1Q84 (150 page)

Aomame put the book on the table next to her, unbuttoned her pajama top, and rested a hand on her belly. She could feel the heat being given off, almost like a dim orange light was there inside her. She switched off the reading lamp, and in the darkened bedroom stared hard at that spot, a luminescence almost too faint to see. But the light was definitely there—no mistake about it.
I am not alone. We are connected through this, by experiencing the same story simultaneously
.

And if that story is mine as well as Tengo’s, then
I
should be able to write the story line too. I should be able to comment on what’s there, maybe even rewrite part of it. I have to be able to. Most of all, I should be able to decide how it’s going to turn out. Right?

She considered the possibility.

Okay, but how do I do it?

Aomame didn’t know, though she knew it had to be possible. At this point it was a mere theory. In the silent darkness she pursed her lips and contemplated. This was critical, and she had to put her mind to it.

The two of us are a team. Like Tengo and Eriko Fukada made up a brilliant team when they created
Air Chrysalis,
Tengo and I are a team for this new story. Our wills—or maybe some undercurrent of our wills—are becoming one, creating this complex story and propelling it forward. This process probably takes place on some deep, invisible level. Even if we aren’t physically together, we are connected, as one. We create the story, and at the same time the story is what sets us in motion. Right?

But I have a question. A very important question
.

In this story that the two of us are writing, what could be the significance of this
little one?
What sort of role will it play?

Inside my womb is a subtle yet tangible heat that is emitting a faint orange light, exactly like an air chrysalis. Is my womb playing the role of an air chrysalis? Am I the
maza,
and the
little one
my
dohta?
Is the Little People’s will involved in all this—in my being pregnant with Tengo’s child, although we didn’t have sex? Have they cleverly usurped my womb to use as an air chrysalis? Using me as a device to extract another new
dohta
?

No. That’s not what’s going on
. She was positive about it.
That’s not possible
.

The Little People have lost their power. Leader said so. The popularity of the novel
Air Chrysalis
essentially blocked what they normally do. So they must not know about this pregnancy. But who—or what power—made this pregnancy possible? And why?

Aomame had no idea.

What she did know was that this
little one
was something she and Tengo had formed. That it was a precious, priceless life. She placed her hand on her abdomen again, pressing gently against the outline of that faint orange glow. She let the warmth she felt there slowly permeate her whole body.
I’ve got to protect this
little one,
at all costs
, she told herself.
Nobody is ever going to take it away from me, or harm it. The two of us have to keep it safe
. In the darkness, she made up her mind.

She went into the bedroom, took off her robe, and got into bed. She lay faceup, and once more touched her abdomen and felt the warmth there. Her feeling of unease was gone. She knew what had to be done.
I have to be stronger
, she told herself.
My mind and body have to be one
. Finally sleep came, silently, like smoke, and wrapped her in its embrace. Two moons were still floating in the sky, side by side.

Tengo’s father’s corpse was dressed in his neatly ironed
NHK
fee collector’s uniform and placed inside the simple coffin. Probably the cheapest coffin available, it was a sullen little casket that looked only slightly more sturdy than the boxes for castella cakes. The deceased was a small person, yet there was barely any room to spare. The casket was made of plywood, and had minimal ornamentation. “Is this casket all right?” the funeral director had asked, making sure. “It’s fine,” Tengo replied. This was the casket his father had chosen from the catalog, for which he had prepaid. If the deceased had no problem with it, then neither did Tengo.

Dressed in his
NHK
uniform, lying in the crude coffin, his father didn’t look dead. He looked like he was taking a nap on a work break and would soon get up, put on his cap, and go out to collect the rest of the fees. The uniform, with the
NHK
logo sewed into it, looked like a second skin. He was born in this uniform and would leave this world in the same way as he went up in flames. When Tengo actually saw him in it, he couldn’t imagine his father wearing anything else. Just like Wagner’s warriors on their funeral pyre could only be dressed in armor.

