After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

How ironic
, Aomame thought. 
The pursuer’s blind spot is that he never 
thinks
he’s 
being pursued
. 
After a while it dawned on her that Bobblehead wasn’t heading toward Koenji 
Station. Back in the apartment, using a Tokyo map of all twenty-three wards, she had 
gone over the district again and again until she had memorized the local geography so 
she would know what direction to take in an emergency. So though he was initially 
headed toward the station, she knew that when he turned at one corner he was going 

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713
in a different direction. Bobblehead didn’t know the neighborhood, she noticed. 
Twice he stopped at a corner, looked around as if unsure where to go, and checked the 
address plaques on telephone poles. He was definitely not from around here. 
Finally Bobblehead picked up the pace. Aomame surmised that he was back on 
familiar territory. He walked past a municipal elementary school, down a narrow 
street, and went inside an old three-story apartment building. 
Aomame waited for five minutes after the man had disappeared inside. Bumping 
into him at the entrance was the last thing she wanted. There were concrete eaves at 
the entrance, a round light bathing the front door in a yellowish glow. She looked 
everywhere but couldn’t find a sign for the name of the building. Maybe the 
apartment building didn’t have a name. Either way, it had been built quite a few years 
ago. She memorized the address indicated on the nearby telephone pole. 
After five minutes she headed toward the entrance. She passed quickly under the 
yellowish light and hurriedly opened the door. There was no one in the tiny entrance 
hall. It was an empty space, devoid of warmth. A fluorescent light on its last legs 
buzzed above her. The sound of a TV filtered in from somewhere, as did the shrill 
voice of a child pestering his mother. 
Aomame took her apartment key out of the pocket of her down jacket and lightly 
jiggled it in her hands so if anyone saw her it would look like she lived in the 
building. She scanned the names on the mailboxes. One of them might be 
Bobblehead’s. She wasn’t hopeful but thought it worth trying. It was a small building, 
with not that many residents. When she ran across the name 
Kawana
on one of the 
boxes, all sound faded away. 
She stood frozen in front of that mailbox. The air felt terribly thin, and she found it 
hard to breathe. Her lips, slightly parted, were trembling. Time passed. She knew how 
stupid and dangerous this was. Bobblehead could show up any minute. Still, she 
couldn’t tear herself away from the mailbox. One little card with the name 
Kawana
had paralyzed her brain, frozen her body in place. 
She had no positive proof that this resident named Kawana was Tengo Kawana. 
Kawana wasn’t that common a name, but certainly not as unusual as Aomame. But if, 
as she surmised, Bobblehead had some connection with Tengo, then there was a 
strong possibility that this 
Kawana
was none other than Tengo Kawana. The room 
number was 303, coincidentally the same number as the apartment where she was 
currently staying. 
What should I do?
Aomame bit down hard on her lip. Her mind kept going in 
circles and couldn’t find an exit. 
What should I do?
Well, she couldn’t stay planted in 
front of the mailbox forever. She made up her mind and walked up the uninviting 
concrete stairs to the third floor. Here and there on the gloomy floor were thin cracks 
from years of wear and tear. Her sneakers made a grating noise as she walked. 
Aomame now stood outside apartment 303. An ordinary steel door with a printed 
card saying 
Kawana
in the name slot. Just the last name. Those two characters looked 
brusque, inorganic. At the same time, a deep riddle lay within them. Aomame stood 
there, listening carefully, her senses razor sharp. But she couldn’t hear any sound at 
all from behind the door, or even tell if there was a light on inside. There was a 
doorbell next to the door. 

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714
Aomame was confused. She bit her lip and contemplated her next step.