After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Her exit was blocked
. 
Aomame untwisted her face and carefully observed her surroundings. She looked 
up at the Esso billboard again. Gas hose in hand, curly tail held high, the tiger looked 
out from the frame with a sly, knowing glance and a happy smile—a smile so utterly 
joyful it seemed to say that any greater satisfaction was an impossibility. 
Yes, of course
, Aomame thought. 
She had known it from the start. Leader had said so before she killed him in the 
Hotel Okura suite: there was no way to return from 1Q84 to 1984. The door to this 
world only opened in one direction. 
Even so, Aomame needed to confirm this fact with her own two eyes. It was her 
nature. And now she had confirmed it. It was all over. The proof was finished. QED. 
Aomame leaned against the metal barrier and looked up at the sky. The weather 
was perfect. Several long, narrow clouds traced straight lines across a deep blue 
background. She could view the sky far into the distance. It didn’t seem like a city’s 
sky. But there were no moons to be seen. Where could the moons have gone? 
Oh 
well, a moon is a moon, and I am me. Each of us has a different way to live. We each 
have our own plans
. 
If she had been Faye Dunaway, at this point Aomame would have taken out a slim 
cigarette and coolly lit it with a cigarette lighter, elegantly narrowing her eyes. But 
Aomame did not smoke, and she had neither cigarettes nor a lighter with her. About 
all she had in her bag was a box of lemon cough drops. That plus a steel 9mm 
automatic pistol and a specially made ice pick she had used to stab a number of men 
in the back of the neck. Both might be somewhat more lethal than cigarettes. 
She looked at the backed-up line of cars. Inside their vehicles, people were staring 
intently at her. Of course. Not often did people have the chance to see an ordinary 
citizen walking along the Metropolitan Expressway, and especially not a young 

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woman, wearing a miniskirt and spike heels, with green sunglasses and a smile on her 
lips. Anyone who did 
not
look must have something wrong with them. 
The majority of vehicles stuck on the roadway were large trucks. They were 
bringing all sorts of goods from all sorts of places to Tokyo. The drivers had probably 
been at the wheel all night. And now they were stuck in this fated morning traffic jam. 
They were bored, fed up, and tired. All they wanted was to take a bath, shave, lie 
down, and go to sleep. They stared blankly at Aomame, as if they were looking at 
some unfamiliar animal. They were too tired to engage with her positively. 
Wedged between these many trucks, like a graceful antelope caught in a herd of 
clumsy rhinoceros, was a silver Mercedes-Benz coupe. Its beautiful body, looking 
fresh from the factory, reflected the newly risen morning sun. Its hubcaps had been 
color coordinated with the body. The car was an import, with its steering wheel on the 
left side. The driver’s window was down, and a well-dressed middle-aged woman was 
looking straight at Aomame. Givenchy sunglasses. Hands visible on the steering 
wheel. Rings glittering. 
The woman had a kind face, and she seemed to be worried about Aomame. She 
was obviously wondering what a well-dressed young woman was doing out on the 
roadway of the Metropolitan Expressway and what could have caused her to be there. 
She looked ready to call out to Aomame. If asked, she might drive her anywhere she 
wanted to go. 
Aomame took off her Ray-Bans and put them in the pocket of her suit top. 
Squinting in the bright morning light, she spent some time rubbing the dents left on 
either side of her nose by the glasses. She ran her tongue across her dry lips and 
caught the faint taste of lipstick. She looked up at the clear sky and checked the 
ground under her feet once. 
She opened her shoulder bag and slowly drew out the Heckler & Koch, dropping 
the bag at her feet to free up her hands. With her left hand, she released the safety 
catch and pulled back the slide, sending a round into the chamber. She performed the 
sequence of movements rapidly and precisely with a few satisfying clicks. She lightly 
shook the gun in her hand, testing its weight. The gun itself weighed 480 grams, to 
which the weight of seven bullets was added. 
No question, it’s loaded
. She could tell 
by the difference in weight. 
A smile still played around Aomame’s straight lips. People were focused on her 
actions. No one was surprised to see her pull a gun out of her bag—or at least they did 
not show surprise on their faces. Maybe they didn’t believe it was a real gun. 
It is, 
though
, Aomame told them mentally. 
Next she turned the gun upward and thrust the muzzle into her mouth. Now it was 
aimed directly at her cerebrum—the gray labyrinth where consciousness resided. 
The words of a prayer came to her automatically, with no need to think. She 
intoned them quickly with the muzzle of the gun still in her mouth. 
Nobody can hear 
what I am saying, I’m sure. But so what? As long as God can hear me
. When a little 
girl, Aomame could hardly understand the phrases she was reciting, but the words had 
permeated her to the core. She had to be sure to recite them before her school lunches, 
all by herself, but in a loud voice, unconcerned about the curious stares and scornful 
laughter of the other children. 
The important thing is that God is watching you. No 
one can avoid his gaze
. 

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505
Big Brother is watching you. 
O Lord in Heaven, may Thy name be praised in utmost purity for ever and ever, and 
may Thy kingdom come to us. Please forgive our many sins, and bestow Thy 
blessings upon our humble pathways. Amen. 
The nice-looking middle-aged lady at the wheel of the brand-new Mercedes-Benz 
was still looking straight at Aomame. Like the other people watching, she seemed 
unable to grasp the meaning of the gun that Aomame was holding. 
If she understood, 
she would have to look away from me
, Aomame thought. 
If she sees my brain splatter 
in all directions, she probably won’t be able to eat her lunch today—or her dinner. I 
won’t blame you if you look the other way
, Aomame said to her wordlessly. 
I’m not 
over here brushing my teeth. I’ve got this German-made automatic pistol, a Heckler 
& Koch, shoved in my mouth. I’ve said my prayers. You should know what that 
means
. 
Here is my advice to you—important advice. Don’t look at anything. Just drive 
your brand-new Mercedes-Benz straight home—your beautiful home, where your 
precious husband and children are waiting—and go on living your peaceful life. This 
is not something that someone like you should see. This is an ugly pistol, a real gun, 
loaded with seven ugly 9mm bullets. And, as Anton Chekhov said, once a gun appears 
in a story, it has to be fired at some point. That is what we mean by “a story.”
But the middle-aged lady would not look away from Aomame. Resigned, Aomame 
gave her head a little shake. 
Sorry, but I can’t wait any longer. My time is up. Let’s 
get the show on the road
. 
Put a tiger in your tank. 
“Ho ho,” said the keeper of the beat. 
“Ho ho,” the six other Little People joined in. 
“Tengo!” said Aomame, and started to squeeze the trigger. 

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