After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

How wonderful 
it would be if Aomame were here
, he thought, 
just holding my hand tight, not saying a 
word
. 
. . . 
He took a bus to the Chikura town hall, showed them the death certificate, and 
received a permit for cremation. Once twenty-four hours had passed since the time of 
death, the body could be cremated. He also applied to have his father’s name removed 
from the family record, and received a certificate to that effect. The procedures took a 
while, but were almost disappointingly simple—nothing that would cause any soul 
searching. It was no different from reporting a stolen car. Nurse Tamura used their 
office copier to make three copies of the documents he received. 
“At two thirty, before the lawyer comes, someone will be here from Zenkosha, a 
funeral parlor,” Mrs. Tamura said. “Please give him one copy of the cremation permit. 
The person from the funeral parlor will take care of the rest. While he was still alive, 
your father talked to the funeral director and decided on all the arrangements. He also 
put enough money aside to cover it, so you don’t need to do anything. Unless you 
have an objection.” 
“No, no objection,” Tengo said. 
His father had left hardly any belongings behind. Old clothes, a few books—that 
was all. 
“Would you like something as a keepsake? All there is, though, is an alarm clock 
radio, an old self-winding watch, and reading glasses,” Nurse Tamura said. 
“I don’t want anything,” Tengo told her. “Just dispose of it any way you like.” 
At precisely two thirty the funeral director arrived, dressed in a black suit. He moved 
silently. A thin man, in his early fifties, he had long fingers, large eyes, and a single 
dry, black wart next to his nose. He seemed to have spent a great deal of time 
outdoors, because his face was suntanned all over, down to the tips of his ears. Tengo 
wasn’t sure why, but he had never seen a fat funeral director. The man explained the 
main procedures for the funeral. He was very polite and spoke slowly, deliberately, as 
if indicating that they could take all the time they needed. 
“While your father was alive, he said he wanted as simple a funeral as possible. He 
wanted a simple, functional casket, and he wanted to be cremated as is. He did not 
want any ceremony, no scriptures read, no posthumous Buddhist name, or flowers, or 
a eulogy. And he didn’t want a grave. He instructed me to have his ashes simply put 
in a suitable communal facility. That is, if there are no objections …” 
He paused and looked entreatingly at Tengo with his large eyes. 
“If that is what my father wanted, then I have no objection,” Tengo said, looking 
straight back at those eyes. 

---

725
The funeral director nodded, and cast his eyes down. “Today would be the wake, 
and for one night we will have the body lie in state in our funeral home. So we will 
need to transport the body to our place. The cremation will take place tomorrow at 
one thirty in the afternoon in a crematorium nearby. I hope this is satisfactory?” 
“I have no objection.” 
“Will you be attending the cremation?” 
“I will,” Tengo said. 
“There are some who do not like to attend, and it is entirely up to you.” 
“I will be there,” Tengo said. 
“Very good,” the man said, sounding a little relieved. “I’m sorry to bother you 
with this now, but this is the same amount I showed your father while he was still 
alive. I would appreciate it if you would approve it.” 
The funeral director, his long fingers like insect legs, extracted a statement from a 
folder and passed it to Tengo. Tengo knew almost nothing about funerals, but he 
could see this was quite inexpensive. He had no objection. He borrowed a ballpoint 
pen and signed the agreement. 
The lawyer came just before three and he and the funeral director stood there 
chatting for a moment—a clipped conversation, one specialist to another. Tengo 
couldn’t really follow their conversation. The two of them seemed to know each 
other. This was a small town. Probably everybody knew everybody else. 
Near the morgue was an inconspicuous back door, and the funeral parlor’s small 
van was parked just outside. Except for the driver’s window, all the windows were 
tinted black, and the jet-black van was devoid of any sign or markings. The thin 
funeral director and his white-haired assistant moved Tengo’s father onto a rolling 
gurney and pushed it toward the van. The van had been refitted to have an especially 
high ceiling and rails onto which they slid the body. They shut the back doors of the 
van with an earnest thud, the funeral director turned to Tengo and bowed, and the van 
pulled away. Tengo, the lawyer, Nurse Tamura, and Nurse Omura all faced the rear 
door of the black Toyota van and brought their hands together in prayer. 
Tengo and the lawyer talked in a corner of the cafeteria. The lawyer looked to be in 
his mid-forties, and was quite obese, the exact opposite of the funeral director. His 
chin had nearly disappeared, and despite the chill of winter his forehead was covered 
with a light sheen of sweat.