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he recounted years later, and he felt enveloped in ecstasy. By chance, he had been
asked around that time to compose a fanfare for a major athletic event. The motif that
came to him in the park and the motif of the fanfare became one, and
Sinfonietta
was
born. The “small symphony” label is ordinary enough, but the
structure is utterly
nontraditional, combining the radiant brass of the festive fanfare with the gentle
central European string ensemble to produce a unique mood.
Aomame took careful notes on the commentary and the biographical factual
material, but the book gave no hint as to what kind of connection there was—or could
have been—between herself and this
Sinfonietta
. She left the library and wandered
aimlessly through the streets as evening approached, often talking to herself or
shaking her head.
Of course, it’s all just a hypothesis
, Aomame told herself as she walked.
But it’s
the most compelling hypothesis I can produce at the moment. I’ll have to act
according to this one, I suppose, until a more compelling hypothesis comes along.
Otherwise, I could end up being thrown to the ground somewhere. If only for that
reason, I’d better give an appropriate name to this new situation in which I find
myself. There’s a need, too, for a special name in order to distinguish between this
present world and the former world in which the police carried old-fashioned
revolvers. Even cats and dogs need names. A newly changed world must need one,
too
.
1Q84—that’s what I’ll call this new world
, Aomame decided.
Q is for “question mark.” A world that bears a question
.
Aomame nodded to herself as she walked along.
Like it or not, I’m here now, in the year 1Q84. The 1984 that I knew no longer
exists. It’s 1Q84 now. The air has changed, the scene has changed. I have to adapt to
this world-with-a-question-mark as soon as I can. Like an animal released into a new
forest. In order to protect myself and survive, I have to learn the rules of this place
and adapt myself to them
.
. . .
Aomame went to a record store near Jiyugaoka Station to look for Janá
č
ek’s
Sinfonietta
. Janá
č
ek was not a very popular composer. The Janá
č
ek section was quite
small, and only one record contained
Sinfonietta
, a version with George Szell
conducting the Cleveland Orchestra. The A side was Bartók’s
Concerto for
Orchestra
. She knew nothing about these
performances, but since there was no other
choice, she bought the LP. She went back to her apartment, took a bottle of Chablis
from the refrigerator and opened it, placed the record on the turntable, and lowered
the needle into the groove. Drinking the well-chilled wine, she listened to the music.
It started with the same bright fanfare. This was the
music she had heard in the cab,
without a doubt. She closed her eyes and gave the music her complete concentration.
The performance was not bad. But nothing happened. It was just music playing. She
felt no wrenching of her body. Her perceptions underwent no metamorphosis.
After listening to the piece all the way through, she returned the record to its
jacket, sat down on the floor, and leaned against the wall, drinking wine. Alone and
absorbed in her thoughts, she could hardly taste the wine. She went to the bathroom
105
sink, washed her face with soap and water, trimmed her eyebrows with a small
pair of
scissors, and cleaned her ears with a cotton swab.
Either I’m funny or the world’s funny, I don’t know which. The bottle and lid don’t
fit. It could be the bottle’s fault or the lid’s fault. In either case, there’s no denying
that the fit is bad
.
Aomame opened her refrigerator and examined its contents. She hadn’t been
shopping for some days, so there wasn’t much to see. She took out a ripe papaya, cut
it in two, and ate it with a spoon. Next she took out three cucumbers, washed them,
and ate them with mayonnaise, taking the time to chew slowly. Then she drank a glass
of soy milk. That was her entire dinner. It was
a simple meal, but ideal for preventing
constipation. Constipation was one of the things she hated most in the world, on par
with despicable men who commit domestic violence and narrow-minded religious
fundamentalists.
When she was through eating, Aomame got undressed and took a hot shower.
Stepping out, she dried herself off and looked at her naked body in the full-length
mirror on the back of the door. Flat stomach, firm muscles. Lopsided breasts, pubic
hair like a poorly tended soccer field. Observing her nakedness,
she suddenly recalled
that she would be turning thirty in another week.
Another damn birthday. To think I’m
going to have my thirtieth birthday in this incomprehensible world, of all places!
She
knit her brows.
1Q84.
That was where she was now.
