After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

CHAPTER 5 
Aomame 
NO MATTER HOW LONG YOU KEEP QUIET 
Aomame didn’t find it painful to be shut away, living a monotonous, solitary 
existence. She got up every day at six thirty and had a simple breakfast. Then she 
would spend an hour or so doing laundry, ironing, or mopping the floor. For an hour 
and a half in the morning she used the equipment Tamaru had obtained for her to do a 
strenuous workout. As a fitness instructor she was well versed in how much 
stimulation all the various muscles needed every day—how much exercise was just 
right, and how much was excessive. 
Lunch was usually a green salad and fruit. The afternoon was spent sitting on the 
sofa and reading, or taking a short nap. In the evening she would spend an hour 
preparing dinner, which she would finish before six. Once the sun set, she would be 
out on the balcony, seated on her garden chair, keeping watch over the playground. 
Then to bed at ten thirty. One day was the same as the next, but she never felt bored. 
She was not very social to begin with, and never had a problem going long 
stretches without seeing or talking with other people. Even when she was in 
elementary school, she seldom talked with her classmates. More accurately, unless it 
was absolutely necessary, no one else ever spoke to her. 
Compared with the harsh days of her childhood, being holed up in a neat little 
apartment, not talking to anybody, was nothing. Compared with staying silent while 
those around her chatted away, it was much easier—and more natural—to be silent in 
a place where she was all alone. And besides, she had a book she should read. She 
had started reading the Proust volumes that Tamaru had left for her. She read no more 
than twenty pages a day. She read each and every word carefully, working her way 
through each day’s reading. Once she finished that section, she read something else. 
And just before bed she made sure to read a few pages of 
Air Chrysalis
. This was 
Tengo’s writing, and it had become a sort of manual she followed to live in 1Q84. 
She also listened to music. The elderly dowager had sent over a box of classical 
music cassettes: Mahler symphonies, Haydn chamber music, Bach keyboard pieces—
all varieties and types of classical music. There was a tape of Janá
č
ek’s 
Sinfonietta
as 
well, which she had specifically requested. She would listen to the 
Sinfonietta
once a 
day as she noiselessly went through her exercise routine. 
Autumn quietly deepened. She had the feeling that her body was slowly becoming 
transparent. Aomame tried her best to keep her mind clear of any thoughts, but it was 
impossible not to think of anything. Nature abhors a vacuum. At the very least, 
though, she felt that now there was nothing for her to hate. There was no need to hate 

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her classmates and teacher anymore. Aomame was no longer a helpless child, and no 
one was forcing her to practice a religion now. There was no need to hate the men 
who beat up women. The anger she had felt before, like a high tide rising up within 
her—the overwrought emotions that sometimes made her want to smack her fists 
against the closest wall—had vanished before she’d realized it. She wasn’t sure why, 
but those feelings were entirely gone. She was grateful for this. As much as possible, 
she wanted never to hurt anyone, ever again. Just as she didn’t want to hurt herself. 
On nights when she found it hard to sleep, she thought of Tamaki Otsuka and Ayumi 
Nakano. When she closed her eyes, the memory of holding their bodies close came 
rushing back to her. Both of them had had soft, lustrous skin and warm bodies. 
Gentle, profound bodies, with fresh blood coursing through them, hearts beating 
regular, blessed beats. She could hear them sigh softly and giggle. Slender fingers, 
hardened nipples, smooth thighs.… But these two women were no longer in the 
world. 
Like dark, soft water, sadness took over Aomame’s heart, soundlessly, and with no 
warning. The best antidote at a time like this was to just shut off that stream of 
memories and think only of Tengo. Focus, and recall the touch of the ten-year-old 
boy’s hand as she had held it for a fleeting moment. And then she called forth from 
memory the thirty-year-old Tengo sitting on top of the slide, she imagined what it 
would feel like to be held in those large, strong arms.