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But this isn’t their God
, she decided.
It’s
my
God. This is a God I have found
through sacrificing my own life, through my flesh being cut, my skin ripped off, my
blood sucked away, my nails torn, all my time and hopes and memories being stolen
from me. This is not a God with a form. No white clothes, no long beard. This God
has no doctrine, no scripture, no precepts. No reward, no punishment. This God
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doesn’t give, and doesn’t take away. There is no heaven up in the sky, no hell down
below. When it’s hot, and when it’s cold, God is simply
there.
From time to time, she would recall Leader’s final words before he died. She could
never forget his rich baritone. Just like she could never forget the feeling of stabbing a
needle into the back of his neck.
Where there is light, there must be shadow, where there is shadow, there must be
light. There is no shadow without light and no light without shadow…. We do not
know if the so-called Little People are good or evil. This is, in a sense, something that
surpasses our understanding and our definitions. We have lived with them since long,
long ago—from a time before good and evil even existed, when people’s minds were
still benighted.
Are God and the Little People opposites? Or two sides of the same thing?
Aomame had no idea. What she did know was that she had to protect this
little one
inside her. And to do so it became necessary to somehow believe in God. Or to
recognize the fact that she believed in God.
Aomame pondered the idea of God. God has no form, yet is able to take on any
form. The image she had was of a streamlined Mercedes coupe, a brand-new car just
delivered from the dealer. An elegant, middle-aged woman coming out of that car, in
the middle of an expressway running through the city, offering her beautiful spring
coat to the naked Aomame. To protect her from the chilly wind, and people’s rude
stares. And then, without a word, getting back in her silver coupe. The woman
knew—that Aomame had a baby within her. That Aomame had to be protected.
. . .
She began to have a new dream. In the dream she is imprisoned in a white room. A
small, cube-shaped room, no windows, a single door. A plain bed, no frills, on which
she lies sleeping, faceup. A light hanging over the bed illuminates her hugely swollen
belly. It doesn’t look like her own body, but it is definitely a part of Aomame’s flesh.
It is getting close to the time for the baby’s delivery.
The room is guarded by Buzzcut and Ponytail. The duo is dead set against making
any more errors. They made a mistake once and they need to recover their reputation.
Their assignment is to make sure that Aomame does not leave this room, and that no
one enters. They wait for the birth of the
little one
. It seems they plan to snatch it
away from Aomame the moment it is born.
Aomame calls out, desperately seeking help. But this room is built of special
material. The walls, floor, and ceiling immediately absorb any sound. She can’t even
hear her own scream. Aomame prays that the woman in the Mercedes coupe will
come and rescue her—her and the
little one
. But her voice is sucked, in vain, into the
walls of that white room.
The
little one
absorbs nourishment through its umbilical cord, and is growing
larger by the minute. Hoping to break out of that lukewarm darkness, it kicks against
the walls of her womb. Hoping for light, and freedom.
Tall Ponytail sits in a chair beside the door, hands in his lap, staring at a point in
space. Perhaps a small, dense cloud is floating there. Buzzcut stands next to the bed.
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They wear the same dark suits as before. Buzzcut raises his arm from time to time to
glance at his watch, like somebody waiting for an important train to pull into the
station.
Aomame can’t move her arms and legs. It doesn’t feel like she is tied down, but
still she can’t move. There is no feeling in her fingers. She has a premonition that her
labor pains are about to begin. Like that fateful train drawing nearer to the station,
exactly on schedule. She can hear the slight vibration of the rails as it gets closer.
And then she wakes up.
She took a shower to wash off the sweat and changed clothes. She tossed her
sweaty clothes into the washer. There was no way she wanted to have this dream, but
it came upon her anyway. The details sometimes changed, but the place and outcome
were always the same: the cube-shaped white room, the approaching labor pains, the
duo in their bland, dark suits.
The two men knew she was pregnant with the
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