After the quake blind willow, sleeping woman dance dance dance

Air Chrysalis
, that it took the new writers’ prize, and that it was published as a book 
and praised by the critics, they could not go on deceiving the public forever. It might 
go well at first, but before long people would begin to think that “something” was 
“funny.” If the truth came out at that point, everyone involved would be ruined. 
Tengo’s career as a novelist would be cut short before it had hardly begun. 
There was no way they could pull off such a flawed conspiracy. He had felt they 
were treading on thin ice from the outset, but now he realized that such an expression 
was far too tepid. The ice was already creaking before they ever stepped on it. The 
only thing for him to do was go home, call Komatsu, and announce, “I’m 
withdrawing from the plan. It’s just too dangerous for me.” This was what anyone 
with any common sense would do. 
But when he started thinking about 
Air Chrysalis
, Tengo was split with confusion. 
As dangerous as Komatsu’s plan might be, he could not possibly stop rewriting the 
novella at this point. He might have been able to give up on the idea before he started 
working on it, but that was out of the question now. He was up to his neck in it. He 
was breathing the air of its world, adapting to its gravity. The story’s essence had 
permeated every part of him, to the walls of his viscera. Now the story was begging 
him to rework it: he could feel it pleading with him for help. This was something that 
only Tengo could do. It was a job well worth doing, a job he simply 
had to do
. 

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95
Sitting on the train seat, Tengo closed his eyes and tried to reach some kind of 
conclusion as to how he should deal with the situation. But no conclusion was 
forthcoming. No one split with confusion could possibly produce a reasonable 
conclusion. 
“Does Azami take down exactly what you say?” Tengo asked. 
“Exactly what I tell her.” 
“You speak, and she writes it down.” 
“But I have to speak softly” 
“Why do you have to speak softly?” 
Fuka-Eri looked around the car. It was almost empty. The only other passengers 
were a mother and her two small children on the opposite seat a short distance away 
from Tengo and Fuka-Eri. The three of them appeared to be headed for someplace 
fun. There existed such happy people in the world. 
“So they won’t hear me,” Fuka-Eri said quietly. 
“ ‘They’?” Tengo asked. Looking at Fuka-Eri’s unfocused eyes, it was clear that 
she was not talking about the mother and children. She was referring to particular 
people that she knew well and that Tengo did not know at all. “Who are ‘they’?” 
Tengo, too, had lowered his voice. 
Fuka-Eri said nothing, but a small wrinkle appeared between her brows. Her lips 
were clamped shut. 
“Are ‘they’ the Little People?” Tengo asked. 
Still no answer. 
“Are ‘they’ somebody who might get mad at you if your story got into print and 
was released to the public and people started talking about them?” 
Fuka-Eri did not answer this question, either. Her eyes were still not focused on 
any one point. He waited until he was quite sure there would be no answer, and then 
he asked another question. 
“Can you tell me about your ‘Professor’? What’s he like?” 
Fuka-Eri gave him a puzzled look, as if to say, 
What is this person talking about?
Then she said, “You will meet the Professor.” 
“Yes, of course,” Tengo said. “You’re absolutely right. I’m going to meet him in 
any case. I should just meet him and decide for myself.” 
At Kokubunji Station, a group of elderly people dressed in hiking gear got on. 
There were ten of them altogether, five men and five women in their late sixties and 
early seventies. They carried backpacks and wore hats and were chattering away like 
schoolchildren. All carried water bottles, some strapped to their waists, others tucked 
in the pockets of their backpacks. Tengo wondered if he could possibly reach that age 
with such a sense of enjoyment. Then he shook his head. No way. He imagined these 
old folks standing proudly on some mountaintop, drinking from their water bottles. 
In spite of their small size, the Little People drank prodigious amounts of water. They 
preferred to drink rainwater or water from the nearby stream, rather than tap water. 
And so the girl would scoop water from the stream during daylight hours and give it 
to the Little People to drink. Whenever it rained, she would collect water in a bucket 
because the Little People preferred rainwater to water gathered from the stream. They 
were therefore grateful for the girl’s kindness. 

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96
Tengo noticed he was having trouble staying focused on any one thought. This was 
not a good sign. He felt an internal confusion starting. An ominous sandstorm was 
developing somewhere on the plane of his emotions. This often happened on 
Sundays. 
“Is something wrong,” Fuka-Eri asked without a question mark. She seemed able 
to sense the tension that Tengo was feeling. 
“I wonder if I can do it.” 
“Do what.” 
“If I can say what I need to say.” 
“Say what you need to say,” Fuka-Eri asked. She seemed to be having trouble 
understanding what he meant. 
“To the Professor.” 
“Say what you need to say to the Professor,” she repeated. 
After some hesitation, Tengo confessed. “I keep thinking that things are not going 
to go smoothly, that everything is going to fall apart,” he said. 
Fuka-Eri turned in her seat until she was looking directly at Tengo. “Afraid,” she 
asked. 
“What am I afraid of?” Tengo rephrased her question. 
She nodded silently. 
“Maybe I’m just afraid of meeting new people. Especially on a Sunday morning.” 
“Why Sunday,” Fuka-Eri asked. 
Tengo’s armpits started sweating. He felt a suffocating tightness in the chest. 
Meeting new people and having new things thrust upon him. And having his present 
existence threatened by them. 
“Why Sunday,” Fuka-Eri asked again. 
Tengo recalled his boyhood Sundays. After they had walked all day, his father 
would take him to the restaurant across from the station and tell him to order anything 
he liked. It was a kind of reward for him, and virtually the only time the frugal pair 
would eat out. His father would even order a beer (though he almost never drank). 
Despite the offer, Tengo never felt the slightest bit hungry on these occasions. 
Ordinarily, he was hungry all the time, but he never enjoyed anything he ate on 
Sunday. To eat every mouthful of what he had ordered—which he was absolutely 
required to do—was nothing but torture for him. Sometimes he even came close to 
vomiting. This was what Sunday meant for Tengo as a boy. 
Fuka-Eri looked into Tengo’s eyes in search of something. Then she reached out 
and took his hand. This startled him, but he tried not to let it show on his face. 
Fuka-Eri kept her gentle grip on Tengo’s hand until the train arrived in Kunitachi 
Station, near the end of the line. Her hand was unexpectedly hard and smooth, neither 
hot nor cold. It was maybe half the size of Tengo’s hand. 
“Don’t be afraid. It’s not just another Sunday,” she said, as if stating a well-known 
fact. 
Tengo thought this might have been the first time he heard her speak two sentences 
at once. 

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