After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

I’m not going to think of anything superfluous
, Ushikawa decided. 
Be thick-
skinned, have a hard shell around my heart, take one day at a time, go by the book. 
I’m just a machine. A capable, patient, unfeeling machine. A machine that draws in 
new time through one end, then spits out old time from the other end. It exists in order 
to exist
. He needed to revert back again to that pure, unsullied cycle—that perpetual 
motion that would one day come to an end. He pumped up his willpower and put a 
cap on his emotions, trying to rid his mind of the image of Fuka-Eri. The pain in his 
chest from her sharp gaze felt better now, little more than an occasional dull ache. 
Good. Can’t ask for more. I’m a simple system again
, he told himself, 
a simple system 
with complex details
. 

---

671
Before noon he went to the discount store near the station and bought a small 
electric space heater. He then went to the same noodle place he had been to before, 
opened his newspaper, and ate an order of hot tempura soba. Before going back to his 
apartment he stood at the entrance and gazed above the electric pole at the spot Fuka-
Eri had been so focused on yesterday, but he found nothing to draw his attention. All 
that was there were a transformer and thick black electric lines entwined like snakes. 
What could she have been looking at? Or was she looking 
for
something? 
Back in his room, he switched on the space heater. An orange light flickered into 
life and he felt an intimate warmth on his skin. It was not enough to fully heat the 
place, but it was much better than nothing. Ushikawa leaned against the wall, folded 
his arms, and took a short nap in a tiny spot of sunlight. A dreamless sleep, a pure 
blank in time. 
He was pulled out of this happy, deep sleep by the sound of a knock. Someone was 
knocking on his door. He bolted awake and gazed around him, unsure for a moment 
of his surroundings. He spotted the Minolta single-lens reflex camera on a tripod and 
remembered he was in a room in an apartment in Koenji. Someone was pounding 
with his fist on the door. As he hurriedly scraped together his consciousness, 
Ushikawa thought it was odd that someone would knock on the door. There was a 
doorbell—all you had to do was push the button. It was simple enough. Still this 
person insisted on knocking—pounding it for all he was worth, actually. Ushikawa 
frowned and checked his watch. One forty-five. One forty-five p.m., obviously. It was 
still light outside. 
He didn’t answer the door. Nobody knew he was here, and he wasn’t expecting 
any visitors. It must be a salesman, or someone selling newspaper subscriptions. 
Whoever it was might need him, but he certainly didn’t need them. Leaning against 
the wall, he glared at the door and maintained his silence. The person would surely 
give up after a time and go away. 
But he didn’t. He would pause, then start knocking once more. A barrage of 
knocks, nothing for ten or fifteen seconds, then a new round. These were firm knocks, 
nothing hesitant about them, each knock almost unnaturally the same as the next. 
From start to finish they were demanding a response from Ushikawa. He grew 
uneasy. Was the person on the other side of the door maybe—Eriko Fukada? Coming 
to complain to him about his despicable behavior, secretly photographing people? His 
heart started to pound. He licked his lips with his thick tongue. But the banging 
against this steel door could only be that of a grown man’s fist, not that of a girl’s. 
Or had she informed somebody else of what Ushikawa was up to, and that person 
was outside the door? Somebody from the rental agency, or maybe the police? That 
couldn’t be good. But the rental agent would have a master key and could let himself 
in, and the police would announce themselves. And neither one would bang on the 
door like this. They would simply ring the bell. 
“Mr. Kozu,” a man called out. “Mr. Kozu!” 
Ushikawa remembered that Kozu was the name of the previous resident of the 
apartment. His name remained on the mailbox. Ushikawa preferred it that way. The 
man outside must think Mr. Kozu still lived here. 
“Mr. Kozu,” the man intoned. “I know you’re in there. I can sense you’re holed up 
inside, trying to stay perfectly quiet.” 

---

672
A middle-aged man’s voice, not all that loud, but slightly hoarse. At the core his 
voice had a hardness to it, the hardness of a brick fired in a kiln and carefully allowed 
to dry. Perhaps because of this, his voice echoed throughout the building. 
“Mr. Kozu, I’m from NHK. I’ve come to collect your monthly subscription fee. So 
I would appreciate it if you’d open the door.” 
Ushikawa wasn’t planning to pay any NHK subscription fee.