After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Air Chrysalis
, but by now it was entirely his own. As he wrote, his mind 
was living in that world. Even when he lay down his pen and stood up from the desk, 
his mind remained there. There was a special sensation of his body and his mind 
beginning to separate, and he could no longer distinguish the real world from the 
fictional. The protagonist of the story who entered the cat town probably experienced 
the same sensation. Before he knew it, the world’s center of gravity had shifted. And 
the protagonist would (most likely) be unable to ever board the train to get out of 
town. 
At eleven Tengo had to leave his room so they could clean it. When the time came 
he stopped writing, went out, walked to the front of the station, and drank coffee in a 
nearby coffee shop. Occasionally he would have a light sandwich, but usually he ate 
nothing. He would then pick up the morning paper and check it closely to see if there 
was any article that might have something to do with him. He found no such article. 
Air Chrysalis
had long since disappeared from the bestseller lists. Number one on the 
list now was a diet book entitled 
Eat as Much as You Want of the Food You Love and 
Still Lose Weight
. What a great title. The whole book could be blank inside and it 
would still sell. 
After he finished his coffee and was done with the paper, Tengo took the bus to the 
sanatorium. He usually arrived between one thirty and two. He chatted a bit with the 
nurse who was always at the front desk. When Tengo began staying in the town and 
visiting his father every day, the nurses grew kinder to him, and treated him in a 
friendly way—as warmly as the prodigal son’s family must have welcomed him back 
home. 
One of the younger nurses always gave an embarrassed smile whenever she saw 
Tengo. She seemed to have a crush on him. She was petite, wore her hair in a 
ponytail, and had big eyes and red cheeks. She was probably in her early twenties. 
But ever since the air chrysalis had appeared with the sleeping girl inside, all Tengo 
could think about was Aomame. All other women were faint shadows in comparison. 
An image of Aomame was constantly playing at the edges of his mind. Aomame was 
alive somewhere in this world—he could 
feel
it. He knew she must be searching for 
him, which is why on that evening she chose to find him. She had not forgotten him 
either. 
If what I saw wasn’t an illusion
. 
Sometimes he remembered his older girlfriend, and wondered how she was. 
She’s 
irretrievably lost now
, her husband had said on the phone. She can no longer visit 
your home. 
Irretrievably lost
. Even now those words gave Tengo an uncomfortable, 
uneasy feeling. They had an undeniably ominous ring. 
Still, she became less and less of a presence in his mind as time went on. He could 
recall the afternoons they had spent together only as events in the past, undertaken to 
fulfill certain goals. Tengo felt guilty about this. But before he had known it, gravity 
had changed. It had shifted, and it wouldn’t be going back to its original location. 

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545
When he arrived at his father’s room, Tengo would sit in the chair next to his bed and 
briefly greet him. Then he would explain, in chronological order, what he had done 
since the previous night. He hadn’t done much. He had gone back to town on the bus, 
had a simple dinner at a restaurant, drunk a beer, returned to the inn, and read. He’d 
gone to bed at ten. In the morning he would take a walk, eat breakfast, and work on 
his novel for about two hours. He repeated the same things every day, but even so, 
Tengo gave the unconscious man a detailed report on all his activities. There was no 
response from his listener. It was like talking to a wall. A formality he had to go 
through. Still, sometimes simple repetition has meaning. 
Then Tengo would read from the book he had brought along. He didn’t stick to just 
one book. He would read aloud the book that he himself was reading at the time. If a 
manual for an electric lawn mower had been his current reading material, that’s what 
he would have read. Tengo read in a deliberately clear voice, slowly, so that it was 
easy to understand. That was the one thing he made sure to do. 
The lightning outside grew steadily stronger and for a while the greenish light 
illuminated the road, but there was no rumble of thunder. Maybe there was thunder, 
but he felt unfocused. It was as if he couldn’t hear it. Rainwater flowed in small rivers 
along the road. After wading through the water, customers came into the shop, one 
after another. 
His friend turned and stared. He went strangely quiet. There was a sudden 
commotion as customers pushed toward them, making it hard to breathe. 
Someone cleared his throat, perhaps because a piece of food had gotten stuck; it 
was a strange voice, more of a snuffling cough, as if it were a dog. 
Suddenly there was a huge flash of lightning that shone all the way inside the 
place, illuminating the people on the dirt floor. And just then a clap of thunder 
sounded, ready to crack the roof. Surprised, he stood up, and the crowd of people at 
the entrance turned as one to face him. Then he saw that theirs were the faces of 
animals—dogs or foxes, he wasn’t sure—and the animals all wore clothes, and some 
of them had long tongues hanging out, licking around the corners of their mouths. 
Tengo read to there and looked at his father’s face. “The end,” he said. The story 
stopped there. 
No reaction. 
“What do you think?” 
As expected, there was no response from his father. 
Sometimes he would read what he himself had written that morning. After he had 
read it, he would rewrite in ballpoint pen the parts he wasn’t satisfied with, and reread 
the parts he had edited. If he still wasn’t satisfied at the way it sounded, he would 
rewrite it again, and then read the new version. 
“The rewritten version is better,” he said to his father, as if hoping he would agree. 
His father, predictably, didn’t express an opinion. He didn’t say that it was better, or 
that the earlier version was better, or that there really wasn’t much of a difference 
between the two. The lids on his sunken eyes were shut tight, like a sad house with its 
heavy shutters lowered. 
Sometimes Tengo would stand up from his chair and stretch and go to the window 
and look at the scenery outside. After several overcast days, it was raining. The 

