappeared through the ticket gate into the crowd.

  After leaving Fuka-Eri, Tengo went to a little bar near the Kinokuniya bookstore and ordered a gin and tonic. This was a bar he would go to now and then. He liked the old-fashioned decor and the fact that they had no music playing. He sat alone at the bar and stared at his left hand for a while, thinking nothing in particular. This was the hand that Fuka-Eri had been holding. It still retained her touch. He thought about her chest, its beautiful curves. The shape was so perfect it had almost no sexual meaning.

  As he thought about these things, Tengo found himself wanting to talk with his older girlfriend on the telephone—to talk about anything at all: her complaints about child raising, the approval rating of the Nakasone government, it didn’t matter. He just wanted to hear her voice. If possible, he wanted to meet her somewhere right away and have sex with her. But calling her at home was out of the question. Her husband might answer. One of her children might answer. He never did the phoning. That was one of the rules they had established.

  Tengo ordered another gin and tonic, and while he waited for it he imagined himself in a little boat shooting the rapids. On the phone Komatsu had said, “When we go over the falls, let’s do it together in grand style!” But could Tengo take him at his word? Wouldn’t Komatsu leap onto a handy boulder just before they reached the falls? “Sorry, Tengo,” he would say, “but I just remembered some business I have to take care of. I’ll leave the rest of this to you.” And the only one to go over the falls in style would be Tengo himself. It was not inconceivable. Indeed, it was all too conceivable.

  . . .

  He went home, went to bed, and dreamed. He hadn’t had such a vivid dream in a very long time. He was a tiny piece in a gigantic puzzle. But instead of having one fixed shape, his shape kept changing. And so—of course—he couldn’t fit anywhere. As he tried to sort out where he belonged, he was also given a set amount of time to gather the scattered pages of the timpani section of a score. A strong wind swept the pages in all directions. He went around picking up one page at a time. He had to check the page numbers and arrange them in order as his body changed shape like an amoeba. The situation was out of control. Eventually Fuka-Eri came along and grabbed his left hand. Tengo’s shape stopped changing. The wind suddenly died and stopped scattering the pages of the score. “What a relief!” Tengo thought, but in that instant his time began to run out. “This is the end,” Fuka-Eri informed him in a whisper. One sentence, as always. Time stopped, and the world ended. The earth ground slowly to a halt, and all sound and light vanished.

  When he woke up the next day, the world was still there, and things were already moving forward, like the great karmic wheel of Indian mythology that kills every living thing in its path.

  CHAPTER 17

  Aomame

  WHETHER WE ARE HAPPY OR UNHAPPY

  Aomame stepped out onto her balcony again the next night to find that there were still two moons in the sky. The big one was the normal moon. It wore a mysterious white coating, as if it had just burrowed its way there through a mountain of ash, but aside from that it was the same old moon she was used to seeing, the moon that Neil Armstrong marked with a first small step but giant leap in that hot summer of 1969. Hanging next to it was a small, green, lopsided moon, nestled shyly by the big moon like an inferior child.

  There must be something wrong with my mind, Aomame thought. There has always been only one moon, and there should only be one now. If the number of moons had suddenly increased to two, it should have caused some actual changes to life on earth. The tides, say, should have been seriously altered, and everyone would be talking about it. I couldn’t possibly have failed to notice it until now. This is different from just happening to miss some articles in the paper.

  Or is it really so different? Can I declare that with one hundred percent certainty?

  Aomame scowled for a time. Strange things keep happening around me these days. The world is moving ahead on its own without my being aware of it, as if we’re playing a game in which everybody else can move only when I have my eyes closed. Then it might not be so strange for there to be two moons hanging in the sky side by side. Perhaps, at some point when my mind was sleeping, the little one happened along from somewhere in space and decided to settle into the earth’s gravitational field, looking like a distant cousin of the moon.

  Police officers were issued new uniforms and new pistols. The police and a radical group staged a wild gun battle in the mountains of Yamanashi. These things occurred without my being aware of them. There was also a news report that the U.S. and the USSR jointly constructed a moon base. Could there be some connection between that and the increase in the number of moons? Aomame probed her memory to see if there had been an article about the new moon in the compact edition of the newspaper she read in the library, but could think of nothing.

  She wished that she could ask someone about these things, but she had no idea whom to ask nor how to go about it. Would it be all right for her just to say, “Hey, I think there are two moons in the sky. Do you mind having a look for me?” No, it would be a stupid question under any circumstances. If the number of moons had in fact increased to two, it would be strange for her not to know that. If there was still only the one moon, people would think she had gone crazy.

  She lowered herself into the aluminum chair, resting her feet on the balcony railing. She thought of ten different ways of asking the question, and some she even tried out loud, but they all sounded as stupid as the first. Oh, what the hell. The whole situation defies common sense. There’s no way to come up with a sensible question about it, obviously.

