After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

CHAPTER 16 
Tengo 
LIKE A GHOST SHIP 
What kind of world will be there tomorrow? 
“No one knows the answer to that,” Fuka-Eri said. 
But the world to which Tengo awoke did not appear especially changed from the 
world he had seen as he fell asleep the night before. The bedside clock said it was just 
after six. Outside, it was fully light, the air perfectly clear. A wedge of light came in 
through the curtains. Summer was winding down, it seemed. The cries of the birds 
were sharp and clear. Yesterday’s violent thunderstorm felt like an apparition—or 
else something that had happened in an unknown place in the distant past. 
The first thing that came to Tengo’s mind upon waking was that Fuka-Eri might 
have disappeared during the night. But no, there she was, next to him, sound asleep, 
like a little animal in hibernation. Her face was beautiful in sleep, a few narrow 
strands of black hair against her white cheek forming a complex pattern, her ears 
hidden. Her breathing was soft. Tengo stared at the ceiling for a while, listening. Her 
breathing sounded like a tiny bellows. 
He retained a vivid tactile memory of last night’s ejaculation. He had actually 
released semen—a lot of semen—inside this young girl. The thought made his head 
swim. But now that morning was here, it seemed as unreal as that violent storm, like 
something that happened in a dream. He had experienced wet dreams several times in 
his teens. He would have a realistic sexual dream, ejaculate, and then wake up. The 
events had all happened in the dream, but the release of semen was real. What he felt 
now was a lot like that. 
It had not been a wet dream, though. He had unquestionably come inside Fuka-Eri. 
She had deliberately penetrated herself with his penis and squeezed every drop of 
semen out of him. He had simply followed her lead. He had been totally paralyzed at 
the time, unable to move a finger. And as far as he was concerned, he was coming 
while in the elementary school classroom, not in Fuka-Eri, who later told him there 
was no chance she’d become pregnant because she had no periods. He couldn’t fully 
grasp that such a thing had actually happened. But it 
had
actually happened. As a real 
event in the real world. Probably. 
He got out of bed, got dressed, went to the kitchen, boiled water, and made coffee. 
While making the coffee, he tried to put his head in order, like arranging the contents 
of a desk drawer. He couldn’t get things straight, though. All he succeeded in doing 

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was rearranging the items in the drawer, putting the paper clips where the eraser had 
been, the pencil sharpener where the paper clips had been, and the eraser where the 
pencil sharpener had been, exchanging one form of confusion for another. 
After drinking a fresh cup of coffee, he went to the bathroom and shaved while 
listening to a baroque music program on the FM radio: Telemann’s partitas for 
various solo instruments. This was his normal routine: make coffee in the kitchen, 
drink it, and shave while listening to 
Baroque Music for You
on the radio. Only the 
musical selections changed each day. Yesterday it had almost certainly been 
Rameau’s keyboard music. 
The commentator was speaking. 
Telemann won high praise throughout Europe in the early eighteenth century, but 
came to be disdained as too prolific by people in the nineteenth century. This was no 
fault of Telemann’s, however. The purposes for which music is composed underwent 
great changes as the structure of European society changed, leading to this reversal in 
his reputation. 
Is this the new world?
he wondered. 
He took another look at his surroundings. Still there was no sign of change. For 
now, there was no sign of disdainful people. In any case, what he had to do was 
shave. Whether the world had changed or not, no one was going to shave for him. He 
would have to do it himself. 
When he was through shaving, he made some toast, buttered and ate it, and drank 
another cup of coffee. He went into the bedroom to check on Fuka-Eri, but she was 
still in a very deep sleep, it seemed: she hadn’t moved at all. Her hair still formed the 
same pattern on her cheek. Her breathing was as soft as before. 
For the moment, he had nothing planned. He would not be teaching at the cram 
school. No one would be coming to visit, nor did he have any intention of visiting 
anyone. He could spend the day any way he liked. Tengo sat at the kitchen table and 
continued writing his novel, filling in the little squares on the manuscript paper with a 
fountain pen. As always, his attention became focused on his work. Switching 
channels in his mind made everything else disappear from his field of vision. 
. . . 
It was just before nine when Fuka-Eri woke. She had taken off his pajamas and was 
wearing one of Tengo’s T-shirts—the Jeff Beck Japan Tour T-shirt he was wearing 
when he visited his father in Chikura. Her nipples showed clearly through the shirt, 
which could not help but revive in Tengo the feeling of last night’s ejaculation, the 
way a certain date brings to mind related historical facts. 
The FM radio was playing a Marcel Dupré organ piece. Tengo stopped writing and 
fixed her breakfast. Fuka-Eri drank Earl Grey tea and ate strawberry jam on toast. She 
devoted as much time and care to spreading the jam on the toast as Rembrandt had 
when he painted the folds in a piece of clothing. 
“I wonder how many copies your book has sold,” Tengo said. 
“You mean