Tuesday morning, in front of Tengo and Kumi Adachi, the lid of the coffin was closed, nailed shut, then placed inside the hearse. It wasn’t much of a hearse, just the same businesslike Toyota van they had used to transport his body to the funeral home. This hearse, too, must have been the cheapest available.
Stately
was the last word you would use to describe it. And there was certainly no
Gotterdammerung
music as a send-off. But Tengo couldn’t find anything to complain about, and Kumi didn’t seem to have any problems with it either. What was more important was that a person had vanished from the face of the earth, and those left behind had to grasp what that entailed. The two of them got into a taxi and followed the black van.

They left the seaside road, drove a short way into the hills, and arrived at the crematorium. It was a relatively new building but utterly devoid of individuality. It seemed less a crematorium than some sort of factory or government office building. The garden was lovely and well tended, though the tall chimney rising majestically into the sky hinted that this was a facility with a special mission. The crematorium must not have been very busy that day, since the casket was taken right away. The casket was gently laid inside the incinerator, then the heavy lid was shut, like a submarine hatch. The old man in charge, wearing gloves, turned and bowed to Tengo, then hit the ignition switch. Kumi turned to the closed lid and put her hands together in prayer, and Tengo followed suit.

During the hourlong cremation, Tengo and Kumi waited in the building’s lounge. Kumi bought two cans of hot coffee from the vending machine and they silently drank them as they sat side by side on a bench, facing a large picture window. Outside was a spacious lawn, dried up now in the winter, and leafless trees. Two black birds were on one of the branches. Tengo didn’t know what kind of bird they were. They had long tails, and though small, they gave loud, sharp squawks. When they called out, their tails stood on end. Above the trees was the broad, cloudless, blue winter sky. Beneath her cream-colored duffle coat, Kumi wore a short black dress. Tengo wore a black crew-neck sweater under a dark gray herringbone jacket. His shoes were dark brown loafers. It was the most formal outfit he owned.

“My father was cremated here too,” Kumi said. “All the people who attended were smoking like crazy. There was a cloud of smoke hanging up near the ceiling. Maybe to be expected, since they were all fishermen.”

Tengo pictured it. A gaggle of sunburned men, uncomfortable in their dark suits, puffing away, mourning a man who had died of lung cancer. Now, though, Tengo and Kumi were the only ones in the lounge. It was quiet all around. Other than an occasional chirp from the birds in the trees, nothing else broke the silence—no music, no voices. Peaceful sunlight poured in through the picture window and formed a taciturn puddle at their feet. Time was flowing leisurely, like a river approaching an estuary.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Tengo said after the long silence.

Kumi reached out and put her hand on top of his. “It’s hard doing it alone. Better to have somebody with you.”

“You may be right,” Tengo admitted.

“It’s a terrible thing when a person dies, whatever the circumstances. A hole opens up in the world, and we need to pay the proper respects. If we don’t, the hole will never be filled in again.”

Tengo nodded.

“The hole can’t be left open,” Kumi went on, “or somebody might fall in.”

“But in some cases the dead person has secrets,” Tengo said. “And when the hole’s filled in, those secrets are never known.”

“I think that’s necessary too.”

“How come?”

“Certain secrets can’t be left behind.”

“Why not?”

Kumi let go of his hand and looked at him right in the face. “There’s something about those secrets that only the deceased person can rightly understand. Something that can’t be explained, no matter how hard you try. They’re what the dead person has to take with him to his grave. Like a valuable piece of luggage.”

Tengo silently looked down at the puddle of light at his feet. The linoleum floor shone dully. In front of him were his worn loafers and Kumi’s simple black pumps. They were right in front of him but looked miles away.

“There must be things about you, too, Tengo, that you can’t explain to others?”

“Could be,” Tengo replied.

Kumi didn’t say anything, and crossed her slim black-stockinged legs.

“You told me you died once before, didn’t you?” Tengo asked.

“Um. I did die once. On a lonely night when a cold rain was falling.”