---

546
continual afternoon rain made the pine windbreak dark and heavy. He couldn’t hear 
the waves at all. There was no wind, just the rain falling straight down from the sky. 
A flock of black birds flew by in the rain. The hearts of those birds were dark, and 
wet, too. The inside of the room was also wet. Everything there, pillows, books, desk, 
was damp. But oblivious to it all—to the weather, the damp, the wind, the sound of 
the waves—his father continued in an uninterrupted coma. Like a merciful cloak, 
paralysis enveloped his body. After a short break Tengo went back to reading aloud. 
In the damp, narrow room, that was all he was able to do. 
When he tired of reading aloud, Tengo sat there, gazing at the form of his sleeping 
father and trying to surmise what kinds of things were going through his brain. 
Inside—in the inner parts of that stubborn skull, like an old anvil—what sort of 
consciousness lay hidden there? Or was there nothing left at all? Was it like an 
abandoned house from which all the possessions and appliances had been moved, 
leaving no trace of those who had once dwelled there? Even if it was, there should be 
the occasional memory or scenery etched into the walls and ceilings. Things 
cultivated over such a long time don’t just vanish into nothingness. As his father lay 
on this plain bed in the sanatorium by the shore, at the same time he might very well 
be surrounded by scenes and memories invisible to others, in the still darkness of a 
back room in his own vacant house. 
The young nurse with the red cheeks would come in, smile at Tengo, then take his 
father’s temperature, check how much remained in the IV drip, and measure the 
amount of urine he had produced. She would note all the numbers down on a 
clipboard. Her actions were automatic and brisk, as if prescribed in a training manual. 
Tengo watched this series of movements and wondered how she must feel to live her 
life in this sanatorium by the sea, taking care of senile old people whose prognosis 
was grim. She looked young and healthy. Beneath her starched uniform, her waist and 
her breasts were compact but ample. Golden down glistened on her smooth neck. The 
plastic name tag on her chest read 
Adachi
. 
What could possibly have brought her to this remote place, where oblivion and 
listless death lay hovering over everything? Tengo could tell she was a skilled and 
hardworking nurse. She was still young and worked quite efficiently. She could have 
easily worked in some other field of health care, something more lively and engaging, 
so why did she choose this sad sort of place to work? Tengo wondered. He wanted to 
find out the reason and the background. If he did ask her, he knew she would be 
honest. He could sense that about her. But it would be better not to get involved, 
Tengo decided—this was, after all, the cat town. Some day he would have to get on 
the train and go back to the world from which he came. 
The nurse finished her tasks, put the clipboard back, and gave Tengo an awkward 
smile. 
“His condition is unchanged. The same as always.” 
“So he’s stable,” Tengo said in as cheerful a voice as he could manage. “To put a 
positive spin on it.” 
A half-apologetic smile rose to her lips and she inclined her head just a touch. She 
glanced at the book on his lap. “Are you reading that to him?” 

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547
Tengo nodded. “I doubt he can hear it, though.” 
“Still, it’s a good thing to do,” the nurse said. 
“Maybe it is, or maybe it isn’t, but I can’t think of anything else I can do.” 
“But not everybody else would do that.” 
“Most people have busier lives than I do,” Tengo said. 
The nurse looked like she was about to say something, but she hesitated. In the end 
she didn’t say a thing. She looked at his sleeping father, and then at Tengo. 
“Take care,” she said. 
“Thanks,” Tengo answered. 
After Nurse Adachi left, Tengo waited a while, then began reading aloud once 
more. 
In the evening, when his father was wheeled on a gurney to the examination room, 
Tengo went to the cafeteria, drank some tea, then phoned Fuka-Eri from a pay phone. 
“Is everything okay?” Tengo asked her. 
“Yes, everything is okay,” she said. “Just like always.” 
“Everything’s fine with me, too. Doing the same thing every day.” 
“But time is moving forward.” 
“That’s right,” Tengo said. “Every day time moves forward one day’s worth.” 
And what has gone forward can’t go back to where it came from. 
“The crow came back again just a little while ago,” Fuka-Eri said. “A big crow.” 
“In the evening that crow always comes up to the window.” 
“Doing the same thing every day.” 
“That’s right,” Tengo said. “Just like us.” 
“But it doesn’t think about time.” 
“Crows can’t think about time. Probably only humans have the concept of time.” 
“Why,” she asked. 
“Humans see time as a straight line. It’s like putting notches on a long straight 
stick. The notch here is the future, the one on this side is the past, and the present is 
this point right here. Do you understand?” 
“I think so.” 
“But actually time isn’t a straight line. It doesn’t have a shape. In all senses of the 
term, it doesn’t have any form. But since we can’t picture something without form in 
our minds, for the sake of convenience we understand it as a straight line. At this 
point, humans are the only ones who can make that sort of conceptual substitution.” 
“But maybe we are the ones who are wrong.” 
Tengo mulled this over. “You mean we may be wrong to see time as a straight 
line?” 
No response. 
“That’s a possibility. Maybe we’re wrong and the crow is right. Maybe time is 
nothing at all like a straight line. Perhaps it’s shaped like a twisted doughnut. But for 
tens of thousands of years, people have probably been seeing time as a straight line 
that continues on forever. And that’s the concept they based their actions on. And 
until now they haven’t found anything inconvenient or contradictory about it. So as an 
experiential model, it’s probably correct.” 

