After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

If there’s any guy crazy enough to attack me, I’m going 
to show him the end of the world—close up. I’m going to let him see the kingdom 
come with his own eyes. I’m going to send him straight to the Southern Hemisphere 
and let the ashes of death rain all over him and the kangaroos and the wallabies
. 
. . . 
As she pondered the coming of the kingdom, Aomame sat at the bar taking little sips 
of her Tom Collins. She would glance at her wristwatch every now and then, 
pretending that she was here to meet someone, but in fact she had made no such 
arrangement. She was simply keeping an eye out for a suitable man among the bar’s 
arriving patrons. Her watch said eight thirty. She wore a pale blue blouse beneath a 
dark brown Calvin Klein jacket and a navy-blue miniskirt. Her handmade ice pick 
was not with her today. It was resting peacefully, wrapped in a towel in her dresser 
drawer at home. 
This was a well-known singles bar in the Roppongi entertainment district. Single 
men came here on the prowl for single women—or vice versa. A lot of them were 
foreigners. The bar was meant to look like a place where Hemingway might have 
hung out in the Bahamas. A stuffed swordfish hung on the wall, and fishing nets 
dangled from the ceiling. There were lots of photographs of people posing with giant 
fish they had caught, and there was a portrait of Hemingway. Happy Papa 
Hemingway. The people who came here were apparently not concerned that the 
author later suffered from alcoholism and killed himself with a hunting rifle. 
Several men approached Aomame that evening, but none she liked. A pair of 
typically footloose college students invited her to join them, but she couldn’t be 
bothered to respond. To a thirtyish company employee with creepy eyes she said she 
was here to meet someone and turned him down flat. She just didn’t like young men. 

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They were so aggressive and self-confident, but they had nothing to talk about, and 
whatever they had to say was boring. In bed, they went at it like animals and had no 
clue about the true enjoyment of sex. She liked those slightly tired middle-aged men, 
preferably in the early stages of baldness. They should be clean and free of any hint of 
vulgarity. And they had to have well-shaped heads. Such men were not easy to find, 
which meant that she had to be willing to compromise. 
Scanning the room, Aomame released a silent sigh. Why were there so damn few 
“suitable men” around? She thought about Sean Connery. Just imagining the shape of 
his head, she felt a dull throbbing deep inside. 
If Sean Connery were to suddenly pop 
up here, I would do anything to make him mine. Of course, there’s no way in hell that 
Sean Connery is going to show his face in a Roppongi fake Bahamas singles bar
. 
On the bar’s big wall television, Queen was performing. Aomame didn’t much like 
Queen’s music. She tried her best not to look in that direction. She also tried hard not 
to listen to the music coming from the speakers. After the Queen video ended, ABBA 
came on. 
Oh, no. Something tells me this is going to be an awful night
. 
. . . 
Aomame had met the dowager of Willow House at the sports club where she worked. 
The woman was enrolled in Aomame’s self-defense class, the short-lived radical one 
that emphasized attacking the doll. She was a small woman, the oldest member of the 
class, but her movements were light and her kicks sharp. 
In a tight situation, I’m sure 
she could kick her opponent in the balls without the slightest hesitation. She never 
speaks more than necessary, and when she does speak she never beats around the 
bush
. Aomame liked that about her. “At my age, there’s no special need for self-
defense,” the woman said to Aomame with a dignified smile after class. 
“Age has nothing to do with it,” Aomame snapped back. “It’s a question of how 
you live your life. The important thing is to adopt a stance of always being deadly 
serious about protecting yourself. You can’t go anywhere if you just resign yourself to 
being attacked. A state of chronic powerlessness eats away at a person.” 
The dowager said nothing for a while, looking Aomame in the eye. Either 
Aomame’s words or her tone of voice seemed to have made a strong impression on 
her. She nodded gravely. “You’re right. You are absolutely right,” she said. “You 
have obviously done some solid thinking about this.” 
A few days later, Aomame received an envelope. It had been left at the club’s front 
desk for her. Inside Aomame found a short, beautifully penned note containing the 
dowager’s address and telephone number. “I know you must be very busy,” it said, 
“but I would appreciate hearing from you sometime when you are free.” 
A man answered the phone—a secretary, it seemed. When Aomame gave her 
name, he switched her to an extension without a word. The dowager came on the line 
and thanked her for calling. “If it’s not too much bother, I’d like to invite you out for 
a meal,” she said. “I’d like to have a nice, long talk with you, just the two of us.” 
“With pleasure,” Aomame said. 
“How would tomorrow night be for you?” 
Aomame had no problem with that, but she had to wonder what this elegant older 
woman could possibly want to speak about with someone like her. 

