omame didn’t find it painful to be shut away, living a monotonous, solitary existence. She got up every day at six thirty and had a simple breakfast. Then she would spend an hour or so doing laundry, ironing, or mopping the floor. For an hour and a half in the morning she used the equipment Tamaru had obtained for her to do a strenuous workout. As a fitness instructor she was well versed in how much stimulation all the various muscles needed every day—how much exercise was just right, and how much was excessive.

Lunch was usually a green salad and fruit. The afternoon was spent sitting on the sofa and reading, or taking a short nap. In the evening she would spend an hour preparing dinner, which she would finish before six. Once the sun set, she would be out on the balcony, seated on her garden chair, keeping watch over the playground. Then to bed at ten thirty. One day was the same as the next, but she never felt bored.

She was not very social to begin with, and never had a problem going long stretches without seeing or talking with other people. Even when she was in elementary school, she seldom talked with her classmates. More accurately, unless it was absolutely necessary, no one else ever spoke to her.

Compared with the harsh days of her childhood, being holed up in a neat little apartment, not talking to anybody, was nothing. Compared with staying silent while those around her chatted away, it was much easier—and more natural—to be silent in a place where she was all alone. And besides, she had a book she should read. She had started reading the Proust volumes that Tamaru had left for her. She read no more than twenty pages a day. She read each and every word carefully, working her way through each day’s reading. Once she finished that section, she read something else. And just before bed she made sure to read a few pages of Air Chrysalis. This was Tengo’s writing, and it had become a sort of manual she followed to live in 1Q84.

She also listened to music. The elderly dowager had sent over a box of classical music cassettes: Mahler symphonies, Haydn chamber music, Bach keyboard pieces—all varieties and types of classical music. There was a tape of Janáček’s Sinfonietta as well, which she had specifically requested. She would listen to the Sinfonietta once a day as she noiselessly went through her exercise routine.

Autumn quietly deepened. She had the feeling that her body was slowly becoming transparent. Aomame tried her best to keep her mind clear of any thoughts, but it was impossible not to think of anything. Nature abhors a vacuum. At the very least, though, she felt that now there was nothing for her to hate. There was no need to hate her classmates and teacher anymore. Aomame was no longer a helpless child, and no one was forcing her to practice a religion now. There was no need to hate the men who beat up women. The anger she had felt before, like a high tide rising up within her—the overwrought emotions that sometimes made her want to smack her fists against the closest wall—had vanished before she’d realized it. She wasn’t sure why, but those feelings were entirely gone. She was grateful for this. As much as possible, she wanted never to hurt anyone, ever again. Just as she didn’t want to hurt herself.

On nights when she found it hard to sleep, she thought of Tamaki Otsuka and Ayumi Nakano. When she closed her eyes, the memory of holding their bodies close came rushing back to her. Both of them had had soft, lustrous skin and warm bodies. Gentle, profound bodies, with fresh blood coursing through them, hearts beating regular, blessed beats. She could hear them sigh softly and giggle. Slender fingers, hardened nipples, smooth thighs.… But these two women were no longer in the world.

Like dark, soft water, sadness took over Aomame’s heart, soundlessly, and with no warning. The best antidote at a time like this was to just shut off that stream of memories and think only of Tengo. Focus, and recall the touch of the ten-year-old boy’s hand as she had held it for a fleeting moment. And then she called forth from memory the thirty-year-old Tengo sitting on top of the slide, she imagined what it would feel like to be held in those large, strong arms.

He was almost within reach.

Maybe if I hold out my hand the next time, I really will be able to reach him. In the darkness she closed her eyes and immersed herself in that possibility. She gave herself up to her longing.

But if I never do see him again, she thought, her heart trembling, then what? Things had been a whole lot simpler when there was no actual point of contact between them. Meeting the adult Tengo had been a mere dream, an abstract hypothesis. But now that she had seen the real him before her very eyes, his presence was more concrete, more powerful, than it had ever been before. She had to see him, to have him hold her, caress every part of her. Just the very thought that this might not come to pass made her feel as if her heart and body were being ripped in two.

Maybe back there in front of the Esso tiger on the billboard, I should have shot that 9mm bullet into my skull. Then I wouldn’t have to live like this, feeling such sadness and pain. But she just couldn’t pull the trigger. She had heard a voice. From far off, someone calling her name. I might be able to see Tengo again, she had thought—and once this thought had struck her, she had to go on living. Even if what Leader had said was true, that doing so would make things dangerous for Tengo, she had no other choice. She had felt an unbearably strong surge of the life force, beyond the bounds of logic. The upshot was that she was burning with a fierce desire for him. It was a thirst that wouldn’t quit, and a premonition of despair.

A realization struck her. This is what it means to live on. When granted hope, a person uses it as fuel, as a guidepost to life. It is impossible to live without hope. Aomame’s heart clenched at the thought, as if every bone in her body were suddenly creaking and screaming out.