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548
“Experiential model,” Fuka-Eri repeated. 
“After taking a lot of samples, you come to view one conjecture as actually 
correct.” 
Fuka-Eri was silent for a time. Tengo had no idea if she had understood him or not. 
“Hello?” Tengo said, checking if she was still there. 
“How long will you be there,” Fuka-Eri asked, omitting the question mark. 
“You mean how long will I be in Chikura?” 
“Yes.” 
“I don’t know,” Tengo answered honestly. “All I can say right now is that I’ll stay 
here until certain things make sense. There are some things I don’t understand. I want 
to stay for a while and see how they develop.” 
Fuka-Eri was silent on the other end again. When she was silent it was like she 
wasn’t there at all. 
“Hello?” Tengo said again. 
“Don’t miss the train,” Fuka-Eri said. 
“I’ll be careful,” Tengo replied, “not to be late for the train. Is everything okay 
with you?” 
“One person came here a while ago.” 
“What kind of person?” 
“An N—H—K person.” 
“A fee collector from NHK?” 
“Fee collector,” she asked, again without the question mark. 
“Did you talk to him?” Tengo asked. 
“I did not understand what he was saying.” 
She apparently had no idea what NHK was. The girl lacked some essential cultural 
knowledge. 
“It will take too long to explain over the phone,” Tengo said, “but basically it’s a 
large organization. A lot of people work there. They go around to all the houses in 
Japan and collect money every month. You and I don’t need to pay, because we don’t 
receive anything from them. I hope you didn’t unlock the door.” 
“No, I did not unlock it. Like you told me.” 
“I’m glad.” 
“But he said, ‘You are a thief.’ ” 
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Tengo said. 
“We have not stolen anything.” 
“Of course we haven’t. You and I haven’t done anything wrong.” 
Fuka-Eri was again silent on the other end of the line. “Hello?” Tengo said. 
Fuka-Eri didn’t reply. She might have already hung up. Though he didn’t hear any 
sound that indicated this. 
“Hello?” Tengo repeated, this time more loudly. 
Fuka-Eri coughed lightly. “That person knew a lot about you.” 
“The fee collector?” 
“Yes. The N—H—K person.” 
“And he called you a thief.” 
“No. He didn’t mean me.” 
“He meant me?” 

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549
Fuka-Eri didn’t reply. 
“Anyway,” Tengo said, “I don’t have a TV. So I’m not stealing anything from 
NHK.” 
“But that person was very angry that I didn’t unlock the door.” 
“It doesn’t matter. Let him be angry. But no matter what happens, no matter what 
anyone tells you, never, ever unlock the door.” 
“I won’t unlock it.” 
After saying this, Fuka-Eri suddenly hung up. Or perhaps it wasn’t so sudden. 
Perhaps for her, hanging up the phone at that point was an entirely natural, even 
logical act. To Tengo’s ear, though, it sounded abrupt. But Tengo knew that even if he 
were to try his hardest to guess what Fuka-Eri was thinking and feeling, it wouldn’t 
do any good. As an experiential model. 
Tengo hung up the phone and went back to his father’s room. 
His father had not been brought back to his room yet. The bed still had a depression in 
it from his body. No air chrysalis was there. In the room, darkened by the dim, chill 
dusk, the only thing present was the slight trace of the person who had occupied it 
until moments ago. 
Tengo sighed and sat down on the chair. He rested his hands on his lap and gazed 
for a long while at the depression in the sheets. Then he stood, went to the window, 
and looked outside. The rain had stopped, and the autumn clouds lingered over the 
pine windbreak. It would be a beautiful sunset, the first in some time. 
Tengo had no idea why the fee collector