  She decided to shelve the question of the second moon for the time being. I’ll just wait and see what happens. It’s not causing me any practical problems for now. And maybe at some point I’ll notice that it disappeared when I wasn’t looking.

  She went to the sports club in Hiroo the following afternoon, taught two martial arts classes, and had one private lesson. Stopping by the front desk, she was surprised to find a message for her from the dowager in Azabu, asking her to call when she was free.

  Tamaru answered the phone as always. He explained that the dowager wondered if Aomame could come to the house the following day if possible. She wanted the usual program, to be followed by a light supper.

  Aomame said she could come after four and that she would be delighted to join the dowager for supper. Tamaru confirmed the appointment, but before he could hang up, Aomame asked him if he had seen the moon lately.

  “The moon?” Tamaru asked. “You mean the moon—up in the sky?”

  “Yes, the moon.”

  “I can’t say I recall consciously looking at it recently. Is something going on with the moon?”

  “Nothing special,” Aomame said. “All right, see you after four tomorrow.”

  Tamaru hesitated a moment before hanging up.

  There were two moons again that night, both two days past full. Aomame had a glass of brandy in one hand as she stared at the pair of moons, big and small, as if at an unsolvable puzzle. The more she looked, the more enigmatic the combination felt to her. If only she could ask the moon directly, “How did you suddenly come by this little green companion of yours?”! But the moon would not favor her with a reply.

  The moon had been observing the earth close-up longer than anyone. It must have witnessed all of the phenomena occurring—and all of the acts carried out—on this earth. But the moon remained silent; it told no stories. All it did was embrace the heavy past with cool, measured detachment. On t
he moon there was neither air nor wind. Its vacuum was perfect for preserving memories unscathed. No one could unlock the heart of the moon. Aomame raised her glass to the moon and asked, “Have you gone to bed with someone in your arms lately?”

  The moon did not answer.

  “Do you have any friends?” she asked.

  The moon did not answer.

  “Don’t you get tired of always playing it cool?”

  The moon did not answer.

  Tamaru met her at the front door as always. “I saw the moon last night!” he said immediately.

  “Oh, really?” Aomame said.

  “Thanks to you, I started wondering about it. I hadn’t stopped and looked at the moon in quite a while. It’s nice. Very calming.”

  “Were you with a lover?”

  “Exactly,” Tamaru said, tapping the side of his nose. “Is something up with the moon?”

  “Not at all,” Aomame said, then added cautiously, “It’s just that, I don’t know, I’ve been concerned about the moon lately.”

  “For no reason at all?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Aomame said.

  Tamaru nodded in silence. He seemed to be drawing his own conclusions. This man did not trust things that lacked reasons. Instead of pursuing the matter, however, he led Aomame to the sunroom. The dowager was there, dressed in a jersey top and bottom for exercise, seated in her reading chair and listening to John Dowland’s instrumental piece “Lachrimae” while reading a book. This was one of her favorite pieces of music. Aomame had heard it many times and knew the melody.

  “Sorry for the short notice,” the dowager said. “This time slot just happened to open up yesterday.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” Aomame said.

  Tamaru carried in a tray holding a pot of herbal tea and proceeded to fill two elegant cups. He closed the door on his way out, leaving the two women alone. They drank their tea in silence, listening to Dowland and looking at the blaze of azalea blossoms in the garden. Whenever she came here, Aomame felt she was in another world. The air was heavy, and time had its own special way of flowing.

  The dowager said, “Often when I listen to this music, I’m struck by mysterious emotions with regard to time.” She seemed almost to have read Aomame’s mind. “To think that people four hundred years ago were listening to the same music we’re hearing now! Doesn’t it make you feel strange?”

  “It does,” Aomame said, “but come to think of it, those people four hundred years ago were looking at the same moon we see.”

  The dowager looked at Aomame with a hint of surprise. Then she nodded. “You’re quite right about that. Looking at it that way, I guess there’s nothing mysterious about people listening to the same music four hundred years apart.”

  “Perhaps I should have said almost the same moon,” Aomame said, looking at the dowager. Her remark seemed to have made no impression on the older woman.

  “The performance on this CD uses period instruments,” the dowager said, “exactly as it was written at the time, so the music sounds pretty much as it did back then. It’s like the moon.”

  Aomame said, “Even if things were the same, people’s perception of them might have been very different back then. The darkness of night was probably deeper then, so the moon must have been that much bigger and brighter. And of course people didn’t have records or tapes or CDs. They couldn’t hear proper performances of music anytime they liked: it was always something special.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” the dowager said. “Things are so convenient for us these days, our perceptions are probably that much duller. Even if it’s the same moon hanging in the sky, we may be looking at something quite different. Four hundred years ago, we might have had richer spirits that were closer to nature.”