She sat at the dining table and picked up the automatic pistol. She pulled back the slide, sending a bullet into the chamber, thumbed back the hammer, and stuck the muzzle in her mouth. Just a touch more pressure with her trigger finger and all this sadness would disappear. Just a touch more. One more centimeter. No, if I pull my finger just five millimeters toward me, I will shift over to a silent world where there are no more worries. The pain will only last an instant. And then there will be a merciful nothingness. She closed her eyes. The Esso tiger from the billboard, gas hose in hand, grinned at her. Put a Tiger in Your Tank.

She pulled the hard muzzle out of her mouth and slowly shook her head.

I can’t die. In front of the balcony is the playground. The slide is there, and as long as I have the hope that Tengo will show up again, I won’t be able to pull this trigger. This possibility drew her back from the brink. One door closed inside her heart and another door opened, quietly, without a sound. Aomame pulled the slide again, ejecting the bullet, set the safety, and placed the pistol back on the table. When she closed her eyes she sensed something in the darkness, a faint light, fading away by the moment. What it could be, she had no idea.

She sat down on the sofa and focused on the pages of Swann’s Way. She imagined the scenes depicted in the story, trying hard not to let other thoughts intrude. Outside a cold rain had started to fall. The weather report on the radio said a gentle rain would continue until the next morning. A weather front was stalled out in the Pacific—like a lonely person, lost in thought, oblivious of time.

Tengo won’t be coming, she thought. The sky was covered from one end to the other with thick clouds, blocking out the moon. Still she would probably go out onto the balcony, a hot cup of cocoa in hand, and watch the playground. She would keep binoculars and the pistol nearby, wear something decent enough so that she could quickly run outside, and gaze at the slide in the rain. This was the only meaningful act she could undertake.

At three p.m., someone at the entrance of the building rang her bell. Aomame ignored it. It wasn’t possible that anyone would be visiting her. She had the kettle on for tea, but to be on the safe side she switched off the gas and listened. The bell rang three or four times and then was silent.

About five minutes later a bell rang again. This time it was the doorbell to her apartment. Now someone was inside the building, right outside her door. The person may have followed a resident inside, or else had rung somebody else’s bell and talked their way in. Aomame kept perfectly still. If somebody comes, don’t answer, Tamaru had instructed her. Set the dead bolt and don’t make a sound.

The doorbell must have rung ten times. A little too persistent for a salesman—they usually give up at three rings. As she held her breath, the person began to knock on the door with his fist. It wasn’t that loud a sound, but she could sense the irritation behind it. “Miss Takai,” a low, middle-aged man’s voice said. A slightly hoarse voice. “Miss Takai. Can you please answer the door?”

Takai was the fake name on the mailbox.

“Miss Takai, I know this isn’t a good time, but I would like to see you. Please.”

The man paused for a moment, waiting for a response. When there was none, he knocked on the door again, this time a little louder.

“I know you’re inside, Miss Takai, so let’s cut to the chase and open the door. I know you’re in there and can hear me.”

Aomame picked up the automatic pistol from the table and clicked off the safety. She wrapped the pistol in a towel and held it by the grip.

She had no idea who this could be, nor what he could possibly want. His anger seemed directed at her—why, she had no clue—and he was determined to get her to open the door. Needless to say, in her present position this was the last thing she wanted.

The knocking finally stopped and the man’s voice echoed again in the hallway.

“Miss Takai, I am here to collect your NHK fee. That’s right, good old NHK. I know you’re at home. No matter how much you try to stay quiet, I can tell. Working this job for so many years, I know when someone is really out, and when they’re just pretending. Even when a person tries to stay very quiet, there are still signs he’s there. People breathe, their hearts beat, their stomachs continue to digest food. Miss Takai, I know you’re in there, and that you’re waiting for me to give up and leave. You’re not planning to open the door or answer me. Because you don’t want to pay the subscription fee.”

The man’s voice was louder than it needed to be, and it reverberated down the hallway of the building. That was his intention—calling out the person’s name so loudly that it would make them feel ridiculed and embarrassed. And so it would be a warning to all the neighbors. Aomame kept perfectly silent. She wasn’t about to respond. She put the pistol back on the table. Just to be sure, though, she kept the safety off. The man could just be pretending to be an NHK fee collector. Seated at the dining table, she stared at the front door.

She wanted to stealthily pad over to the door, look through the peephole, and check out what kind of person he was. But she was glued to the chair. Better not do anything unnecessary—after a while he would give up and leave.

The man, however, seemed ready to deliver an entire lecture.

