After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

No, it could be sheer 
coincidence. Maybe I’m just letting the specter of some nonexistent “Little People” 
frighten me
. 

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434
Aomame gave the driver her destination and then settled back in the seat, closing 
her eyes. 
Right about now, those two guys in their dark suits are probably checking 
their watches and waiting for their guru to wake up
. Aomame pictured them. Buzzcut 
was drinking coffee and thinking about all sorts of things. Thinking was his job. 
Thinking and deciding. Maybe he had grown suspicious: Leader’s sleep was all too 
quiet. But Leader 
always
slept soundly, without making noises—no snoring or even 
heavy breathing. Still, there was always his 
presence
. The woman had said that 
Leader would be sound asleep for at least two hours, that it was important to let him 
rest quietly so that his muscles could recover. Only an hour had gone by, but 
something was bothering Buzzcut. Maybe he should check on Leader’s condition. 
What should he do? 
Ponytail was the dangerous one, though. Aomame still had a vivid image of that 
momentary hint of violence he had displayed as she was leaving the hotel room. He 
was silent, but his instincts were sharp. His fighting skills must also be outstanding—
probably much more so than she had imagined until that moment. Her own command 
of martial arts was surely no match for his. In a fight, he would probably not give her 
a chance to reach for her gun. Fortunately, though, he was no professional. He had let 
his rational mind interfere before he put his intuition into action. He was used to 
taking orders—unlike Tamaru. Tamaru would subdue his opponent and render him 
powerless before thinking. Action came first—trust the instincts and let rational 
judgments come later. A split-second’s hesitation and it was all over. 
Recalling that moment at the door, Aomame felt her underarms growing moist. 
She shook her head. 
I was just lucky. At least I avoided being captured on
the spot. I 
have to be a lot more careful from now on. Tamaru was right: the most important 
things are to be careful and persistent. Danger comes the moment you relax
. 
The driver was a polite-spoken middle-aged man. He pulled out a map, stopped the 
car, turned off the meter, and kindly found the exact location of the condo building. 
Aomame thanked him and stepped out of the cab. It was a handsome new six-story 
building in the middle of a residential area. There was no one at the entrance. 
Aomame punched in 2831 to unlock the front door, went inside, and rode a clean but 
narrow elevator up to the third floor. The first thing she did upon exiting the elevator 
was find the location of the emergency stairway. Then she removed the key taped to 
the back of the doormat of apartment 303 and used it to go inside. The entryway lights 
were set to go on automatically when the door opened. The place had that new-
apartment smell. All of the furniture and appliances looked brand-new and unused, as 
if they had just come out of the boxes and plastic wrapping—matching pieces that 
could have been chosen by a designer to equip a model condo: simple, functional 
design, free of the smell of daily life. 
To the left of the entry was a living/dining room. Off a hallway was a bathroom 
and beyond that were two rooms. One had a queen-sized bed that was already made. 
The blinds were closed. Opening the window that faced the street, she heard the 
traffic on Ring Road 7 like the distant roar of the ocean. Closing it again, she could 
hear almost nothing. There was a small balcony off the living room. It overlooked a 
small park across the street. There were swings, a slide, a sandbox, and a public toilet. 

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435
A tall mercury-vapor lamp made everything unnaturally bright. A large zelkova tree 
spread its branches over the area. This was a third-floor condo, but there were no 
other tall buildings nearby from which she might have to worry about being watched. 
Aomame thought about the Jiyugaoka apartment she had just vacated. It was in an 
old building, not terribly clean, with the occasional cockroach, and the walls were 
thin—not exactly the kind of place to which one became attached. Now, though, she 
missed it. In this brand-new, spotless condo, she felt like an anonymous person, 
stripped of memory and individuality. 
Aomame opened the refrigerator to find four cans of Heineken chilling in the door. 
She opened one and took a swallow. Switching on the twenty-one-inch television, she 
sat down in front of it to watch the news. There was a report on the thunderstorm. The 
top story concerned the flooding of Akasaka-Mitsuke Station and the stopping of the 
Marunouchi and Ginza lines. The water overflowing the street had poured down the 
station steps like a waterfall. Station employees in rain ponchos had piled sandbags at 
the entrances, but they were obviously too late. The subway lines were still not 
running, and there was no estimate of when they would return to normal. The reporter 
thrust a mike at one stranded commuter after another. One man complained, “The 
morning forecast said it would be clear all day!” 
She watched the news program until it ended. Of course, there was no report yet on 
the death of Sakigake’s Leader. Buzzcut and Ponytail were probably still waiting in 
the next room for the full two hours to pass. Then they would learn the truth. She took 
the pouch from her travel bag and pulled out the Heckler & Koch, setting it on the 
dining table. On the new table, the German-made automatic pistol looked terribly 
crude and taciturn—and black through and through—but at least it gave a focal point 
to the otherwise impersonal room. 
Landscape with Pistol
, Aomame muttered, as if 
titling a painting. 
In any case, I have to keep this within reach at all times—whether I 
use it to shoot someone else or myself
. 
The large refrigerator had been stocked with enough food for her to stay for two 
weeks or more: fruit, vegetables, and several processed foods ready for eating. The 
freezer held various meats, fish, and bread. There was even some ice cream. In the 
cabinets she found a good selection of foods in vacuum pouches and cans, plus spices. 
Rice and pasta. A generous supply of mineral water. Two bottles of red wine and two 
white. She had no idea who put these supplies together, but the person had done a 
very thorough job. For now, she couldn’t think of anything that was missing. 
Feeling a little hungry, she took out some Camembert, cut a wedge, and ate it with 
crackers. When the cheese was half gone, she washed a stalk of celery, spread it with 
mayonnaise, and munched it whole. 
Next she examined the contents of the dresser drawers in the bedroom. The top one 
held pajamas and a thin bathrobe—new ones still in their plastic packs. More well-
chosen supplies. The next drawer held three sets of T-shirts, socks, and underwear. 
All were simple, white things that seemed chosen to match the design of the furniture, 
and all were still packed in plastic. These were probably the same things they gave to 
the women staying in the safe house, made of good materials but very much 
“supplied” by an institution. 
The bathroom had shampoo, conditioner, skin cream, and cologne, everything she 
needed. She rarely put on makeup and so needed few cosmetics. There were a 

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436
toothbrush, interdental brush, and a tube of toothpaste. They had also thoughtfully 
supplied her with a hairbrush, cotton swabs, razor, small scissors, and sanitary 
products. The place was well stocked with toilet paper and tissues. Bath and face 
towels had been neatly folded and piled in a cabinet. Everything was there. 
She looked in the bedroom closet, wondering if, by any chance, she would find 
dresses and shoes of her size—Armani and Ferragamo, preferably. But no, the closet 
was empty. There was a limit to how far they could go. They knew the difference 
between thoroughness and overkill. It was like Jay Gatsby’s library: the books were 
real, but the pages uncut. Besides, she would not need street clothes while she was 
here. They wouldn’t supply things she didn’t need. There were plenty of hangers, 
though. 
She used those hangers for the clothes she had brought in her travel bag, taking 
each piece out, checking it for wrinkles, and hanging it in the closet. She knew that it 
would be more convenient, as a fugitive, to leave the clothes in her bag rather than 
hanging them up, but the thing she hated most in the world was wearing creased 
clothing. 
I guess I can never be a coolheaded professional criminal
, Aomame thought, 
if I’m 
going to be worried about wrinkled clothes at a time like this!
She suddenly recalled a 
conversation she had once had with Ayumi.