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The two had dinner at a French restaurant in a quiet section of Azabu. The 
dowager had been coming here for a long time, it seemed. They showed her to one of 
the better tables in the back, and she apparently knew the aging waiter who provided 
them with attentive service. She wore a beautifully cut dress of unfigured pale green 
cloth (perhaps a 1960s Givenchy) and a jade necklace. Midway through the meal, the 
manager appeared and offered her his respectful greetings. Vegetarian cuisine 
occupied much of the menu, and the flavors were elegant and simple. By coincidence, 
the soup of the day was green pea soup, as if in honor of Aomame. The dowager had 
a glass of Chablis, and Aomame kept her company. The wine was just as elegant and 
simple as the food. Aomame ordered a grilled cut of white fish. The dowager took 
only vegetables. Her manner of eating the vegetables was beautiful, like a work of art. 
“When you get to be my age, you can stay alive eating very little,” she said. “Of the 
finest food possible,” she added, half in jest. 
She wanted Aomame to become her personal trainer, instructing her in martial arts 
at her home two or three days a week. Also, if possible, she wanted Aomame to help 
her with muscle stretching. 
“Of course I can do that,” Aomame said, “but I’ll have to ask you to arrange for 
the personal training away from the gym through the club’s front desk.” 
“That’s fine,” the dowager said, “but let’s make scheduling arrangements directly. 
There is bound to be confusion if other people get involved. I’d like to avoid that. 
Would that be all right with you?” 
“Perfectly all right.” 
“Then let’s start next week,” the dowager said. 
This was all it took to conclude their business. 
The dowager said, “I was tremendously struck by what you said at the gym the 
other day. About powerlessness. About how powerlessness inflicts such damage on 
people. Do you remember?” 
Aomame nodded. “I do.” 
“Do you mind if I ask you a question? It will be a very direct question. To save 
time.” 
“Ask whatever you like,” Aomame said. 
“Are you a feminist, or a lesbian?” 
Aomame blushed slightly and shook her head. “I don’t think so. My thoughts on 
such matters are strictly my own. I’m not a doctrinaire feminist, and I’m not a 
lesbian.” 
“That’s good,” the dowager said. As if relieved, she elegantly lifted a forkful of 
broccoli to her mouth, elegantly chewed it, and took one small sip of wine. Then she 
said, “Even if you were a feminist or a lesbian, it wouldn’t bother me in the least. It 
wouldn’t influence anything. But, if I may say so, your 
not
being either will make it 
easier for us to communicate. Do you see what I’m trying to say?” 
“I do,” Aomame said. 
Aomame went to the dowager’s compound twice a week to guide her in martial arts. 
The dowager had a large, mirrored practice space built years earlier for her little 
daughter’s ballet lessons, and it was there that she and Aomame did their carefully 