“Miss Takai, let’s not play hide and seek anymore, okay? I’m not doing this because I like to. Even I have a busy schedule. Miss Takai, I know you watch TV. And everyone who watches TV, without exception, has to pay the NHK subscription fee. You may not like it, but that’s the law. Not paying the fee is the same as stealing, Miss Takai, you don’t want to be treated as a thief because of something as petty as this, do you? This is a fancy building you live in, and I don’t think you will have any trouble paying the fee. Right? Hearing me proclaim this to the world can’t be much fun for you.”

Normally Aomame wouldn’t care if an NHK fee collector was making a racket like this. But right now she was in hiding, trying to keep out of sight. She didn’t want anything to attract the attention of other residents. But there was nothing she could do about it. She had to keep still and wait until he went away.

“I know I’m repeating myself, Miss Takai, but I am sure you’re in there, listening to me. And you’re thinking this: Why, of all places, did you have to choose my apartment to stand outside of? I wonder, too, Miss Takai. It’s probably because I don’t like people pretending not to be at home. Pretending not to be at home is just a temporary solution, isn’t it? I want you to open the door and tell me to my face that you don’t have any intention of paying the NHK fee. You would feel much better, and so would I. That would leave some room for discussion. Pretending to be out is not the way to go. It’s like a pitiful little rat hiding in the dark. It only sneaks out when people aren’t around. What a miserable way to live your life.”

This man’s lying, Aomame thought. That’s just ridiculous, that he can sense when somebody is at home. I haven’t made a sound. His real goal is to just stand in front of a random apartment, make a racket, and intimidate all the other residents, to make people decide they would prefer to pay the fee than to have him plant himself outside their door like that. This man must have tried the same tactics elsewhere and had good results.

“Miss Takai, I know you find me unpleasant. I can understand perfectly what you’re thinking. And you’re right—I am an unpleasant person. I’m aware of that. But you have to understand, Miss Takai, that pleasant people don’t make good fee collectors. There are tons of people in the world who have decided they aren’t going to pay the NHK subscription fee, and if you’re going to collect from people like that you can’t always act so nice. I would rather leave with no problem, just say, Is that right? You don’t want to pay the fee? I understand. Sorry to bother you. But I can’t. Collecting the fee is my job, and besides, personally I don’t like it when people pretend not to be at home.”

The man stopped and paused. And then he knocked on the door ten times in a row.

“Miss Takai, you must be finding this annoying. Aren’t you starting to feel like a real thief by now? Think about it. We’re not talking about a lot of money here. Enough to buy a modest dinner at your neighborhood chain restaurant. Just pay it, and you won’t be treated like a thief. You won’t have anyone yelling at you outside or banging on your door anymore. Miss Takai, I know you’re hiding in there. You think you can hide and get away from me forever. Well—go ahead and try. You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you. You can’t act so sneaky forever. Consider this: there are people a whole lot poorer than you all over Japan who faithfully pay their fee every month. Is that fair?”

Fifteen knocks on the door followed. Aomame counted them.

“I get it, Miss Takai. You’re pretty stubborn too. Fine. I’ll be going now. I can’t stand outside here forever. But rest assured, I’ll be back. Once I decide on something, I don’t give up easily. And I don’t like people pretending to be out. I’ll be back, and I’ll knock on your door. I’ll keep banging on your door until the whole world has heard it. I promise you this, a promise just between you and me. All right? Well, I’ll be seeing you soon.”

She didn’t hear any footsteps. Perhaps he had on rubber soles. Aomame stayed still there for five minutes, staring at the door. The hallway outside was quiet again, and she couldn’t hear a thing. She crept to the front door, summoned her courage, and peered out the peephole. No one was there.

She reset the safety on the pistol and took some deep breaths to get her heart rate back down. She switched on the gas, heated up water, made green tea, and drank it. It was only an NHK collector, she told herself. But there was something malicious, sick even, about his voice. Whether this was directed at her personally or at the fictitious Miss Takai, she couldn’t tell. Still, that husky voice and persistent knock disturbed her, like something clammy sticking to your bare skin.

Aomame undressed and took a shower. She carefully scrubbed herself in the hot water. After she finished and had put on clean clothes, she felt a bit better. The clammy sensation was gone. She sat down on the sofa and drank the rest of the tea. She tried to read her book but couldn’t concentrate on the words. Fragments of the man’s voice came back to her.

“You think you can hide and get away from me forever. Well—go ahead and try. You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you.”

She shook her head. The man just said whatever nonsense popped into his head, yelling things just to make people feel bad. He doesn’t know a thing about me—what I’ve done, why I’m here. Still, her heart wouldn’t stop pounding.

You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you.

The fee collector’s words sounded like they had deeper implications. Maybe it was just a coincidence, she thought, but that man knew exactly what to say to upset me. Aomame gave up reading and closed her eyes as she lay on the sofa.

Tengo, where are you? she wondered. She said it out loud. “Tengo, where are you?” Find me now. Before someone else does.