After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

CHAPTER 7 
Aomame 
QUIETLY, SO AS NOT TO WAKE THE BUTTERFLY 
Just after one o’clock Saturday afternoon, Aomame visited the Willow House. The 
grounds of the place were dominated by several large, old willow trees that towered 
over the surrounding stone wall and swayed soundlessly in the wind like lost souls. 
Quite naturally, the people of the neighborhood had long called the old, Western-style 
home “Willow House.” It stood atop a steep slope in the fashionable Azabu 
neighborhood. When Aomame reached the top of the slope, she noticed a flock of 
little birds in the willows’ uppermost branches, barely weighing them down. A big cat 
was napping on the sun-splashed roof, its eyes half closed. The streets up here were 
narrow and crooked, and few cars came this way. The tall trees gave the quarter a 
gloomy feel, and time seemed to slow when you stepped inside. Some embassies were 
located here, but few people visited them. Only in the summer would the atmosphere 
change dramatically, when the cries of cicadas pained the ears. 
Aomame pressed the button at the gate and stated her name to the intercom. Then 
she aimed a tiny smile toward the overhead camera. The iron gate drew slowly open, 
and once she was inside it closed behind her. As always, she stepped through the 
garden and headed for the front door. Knowing that the security cameras were on her, 
she walked straight down the path, her back as erect as a fashion model’s, chin pulled 
back. She was dressed casually today in a navy-blue windbreaker over a gray parka 
and blue jeans, and white basketball shoes. She carried her regular shoulder bag, but 
without the ice pick, which rested quietly in her dresser drawer when she had no need 
for it. 
Outside the front door stood a number of teak garden chairs, into one of which was 
squeezed a powerfully built man. He was not especially tall, but his upper body was 
startlingly well developed. Perhaps forty years of age, he kept his head shaved and 
wore a well-trimmed moustache. On his broad-shouldered frame was draped a gray 
suit. His stark white shirt contrasted with his deep gray silk tie and spotless black 
cordovans. Here was a man who would never be mistaken for a ward office cashier or 
a car insurance salesman. One glance told Aomame that he was a professional 
bodyguard, which was in fact his area of expertise, though at times he also served as a 
driver. A high-ranking karate expert, he could also use weapons effectively when the 
need arose. He could bare his fangs and be more vicious than anyone, but he was 
ordinarily calm, cool, and even intellectual. Looking deep into his eyes—if, that is, he 
allowed you to do so—you could find a warm glow. 

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In his private life, the man enjoyed toying with machines and gadgets. He collected 
progressive rock records from the sixties and seventies, and lived in another part of 
Azabu with his handsome young beautician boyfriend. His name was Tamaru. 
Aomame could not be sure if this was his family name or his given name or what 
characters he wrote it with. People just called him “Tamaru.” 
Still seated in his teak garden chair, Tamaru nodded to Aomame, who took the 
chair opposite him and greeted him with a simple “Hello.” 
“I heard a man died in a hotel in Shibuya,” Tamaru said, inspecting the shine of his 
cordovans. 
“I didn’t know about that,” Aomame said. 
“Well, it wasn’t worth putting in the papers. Just an ordinary heart attack, I guess. 
Sad case: he was in his early forties.” 
“Gotta take care of your heart.” 
Tamaru nodded. “Lifestyle is the important thing,” he said. “Irregular hours, stress, 
sleep deprivation: those things’ll kill you.” 
“Of course, something’s gonna kill everybody sooner or later.” 
“Stands to reason.” 
“Think there’ll be an autopsy?” 
Tamaru bent over and flicked a barely visible speck from the instep of his shoe. 
“Like anybody else, the cops have a million things to do, and they’ve got a limited 
budget to work with. They can’t start dissecting every corpse that comes to them 
without a mark on it. And the guy’s family probably doesn’t want him cut open for no 
reason after he’s quietly passed away.” 
“His widow, especially.” 
After a short silence, Tamaru extended his thick, glove-like right hand toward 
Aomame. She grasped it, and the two shared a firm handshake. 
“You must be tired,” he said. “You ought to get some rest.” 
Aomame widened the edges of her mouth somewhat, the way ordinary people do 
when they smile, but in fact she produced only the slightest suggestion of a smile. 
“How’s Bun?” she asked. 
“She’s fine,” Tamaru answered. Bun was the female German shepherd that lived in 
this house, a good-natured dog, and smart, despite a few odd habits. 
“Is she still eating her spinach?” Aomame asked. 
“As much as ever. And with the price of spinach as high as it’s been, that’s no 
small expense!” 
“I’ve never seen a German shepherd that liked spinach before.” 
“She doesn’t know she’s a dog.” 
“What does she think she is?” 
“Well, she seems to think she’s a special being that transcends classification.” 
“Superdog?” 
“Maybe so.” 
“Which is why she likes spinach?” 
“No, that’s another matter. She just likes spinach. Has since she was a pup.” 
“But maybe that’s where she gets these dangerous thoughts of hers.” 
“Maybe so,” Tamaru said. He glanced at his watch. “Say, your appointment today 
was for one thirty, right?” 

