After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Air Chrysalis
under 
a headline exclaiming that the magazine had sold out in one day. Several literary 
critics gave their opinions, which were generally favorable. The work, they claimed, 
displayed such stylistic power, keen sensitivity, and imaginative richness that it was 
hard to believe a seventeen-year-old girl had written it. It 
might
even hint at new 
possibilities in literary style. One critic said, “The work is not entirely without a 
regrettable tendency for its more fantastical elements to sometimes lose touch with 
reality,” which was the only negative remark Tengo noticed. But even that critic 
softened his tone at the end, concluding, “I will be very interested to see what kind of 
works this young girl goes on to write.” No, there was nothing wrong with the wind 
direction for now. 
Fuka-Eri called Tengo four days before the hardcover version of 
Air Chrysalis
was 
due out. It was nine in the morning. 
“Are you up,” she asked in her usual uninflected way, without a question mark. 
“Of course I’m up,” Tengo said. 
“Are you free this afternoon.” 
“After four, any time.” 
“Can you meet me.” 
“I can,” Tengo said. 

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205
“Is that last place okay,” Fuka-Eri asked. 
“Fine,” Tengo said. “I’ll go to the same café in Shinjuku at four o’clock. Oh, and 
your photos in the paper looked good. The ones from the press conference.” 
“I wore the same sweater,” she said. 
“It looked good on you,” Tengo said. 
“Because you like my chest shape.” 
“Maybe so. But more important in this case was making a good impression on 
people.” 
Fuka-Eri kept silent at her end, as if she had just set something on a nearby shelf 
and was looking at it. Maybe she was thinking about the connection between the 
shape of her chest and making a good impression. The more he thought about it, the 
less Tengo himself could see the connection. 
“Four o’clock,” Fuka-Eri said, and hung up. 
. . . 
Fuka-Eri was already waiting for Tengo when he walked into the usual café just 
before four. Next to her sat Professor Ebisuno. He was dressed in a pale gray long-
sleeved shirt and dark gray pants. As before, his back was perfectly straight. He could 
have been a sculpture. Tengo was somewhat surprised to find the Professor with her. 
Komatsu had said that the Professor almost never “came down from the mountains.” 
Tengo took a seat opposite them and ordered a cup of coffee. The rainy season 
hadn’t even started, but the weather felt like midsummer. Even so, Fuka-Eri sat there 
sipping a hot cup of cocoa. Professor Ebisuno had ordered iced coffee but hadn’t 
touched it yet. The ice had begun to melt, forming a clear layer on top. 
“Thanks for coming,” the Professor said. 
Tengo’s coffee arrived. He took a sip. 
Professor Ebisuno spoke slowly, as if performing a test of his speaking voice: 
“Everything seems to be going as planned for now,” he said. “You made major 
contributions to the project. Truly major. The first thing I must do is thank you.” 
“I’m grateful to hear you say that, but as you know, where this matter is concerned, 
officially I don’t exist,” Tengo said. “And officially nonexistent people can’t make 
contributions.” 
Professor Ebisuno rubbed his hands over the table as if warming them. 
“You needn’t be so modest,” the Professor said. “Whatever the public face of the 
matter may be, you 
do
exist. If it hadn’t been for you, things would not have come 
this far or gone this smoothly. Thanks to you, 
Air Chrysalis
became a much better 
work, deeper and richer than I ever imagined it could be. That Komatsu fellow really 
does
have an eye for talent.” 
Beside him, Fuka-Eri went on drinking her cocoa in silence, like a kitten licking 
milk. She wore a simple white short-sleeved blouse and a rather short navy-blue skirt. 
As always, she wore no jewelry. Her long, straight hair hid her face when she leaned 
forward to drink. 
“I wanted to be sure to tell you this in person, which is why I troubled you to come 
here today,” Professor Ebisuno said. 

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206
“You really don’t have to worry about me, Professor. Rewriting