After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

CHAPTER 11 
Aomame 
BALANCE ITSELF IS THE GOOD 
Aomame spread her blue foam yoga mat on the carpeted bedroom floor. Then she told 
the man to take off his top. He got down from the bed and pulled off his shirt. He 
looked even bigger without a shirt on. He was deep-chested, with bulging muscles, 
and had no drooping excess flesh. To all appearances, this was a very healthy body. 
Following Aomame’s directions, he lay facedown on the mat. Aomame touched 
his wrist and took his pulse. It was strong and steady. 
“Are you doing some kind of regular exercise?” Aomame asked. 
“Not really,” he said. “Just breathing.” 
“Just breathing?” 
“It’s a little different from ordinary breathing,” the man said. 
“Like you were doing before in the dark, I suppose. Deep, repetitive breathing with 
all the muscles of your body.” 
Facedown, he gave a little nod. 
Aomame could not quite grasp it. While his intense style of breathing certainly 
must take a good deal of physical strength, was it possible for mere breathing to 
maintain such a tight, powerful body? 
“What I’m about to do now involves a good deal of pain,” Aomame said in a voice 
without inflection. “It has to hurt for it to do any good. On the other hand, I can adjust 
the amount of pain. So if it hurts, don’t just bear it—speak up.” 
The man paused for a moment before saying, “If there is a pain I’ve never tasted, 
I’d like to try it.” This sounded mildly sarcastic to her. 
“Pain is not fun for anybody.” 
“But a painful technique is more effective, is that it? I can bear any pain as long as 
it has meaning.” 
Aomame allowed herself a momentary facial expression in the pale darkness. Then 
she said, “I understand. Let’s both see how it goes.” 
As always, Aomame started with the stretching of the shoulder blades. The first 
thing she noticed when she touched his flesh was its suppleness. This was fine, 
healthy flesh, fundamentally different in composition from the tired, stiff flesh of the 
urbanites with whom she dealt at the gym. At the same time, however, she had a 
strong sense that its natural “flow” was being blocked by something, the way a river’s 
flow can be blocked temporarily by floating timber or other debris. 
Leaning her weight into her elbow, Aomame squeezed the man’s shoulder 
upward—slowly at first, but then with a serious application of strength. She knew he 

---

384
was feeling pain—intense pain that would make any ordinary human being cry out. 
But he bore it in silence. His breathing remained calm, nor was there any hint of a 
frown on his face. 
He tolerates pain well
, she thought. She decided to see how much 
he could stand. She held nothing back from her next push, until the shoulder blade 
joint gave out with a dull snap and she could tell that the track had been switched. The 
man’s breathing paused momentarily but immediately resumed its quiet, steady pace. 
“Your shoulder blade was tremendously obstructed,” Aomame explained, “but that 
took care of it. Now the flow is back to normal.” 
She jammed her fingers in under the shoulder blade up to the second joint. The 
muscles here were meant to be flexible, and once the obstruction was removed they 
would quickly return to normal. 
“That feels much better,” the man murmured. 
“It must have hurt quite a bit.” 
“Not more than I could stand.” 
“I myself have a rather high tolerance for pain, but if someone had done the same 
thing to me, I’m pretty sure I would have cried out.” 
“In most cases, one pain is alleviated or canceled out by another pain. The senses 
are, ultimately, relative.” 
Aomame placed her hand on his left shoulder blade, felt for the muscles with her 
fingertips, and determined that they were in about the same condition that the right 
ones had been.