|
How ironic
, Aomame thought.
The pursuer’s blind spot is that he never
thinks
he’s
being pursued
.
After a while it dawned on her that Bobblehead wasn’t heading toward Koenji
Station. Back in the apartment, using a Tokyo map of all twenty-three wards, she had
gone over the district again and again until she had memorized the local geography so
she would know what direction to take in an emergency. So though he was initially
headed toward the station, she knew that when he turned at one corner he was going
713
in a different direction. Bobblehead didn’t know the neighborhood, she noticed.
Twice he stopped at a corner, looked around as if unsure where to go, and checked the
address plaques on telephone poles. He was definitely not from around here.
Finally Bobblehead picked up the pace. Aomame surmised that he was back on
familiar territory. He walked past a municipal elementary school, down a narrow
street, and went inside an old three-story apartment building.
Aomame waited for five minutes after the man had disappeared inside. Bumping
into him at the entrance was the last thing she wanted. There were concrete eaves at
the entrance, a round light bathing the front door in a yellowish glow. She looked
everywhere but couldn’t find a sign for the name of the building. Maybe the
apartment building didn’t have a name. Either way, it had been built quite a few years
ago. She memorized the address indicated on the nearby telephone pole.
After five minutes she headed toward the entrance. She passed quickly under the
yellowish light and hurriedly opened the door. There was no one in the tiny entrance
hall. It was an empty space, devoid of warmth. A fluorescent light on its last legs
buzzed above her. The sound of a TV filtered in from somewhere, as did the shrill
voice of a child pestering his mother.
Aomame took her apartment key out of the pocket of her down jacket and lightly
jiggled it in her hands so if anyone saw her it would look like she lived in the
building. She scanned the names on the mailboxes. One of them might be
Bobblehead’s. She wasn’t hopeful but thought it worth trying. It was a small building,
with not that many residents. When she ran across the name
Kawana
on one of the
boxes, all sound faded away.
She stood frozen in front of that mailbox. The air felt terribly thin, and she found it
hard to breathe. Her lips, slightly parted, were trembling. Time passed. She knew how
stupid and dangerous this was. Bobblehead could show up any minute. Still, she
couldn’t tear herself away from the mailbox. One little card with the name
Kawana
had paralyzed her brain, frozen her body in place.
She had no positive proof that this resident named Kawana was Tengo Kawana.
Kawana wasn’t that common a name, but certainly not as unusual as Aomame. But if,
as she surmised, Bobblehead had some connection with Tengo, then there was a
strong possibility that this
Kawana
was none other than Tengo Kawana. The room
number was 303, coincidentally the same number as the apartment where she was
currently staying.
What should I do?
Aomame bit down hard on her lip. Her mind kept going in
circles and couldn’t find an exit.
What should I do?
Well, she couldn’t stay planted in
front of the mailbox forever. She made up her mind and walked up the uninviting
concrete stairs to the third floor. Here and there on the gloomy floor were thin cracks
from years of wear and tear. Her sneakers made a grating noise as she walked.
Aomame now stood outside apartment 303. An ordinary steel door with a printed
card saying
Kawana
in the name slot. Just the last name. Those two characters looked
brusque, inorganic. At the same time, a deep riddle lay within them. Aomame stood
there, listening carefully, her senses razor sharp. But she couldn’t hear any sound at
all from behind the door, or even tell if there was a light on inside. There was a
doorbell next to the door.
714
Aomame was confused. She bit her lip and contemplated her next step.
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: |
