After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Air Chrysalis
affair. Nothing else came 
to mind. “That would mean you two are probably from Sakigake,” he continued, “and 
we are in your compound.” 
Buzzcut neither confirmed nor denied what Komatsu had said. He just stared at 
him. Komatsu kept silent as well. 
“Let’s talk, then, based on that hypothesis,” Buzzcut quietly began. “What we’re 
going to say from now on is an extension of that hypothesis of yours, all based on the 
assumption that this is indeed the case. Is that acceptable?” 
“That would be fine,” Komatsu replied. They were going to talk about this as 
indirectly as they could. This was not a bad sign. If they were planning not to let him 
out of here alive, they wouldn’t go to the trouble. 
“As an editor at a publishing house, you were in charge of publishing Eriko 
Fukada’s 
Air Chrysalis
. Am I correct?” 
“You are,” Komatsu admitted. This was common knowledge. 
“Based on our understanding, there was some fraud involved in the publication. 
Air Chrysalis
received a literary prize for debut novelists from a literary journal. But 
before the selection committee received the manuscript, a third party rewrote it 
considerably at your direction. After the work was secretly revised, it won the prize, 
was published as a book, and became a bestseller. Do I have my facts correct?” 
“It depends on how you look at it,” Komatsu said. “There are times when a 
submitted manuscript is rewritten, on advice of the editor—” 
Buzzcut put his hand up to cut him off. “There’s nothing dishonest about the 
author revising parts of the novel based on the editor’s advice. You’re right. But 
having a third party rewrite the work is unscrupulous. Not only that, but forming a 
phony company to distribute royalties—I don’t know how this would be interpreted 
from a legal standpoint, but morally speaking these actions would be roundly 
condemned. It’s inexcusable. Newspapers and magazines would have a field day over 
it, and your company’s reputation would suffer. I’m sure you understand this very 
well, Mr. Komatsu. We know all the facts, and have incontrovertible proof we can 

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685
reveal to the world. So it’s best not to try to talk your way out of it. It’s a waste of 
time, for both of us.” 
Komatsu nodded. 
“If it did come to that, obviously you would have to resign from the company. 
Plus, you know that you would be blackballed from the field. There would be no 
place left for you in publishing. For legitimate work, at least.” 
“I imagine not,” Komatsu said. 
“But at this point only a limited number of people know the truth,” Buzzcut said. 
“You, Eriko Fukada, Professor Ebisuno, and Tengo Kawana, who rewrote the book. 
And just a handful of others.” 
Komatsu chose his words carefully. “According to our working hypothesis, this 
handful of others
would be members of Sakigake.” 
Buzzcut nodded, barely. “Yes. According to our hypothesis, that would be the 
case.” 
Buzzcut paused, allowing the hypothesis to sink in. And then he went on. 
“And if that hypothesis is indeed true, then 
they
can do whatever they want to you. 
They can keep you here as their guest of honor for as long as they like. No problem at 
all. Or, if they wanted to shorten the length of your stay, there are any number of 
other choices they can make—including ones that would be unpleasant for both sides. 
Either way, they have the power and the means. I believe you already have a pretty 
good grasp of that.” 
“I think I do,” Komatsu replied. 
“Good,” Buzzcut said. 
Buzzcut raised a finger, and Ponytail left the room. He soon returned with a phone. 
He plugged it into a jack on the wall and handed the phone to Komatsu. Buzzcut 
directed him to call his company. 
“You have had a terrible cold and a fever and have been in bed for a few days. It 
doesn’t look like you’ll be able to come in to work for a while. Tell them that and 
then hang up.” 
Komatsu asked for one of his colleagues, briefly explained what he had to say, and 
hung up without responding to his questions. Buzzcut nodded and Ponytail unplugged 
the phone from the jack and took the phone and left the room. Buzzcut intently 
studied the back of his hands, then turned to Komatsu. There was a faint tinge of 
kindness in his voice. 
“That’s it for today,” he said. “We’ll talk again another day. Until then, please 
consider carefully what we have discussed.” 
The two of them left, and Komatsu spent the next ten days in silence, in that room. 
Three times a day the masked young man would bring in the mediocre meals. After 
the fourth day, Komatsu was given a change of clothes—a cotton pajama-like top and 
bottom—but until the very end, they didn’t let him take a shower. The most he could 
do was wash his face in the tiny sink attached to the toilet. His sense of time’s passage 
grew more uncertain. 
Komatsu thought that he had been taken to the cult’s headquarters in Yamanashi. 
He had seen it on TV. It was deep in the mountains, surrounded by a tall fence, like 
some independent realm. Escape, or finding help, was out of the question. If they did 

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686
end up killing him (which must be what they had meant by an