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Aomame nodded. “Right. There’s still some time.” 
Tamaru eased out of his chair. “Wait here a minute, will you? Maybe we can get 
you in a little earlier.” He disappeared through the front door. 
While she waited, Aomame let her eyes wander over the garden’s magnificent 
willow trees. Without a wind to stir them, their branches hung down toward the 
ground, as if they were people deep in thought. 
Tamaru came back a short time later. “I’m going to have you go around to the 
back. She wants to see you in the hothouse today.” 
The two of them circled the garden past the willows in the direction of the 
hothouse, which was behind the main house in a sunny area without trees. Tamaru 
carefully opened the glass door just far enough for Aomame to squeeze through 
without letting the butterflies escape. He slipped in after her, quickly shutting the 
door. This was not a motion that a big man would normally be good at, though he did 
it very efficiently. He simply didn’t 
think
of it as a special accomplishment. 
Spring had come inside the big, glass hothouse, completely and unreservedly. 
Flowers of all descriptions were blooming in profusion, but most of them were 
ordinary varieties that could be seen just about anywhere. Potted gladiolus, anemone, 
and daisies lined the shelves. Among them were plants that, to Aomame, could only 
be weeds. She saw not one that might be a prize specimen—no costly orchids, no rare 
roses, no primary-colored Polynesian blooms. Aomame had no special interest in 
plants, but the lack of affectation in this hothouse was something she rather liked. 
Instead, the place was full of butterflies. The owner of this large glass enclosure 
seemed to be far more interested in raising unusual butterflies than rare plant 
specimens. Most of the flowers grown here were rich in the nectar preferred by the 
butterflies. To keep butterflies in a hothouse calls for a great deal of attention, 
knowledge, and effort, Aomame had heard, but she had absolutely no idea where such 
attention had been lavished here. 
The dowager, the mistress of the house, would occasionally invite Aomame into 
the hothouse for private chats, though never at the height of summer. The glass 
enclosure was ideal to keep from being overheard. Their conversations were not the 
sort that could be held just anywhere at full volume, and the owner said it calmed her 
to be surrounded by flowers and butterflies. Aomame could see it on her face. The 
hothouse was a bit too warm for Aomame, but not unbearable. 
The dowager was in her mid-seventies and slightly built. She kept her lovely white 
hair short. Today she wore a long-sleeved denim work shirt, cream-colored cotton 
pants, and dirty tennis shoes. With white cotton work gloves on her hands, she was 
using a large metal watering can to moisten the soil in one pot after another. 
Everything she wore seemed to be a size too large, but each piece hung on her body 
with comfortable familiarity. Whenever Aomame looked at her, she could not help 
but feel a kind of esteem for her natural, unaffected dignity. 
Born into one of the fabulously wealthy families that dominated finance and 
industry prior to World War II, the dowager had married into the aristocracy, but 
there was nothing showy or pampered about her. When she lost her husband shortly 
after the war, she helped run a relative’s small investment company and displayed an 
outstanding talent for the stock market. Everyone recognized it as something for 
which she had a natural gift. Thanks to her efforts, the company developed rapidly, 

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and the personal fortune left to her expanded enormously. With this money, she 
bought several first-class properties in the city that had been owned by former 
members of the aristocracy or the imperial family. She had retired ten years earlier, 
having increased her fortune yet again by well-timed sales of her holdings. Because 
she had always avoided appearing in public, her name was not widely known, though 
everyone in financial circles knew of her. It was also rumored that she had strong 
political connections. On a personal level, she was simply a bright, friendly woman 
who knew no fear, trusted her instincts, and stuck to her decisions. 
When she saw Aomame come in, the dowager put down her watering can and 
motioned for her to sit in a small iron garden chair near the hothouse entrance. 
Aomame sat down, and the woman sat in the chair facing her. None of her 
movements made any sound. She was like a female fox cutting through the forest. 
“Shall I bring drinks?” Tamaru asked. 
“Some herbal tea for me,” the dowager said. “And for you …?” She looked at 
Aomame. 
“I’ll have the same.” 
Tamaru nodded and left the hothouse. After looking around to make sure there 
were no butterflies nearby, he opened the door a crack, slipped through, and closed 
the door again with the precision of a ballroom dancer. 
The dowager took off her work gloves and set them on a table, carefully placing 
one on top of the other as she might with silk gloves she had worn to a soirée. Then 
she looked straight at Aomame with her lustrous black eyes. These were eyes that had 
witnessed much. Aomame returned her gaze as long as courtesy allowed. 
“We seem to have lost a valuable member of society,” the dowager said. 
“Especially well known in oil circles, apparently. Still young, but quite the 
powerhouse, I hear.” 
She always spoke softly. Her voice was easily drowned out by a slight gust of 
wind. People had to pay attention to what she was saying. Aomame often felt the urge 
to reach over and turn up the volume—if only there were a knob! She had no choice 
but to listen intently. 
Aomame said, “But still, his sudden absence doesn’t seem to have inconvenienced 
anybody. The world just keeps moving along.” 
The dowager smiled. “There is no one in this world who can’t be replaced. A 
person might have enormous knowledge or ability, but a successor can almost always 
be found. It would be terrible for us if the world were full of people who couldn’t be 
replaced. Though of course”—and here she raised her right index finger to make a 
point—“I can’t imagine finding anybody to take