“Do you remember it?”

“I think so. I’ve dreamt about it for a long time. A very realistic dream, always exactly the same. So I have to believe that it happened.”

“Was it like reincarnation?”

“Reincarnation?”

“Where you’re reborn. Transmigration.”

Kumi gave it some thought. “I wonder. Maybe it was. Or maybe it wasn’t.”

“After you died, were you cremated like this?”

Kumi shook her head. “I don’t remember that far, since that would be after I died. What I remember is the
moment I died
. Someone was strangling me. A man I had never seen before.”

“Do you recall his face?”

“Of course. I saw him many times in my dreams. If I ran across him on the street, I would recognize him right away.”

“What would you do if you saw him in real life?”

Kumi rubbed her nose, as if checking to see if it was still there. “I’ve thought about that too—what I would do if I ran across him on the street. Maybe I would run away. Or maybe I would follow him so he wouldn’t notice me. Unless I was actually put in that situation, I don’t know what I would do.”

“If you followed him, what would you do then?”

“I don’t know. But maybe that man holds some vital secret about me. And if I play my cards right, he might reveal it to me.”

“What kind of secret?”

“For instance, the reason why
I’m here
.”

“But that guy might kill you again.”

“Maybe,” Kumi said, lips slightly pursed. “I know it’s dangerous. It might be better to just run away. But still the secret draws me in. Like when there’s a dark entrance and cats can’t help but peep in.”

The cremation was over, and Tengo and Kumi, following tradition, picked up select bones from his father’s remains and placed them in a small urn. The urn was handed to Tengo. He had no idea what he should do with it, though he knew he couldn’t just abandon it. So he clutched the vase in his hands as he and Kumi took a taxi to the station.

“I will take care of any remaining details,” Kumi told him in the cab. After a moment she added, “If you would like, I could see about interring the bones, too.”

Tengo was startled. “You can do that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Kumi said. “There are some funerals where not a single person from the family attends.”

“That would be a big help,” Tengo said. And he handed her the urn, feeling a little guilty, but honestly relieved.
I will probably never see these bones again
, he thought.
All that is left will be memories, and eventually they, too, will vanish like dust
.

“I’m from here, so I think I can take care of it. It’s better if you go back to Tokyo right away. We all like you a lot here, but this isn’t a place you should stay for long.”

I’m leaving the cat town
, Tengo mused.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” Tengo said.

“Tengo, do you mind if I give you some advice? I know I have no right to do so.”

“Of course.”

“Your father may have had a secret that he took with him to the other side. And that seems to be causing you confusion. I think I can understand how you feel. But you shouldn’t peep anymore into that dark entrance. Leave that up to cats. If you keep doing so, you will never go anywhere. Better to think about the future.”

“The hole has to be closed up,” Tengo said.

“Exactly,” Kumi said. “The owl says the same thing. Do you remember the owl?”

“Of course.”

The owl is the guardian deity of the woods, knows all, and gives us the wisdom of the night
.

“Is that owl still hooting in the woods?”

“The owl’s not going anywhere,” Kumi replied. “He’ll be there for a long time.”

Kumi saw him off on the train to Tateyama—as though she needed to make sure, with her own eyes, that he had boarded the train and left town. She stood on the platform and kept waving to him, until he couldn’t see her anymore.

It was seven p.m. on Tuesday when he got back to his apartment in Koenji. Tengo turned on the lights, sat down at his dining table, and looked around the room. The place looked the same as when he had left early the previous morning. The curtains were closed tight, and there was a printout of the story he was writing on top of his desk. Six neatly sharpened pencils in a pencil holder, clean dishes still in the rack in the sink. Time was silently ticking by, the calendar on the wall indicating that this was the final month of the year. The room seemed even more
silent
than ever. A little
too
silent. Something excessive seemed included in that silence. Though maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was because he had just witnessed a person vanishing right before his eyes. The hole in the world might not yet be fully closed up.