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ordered exercises. For someone her age, the dowager was very flexible, and she 
progressed rapidly. Hers was a small body, but one that had been well cared for over 
the years. Aomame also taught her the basics of systematic stretching, and gave her 
massages to loosen her muscles. 
Aomame was especially skilled at deep tissue massage. She had earned better 
grades in that field than anyone else at the college of physical education. The names 
of all the bones and all the muscles of the human body were engraved in her brain. 
She knew the function and characteristics of each muscle, both how to tone it and 
how to keep it toned. It was Aomame’s firm belief that the human body was a temple, 
to be kept as strong and beautiful and clean as possible, whatever one might enshrine 
there. 
Not content with ordinary sports medicine, Aomame learned acupuncture 
techniques as a matter of personal interest, taking formal training for several years 
from a Chinese doctor. Impressed with her rapid progress, the doctor told her that she 
had more than enough skill to be a professional. She was a quick learner, with an 
unquenchable thirst for detailed knowledge regarding the body’s functions. But more 
than anything, she had fingertips that were endowed with an almost frightening sixth 
sense. Just as certain people possess perfect pitch or the ability to find underground 
water veins, Aomame’s fingertips could instantly discern the subtle points on the 
body that influenced its functionality. This was nothing that anyone had taught her. It 
came to her naturally. 
Before long, Aomame and the dowager would follow up their training and 
massage sessions with a leisurely chat over a cup of tea. Tamaru would always bring 
the tea utensils on the silver tray. He never spoke a word in Aomame’s presence 
during the first month, until Aomame felt compelled to ask the dowager if by any 
chance Tamaru was incapable of speaking. 
One time, the dowager asked Aomame if she had ever used her testicle-kicking 
technique in actual self-defense. 
“Just once,” Aomame answered. 
“Did it work?” the dowager asked. 
“It had the intended effect,” Aomame answered, cautiously and concisely. 
“Do you think it would work on Tamaru?” 
Aomame shook her head. “Probably not. He knows about things like that. If the 
other person has the ability to read your movements, there’s nothing you can do. The 
testicle kick only works with amateurs who have no actual fighting experience.” 
“In other words, you recognize that Tamaru is no amateur.” 
“How should I put it?” Aomame paused. “He has a special presence. He’s not an 
ordinary person.” 
The dowager added cream to her tea and stirred it slowly. 
“So the man you kicked that time was an amateur, I assume. A big man?” 
Aomame nodded but did not say anything. The man had been well built and 
strong-looking. But he was arrogant, and he had let his guard down with a mere 
woman. He had never had the experience of being kicked in the balls by a woman, 
and never imagined such a thing would ever happen to him. 
“Did he end up with any wounds?” the dowager asked. 
“No, no wounds,” Aomame said. “He was just in intense pain for a while.” 

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The dowager remained silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Have you ever 
attacked a man before? Not just causing him pain but intentionally wounding him?” 
“I have,” Aomame replied. Lying was not a specialty of hers. 
“Can you talk about it?” 
Aomame shook her head almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry, but it’s not something I 
can talk about easily.” 
“Of course not,” the dowager said. “That’s fine. There’s no need to force 
yourself.” 
The two drank their tea in silence, each with her own thoughts. 
Finally, the dowager spoke. “But sometime, when you feel like talking about it, do 
you think I might be able to have you tell me what happened back then?” 
Aomame said, “I might be able to tell you sometime. Or I might not, ever. I 
honestly don’t know, myself.” 
The dowager looked at Aomame for a while. Then she said, “I’m not asking out of 
mere curiosity.” 
Aomame kept silent. 
“As I see it, you are living with something that you keep hidden deep inside. 
Something heavy. I felt it from the first time I met you. You have a strong gaze, as if 
you have made up your mind about something. To tell you the truth, I myself carry 
such things around inside. Heavy things. That is how I can see it in you. There is no 
need to hurry, but you will be better off, at some point in time, if you bring it outside 
yourself. I am nothing if not discreet, and I have several realistic measures at my 
disposal. If all goes well, I could be of help to you.” 
Later, when Aomame finally opened up to the dowager, she would also open a new 
door in her life. 
“Hey, what are you drinking?” someone asked near Aomame’s ear. The voice 
belonged to a woman. 
Aomame raised her head and looked at the speaker. A young woman with a fifties-
style ponytail was sitting on the neighboring barstool. Her dress had a tiny flower 
pattern, and a small Gucci bag hung from her shoulder. Her nails were carefully 
manicured in pale pink. By no means fat, the woman was round everywhere, 
including her face, which radiated a truly friendly warmth, and she had big breasts. 
Aomame was somewhat taken aback. She had not been expecting to be approached 
by a woman. This was a bar for men to approach women. 
“Tom Collins,” Aomame said. 
“Is it good?” 
“Not especially. But it’s not that strong, and I can sip it.” 
“I wonder why they call it ‘Tom Collins.’ ” 
“I have no idea,” Aomame said. “Maybe it’s the name of the guy who invented it. 
Not that it’s such an amazing invention.” 
The woman waved to the bartender and said, “I’ll have a Tom Collins too.” A few 
moments later, she had her drink. 
“Mind if I sit here?” she asked. 

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“Not at all. It’s an empty seat.”