After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance



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1Q84 ( PDFDrive )

Composers of the 
World
from the music section, she returned to her table and opened the book to 
“Janá
č
ek.” 
. . . 
Leoš Janá
č
ek was born in a village in Moravia in 1854 and died in 1928. The 
article included a picture of him in his later years. Far from bald, his head was 
covered by a healthy thatch of white hair. It was so thick that Aomame couldn’t tell 
much about the shape of his head. 
Sinfonietta
was composed in 1926. Janá
č
ek had 
endured a loveless marriage, but in 1917, at the age of sixty-three, he met and fell in 
love with a married woman named Kamila. He had been suffering through a slump, 
but his encounter with Kamila brought back a vigorous creative urge, and he 
published one late-career masterpiece after another. 
He and Kamila were walking in a park one day when they came across an outdoor 
concert and stopped to listen. Janá
č
ek felt a surge of joy go through his entire body, 
and the motif for his 
Sinfonietta
came to him. Something seemed to snap in his head, 


104
he recounted years later, and he felt enveloped in ecstasy. By chance, he had been 
asked around that time to compose a fanfare for a major athletic event. The motif that 
came to him in the park and the motif of the fanfare became one, and 
Sinfonietta
was 
born. The “small symphony” label is ordinary enough, but the structure is utterly 
nontraditional, combining the radiant brass of the festive fanfare with the gentle 
central European string ensemble to produce a unique mood. 
Aomame took careful notes on the commentary and the biographical factual 
material, but the book gave no hint as to what kind of connection there was—or could 
have been—between herself and this 
Sinfonietta
. She left the library and wandered 
aimlessly through the streets as evening approached, often talking to herself or 
shaking her head. 
Of course, it’s all just a hypothesis
, Aomame told herself as she walked. 
But it’s 
the most compelling hypothesis I can produce at the moment. I’ll have to act 
according to this one, I suppose, until a more compelling hypothesis comes along. 
Otherwise, I could end up being thrown to the ground somewhere. If only for that 
reason, I’d better give an appropriate name to this new situation in which I find 
myself. There’s a need, too, for a special name in order to distinguish between this 
present world and the former world in which the police carried old-fashioned 
revolvers. Even cats and dogs need names. A newly changed world must need one, 
too

1Q84—that’s what I’ll call this new world
, Aomame decided. 
Q is for “question mark.” A world that bears a question

Aomame nodded to herself as she walked along. 
Like it or not, I’m here now, in the year 1Q84. The 1984 that I knew no longer 
exists. It’s 1Q84 now. The air has changed, the scene has changed. I have to adapt to 
this world-with-a-question-mark as soon as I can. Like an animal released into a new 
forest. In order to protect myself and survive, I have to learn the rules of this place 
and adapt myself to them

. . . 
Aomame went to a record store near Jiyugaoka Station to look for Janá
č
ek’s 
Sinfonietta
. Janá
č
ek was not a very popular composer. The Janá
č
ek section was quite 
small, and only one record contained 
Sinfonietta
, a version with George Szell 
conducting the Cleveland Orchestra. The A side was Bartók’s 
Concerto for 
Orchestra
. She knew nothing about these performances, but since there was no other 
choice, she bought the LP. She went back to her apartment, took a bottle of Chablis 
from the refrigerator and opened it, placed the record on the turntable, and lowered 
the needle into the groove. Drinking the well-chilled wine, she listened to the music. 
It started with the same bright fanfare. This was the music she had heard in the cab
without a doubt. She closed her eyes and gave the music her complete concentration. 
The performance was not bad. But nothing happened. It was just music playing. She 
felt no wrenching of her body. Her perceptions underwent no metamorphosis. 
After listening to the piece all the way through, she returned the record to its 
jacket, sat down on the floor, and leaned against the wall, drinking wine. Alone and 
absorbed in her thoughts, she could hardly taste the wine. She went to the bathroom 


105
sink, washed her face with soap and water, trimmed her eyebrows with a small pair of 
scissors, and cleaned her ears with a cotton swab. 
Either I’m funny or the world’s funny, I don’t know which. The bottle and lid don’t 
fit. It could be the bottle’s fault or the lid’s fault. In either case, there’s no denying 
that the fit is bad

Aomame opened her refrigerator and examined its contents. She hadn’t been 
shopping for some days, so there wasn’t much to see. She took out a ripe papaya, cut 
it in two, and ate it with a spoon. Next she took out three cucumbers, washed them, 
and ate them with mayonnaise, taking the time to chew slowly. Then she drank a glass 
of soy milk. That was her entire dinner. It was a simple meal, but ideal for preventing 
constipation. Constipation was one of the things she hated most in the world, on par 
with despicable men who commit domestic violence and narrow-minded religious 
fundamentalists. 
When she was through eating, Aomame got undressed and took a hot shower. 
Stepping out, she dried herself off and looked at her naked body in the full-length 
mirror on the back of the door. Flat stomach, firm muscles. Lopsided breasts, pubic 
hair like a poorly tended soccer field. Observing her nakedness, she suddenly recalled 
that she would be turning thirty in another week. 
Another damn birthday. To think I’m 
going to have my thirtieth birthday in this incomprehensible world, of all places!
She 
knit her brows. 
1Q84. 
That was where she was now. 


106

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