  “It was a cruel world, though. More than half of all children died before they could reach maturity, thanks to chronic epidemics and malnutrition. People dropped like flies from polio and tuberculosis and smallpox and measles. There probably weren’t very many people who lived past forty. Women bore so many children, they became toothless old hags by the time they were in their thirties. People often had to resort to violence to survive. Tiny children were forced to do such heavy labor that their bones became deformed, and little girls were forced to become prostitutes on a daily basis. Little boys, too, I suspect. Most people led minimal lives in worlds that had nothing to do with richness of perception or spirit. City streets were full of cripples and beggars and criminals. Only a small fraction of the population could gaze at the moon with deep feeling or enjoy a Shakespeare play or listen to the beautiful music of Dowland.”

  The dowager smiled. “What an interesting person you are!”

  Aomame said, “I’m a very ordinary human being. I just happen to like reading books. Especially history books.”

  “I like history books too. They teach us that we’re basically the same, whether now or in the old days. There may be a few differences in clothing and lifestyle, but there’s not that much difference in what we think and do. Human beings are ultimately nothing but carriers—passageways—for genes. They ride us into the ground like racehorses from generation to generation. Genes don’t think about what constitutes good or evil. They don’t care whether we are happy or unhappy. We’re just a means to an end for them. The only thing they think about is what is most efficient for them.”

  “In spite of that, we can’t help but think about what is good and what is evil. Is that what you’re saying?”

  The dowager nodded. “Exactly. People have to think about those things. But genes are what control the basis for how we live. Naturally, a contradiction arises,” she said with a smile.

  Their conversation about history ended there. They drank the rest of their herbal tea and proceeded with martial arts training.

  That day they shared a simple dinner in the dowager’s home.

  “A simple meal is all I can offer you, if that’s all right,” the dowager said.

  “That’s fine with me,” Aomame said.

  Tamaru rolled their meal in on a wagon. A professional chef had doubtless prepared the food, but it was Tamaru’s job to serve it. He plucked the bottle of white wine from its ice bucket and poured with practiced movements. The dowager and Aomame both tasted the wine. It had a lovely bouquet and was perfectly chilled. The dinner consisted of boiled white asparagus, salade Niçoise, a crabmeat omelet, and rolls and butter, nothing more. All the ingredients were fresh and delicious, and the portions were moderate. The dowager always ate small amounts of food. She used her knife and fork elegantly, bringing one tiny bite after another to her mouth like a small bird. Tamaru stayed in the farthest corner of the room throughout the meal. Aomame was always amazed how such a powerfully built man could obscure his own presence for such a long time.

  The two women spoke only in brief snatches during the meal, concentrating instead on what they ate. Music played at low volume—a Haydn cello concerto. This was another of the dowager’s favorites.

  After the dishes were taken away, a coffeepot arrived. Tamaru poured, and as he backed away, the dowager turned to him with a finger raised.

  “Thank you, Tamaru. That will be all.”

  Tamaru nodded respectfully and left the room, his footsteps silent as always. The door closed quietly behind him. While the two women drank their coffee, the music ended and a new silence came to the room.

  “You and I trust each other, wouldn’t you say?” the dowager said, looking straight at Aomame.

  Aomame agreed—succinctly, but without reservation.

  “We share some important secrets,” the dowager said. “We have put our fates in each other’s hands.”

  Aomame nodded silently.

  This was the room in which Aomame first confessed her secret to the dowager. Aomame remembered the day clearly. She had known that someday she would have to share the burden she carried in her heart with someone. She could keep it locked up inside herself only so long, an
d already she was reaching her limit. And so, when the dowager said something to draw her out, Aomame had flung open the door.

  She told the dowager how her best friend had lost her mental balance after two years of physical violence from her husband and, unable to flee from him, in agony, she had committed suicide. Aomame allowed nearly a year to pass before concocting an excuse to visit the man’s house. There, following an elaborate plan of her own devising, she killed him with a single needle thrust to the back of the neck. It caused no bleeding and left no visible wound. His death was treated simply as the result of illness. No one had any suspicions. Aomame felt that she had done nothing wrong, she told the dowager, either then or now. Nor did she feel any pangs of conscience, though this fact did nothing to lessen the burden of having purposely taken the life of a human being.

  The dowager had listened attentively to Aomame’s long confession, offering no comment even when Aomame occasionally faltered in her detailed account. When Aomame finished her story, the dowager asked for clarification on a few particulars. Then she reached over and firmly grasped Aomame’s hand for a very long time.

  “What you did was right,” she said, speaking slowly and with conviction. “If he had lived, he eventually would have done the same kind of thing to other women. Men like that always find victims. They’re made to do it over and over. You severed the evil at the root. Rest assured, it was not mere personal vengeance.”

  Aomame buried her face in her hands and cried. She was crying for Tamaki. The dowager found a handkerchief and wiped her tears.

  “This is a strange coincidence,” the dowager said in a low but resolute voice, “but I also once made a man vanish for almost exactly the same reason.”

  Aomame raised her head and looked at the dowager. She did not know what to say. What could she be talking about?