After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Air Chrysalis
. Eriko Fukada, or “Fuka-Eri,” as she was known, 
had been missing for over two months. The police had received a search request from 
her guardian and were carrying on a thorough investigation, but nothing had come to 
light as yet, the announcer said. The screen showed a stack of copies of 
Air Chrysalis
in a bookstore, and a poster with the photo of the beautiful author hung on the store 
wall. A young female bookstore clerk was interviewed: “The book is still selling like 
crazy. I bought a copy myself and read it. It’s really good—very imaginative! I hope 
they find out where Fuka-Eri is soon.” 
The report said nothing about a relationship between Eriko Fukada and Sakigake. 
The media were very cautious when religious organizations were involved. 

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455
In any case, Eriko Fukada was missing. She had been violated by her father when 
she was ten years old. They had had “ambiguous congress,” if Aomame was to accept 
his terminology. Through that act, they had led the Little People into him. 
How did he 
put it, again? That’s it—they were Perceiver and Receiver. Eriko Fukada was the one 
who perceived, and her father was the one who received. Then the man started to 
hear special voices. He became the agent of the Little People and the founder of the 
religion called Sakigake. She left the religion after that. Then, as a force against the 
Little People, she teamed up with Tengo and wrote the novella
Air Chrysalis, 
which 
became a bestseller. Now, for some reason or other, she has disappeared, and the 
police are looking for her
. 
Meanwhile, last night, using a specially made ice pick, I killed Eriko Fukada’s father, 
leader of the religion called Sakigake. People from the religion transported his corpse 
from the hotel and secretly “disposed” of it
. Aomame could not imagine how Eriko 
Fukada would deal with the news of her father’s death. 
It was a death that he himself 
asked for, a painless “mercy killing,” but the fact is that I used these hands of mine to 
end the life of a human being. A person’s life may be a lonely thing by nature, but it is 
not isolated. To that life other lives are linked, and I surely have to bear some 
responsibility for those as well
. 
Tengo is also deeply involved in these events. The Fukadas—father and daughter—
are what bind us together: Perceiver and Receiver. Where could Tengo be now, and 
what is he doing? Could he have something to do with the disappearance of Eriko 
Fukada? Are the two of them still working together? The television news, of course, 
tells me nothing about Tengo’s fate. So far, no one seems to know that he was the 
actual writer of
Air Chrysalis. 
But
I 
know
. 
It appears that he and I are narrowing the distance between us bit by bit. 
Circumstances carried us into this world and are bringing us closer together as 
though we are being drawn into a great whirlpool. It may be a lethal whirlpool. But 
Leader suggested that we would never find each other outside such a lethal place, just 
as violence creates certain kinds of pure relationships
. 
She took a deep breath. Then she reached out toward the Heckler & Koch on the 
table and assured herself of its hardness. She imagined its muzzle being shoved into 
her mouth and her finger tightening on the trigger. 
A large crow suddenly appeared on her balcony, perched on the railing, and let out 
a number of piercing cries. Aomame and the crow observed each other through the 
glass. The crow moved the big, bright eye on the side of his head, watching 
Aomame’s movements in the room. He seemed to understand the significance of the 
pistol in her hand. Crows were intelligent animals. They knew that this block of steel 
had great importance. Somehow or other, they knew. 
The crow spread its wings and flew off as suddenly as it had arrived, apparently 
having seen what it was supposed to see. Once it was gone, Aomame stood up, turned 
off the television, and sighed, hoping that the crow was not a spy for the Little People. 

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456
Aomame practiced her usual stretching on the living-room carpet. She worked her 
muscles to the limit for an hour, passing the time with the appropriate pain. One by 
one, she summoned up each muscle of her body and subjected it to an intense, 
detailed interrogation. She had the name, function, and quality of each muscle 
minutely engraved in her mind, missing none. She sweated profusely, working her 
lungs and heart to the fullest, and switching the channels of her consciousness. She 
listened to the flow of the blood in her veins, and received the wordless messages that 
her heart was issuing. The muscles of her face contorted every which way as she sank 
her teeth into the messages. 
Next she washed the sweat off in the shower. She stepped on the scale to make 
sure there had been no major change in her weight. Confirming in the mirror that the 
size of her breasts and the shape of her pubic hair had not changed, she scowled 
immensely. This was her morning ritual. 
When she was finished in the bathroom, she changed into a jersey sportswear top 
and bottom for easy movement. Then, to kill time, she decided to examine the 
contents of the apartment again, beginning with the kitchen: the foods and the eating 
and cooking utensils. She memorized each item and devised a plan for which foods 
she would prepare and eat in what order. She estimated that, even if she never set foot 
outside the apartment, she could live here for at least ten days without going hungry, 
and she could make it last two weeks if she was careful in parceling out the supplies. 
They had stocked the place with that much food. 
Then she went through the non-food items: toilet paper, tissues, laundry detergent, 
rubber gloves. Nothing was missing. The shopping had been done with great care. A 
woman must have participated in the preparations—probably an experienced 
housewife, judging from the obvious care that had been lavished on the task. 
Someone had meticulously calculated what and how much would be needed for a 
healthy thirty-year-old single woman to live here alone for a short time. This was not 
something a man could have done—though perhaps it would be possible for a highly 
observant gay man. 
The bedroom linen closet was well stocked with sheets, blankets, and spare 
pillows, all with the smell of new linen, and all plain white. Ornamentation had been 
carefully avoided, there being no need for taste or individuality. 
The living room had a television, a VCR, and a small stereo with a record player 
and a cassette deck. On the wall opposite the window, there was a waist-high wooden 
sideboard. She bent over and opened it to find some twenty books lined up inside. 
Someone had done their best to assure that Aomame would not be bored while hiding 
out here. The books were all new hardcover volumes that showed no evidence of 
having been opened. Most of them were recent, probably chosen from displays of 
current bestsellers at a large bookstore. The person had exercised some standards of 
selection—if not exactly taste—in choosing about half fiction and half nonfiction. 
Air 
Chrysalis
was among them. 
With a little nod, Aomame picked it up and sat on the living-room sofa in the 
warm sunshine. It was not a thick book. It was light, and the type was large. She 
looked at the dust jacket and at the name of the author, “Fuka-Eri,” printed there, 
balanced the book on her palm to gauge its weight, and read the publisher’s copy on 
the colorful band around the jacket. Then she sniffed the book for that special smell 

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457
that new books have. Though his name was nowhere printed on it, Tengo’s presence 
was here. The text printed inside it had passed through Tengo’s body. She calmed 
herself and opened to the first page. 
Her teacup and the Heckler & Koch were both where she could reach them. 

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458