xcept for the silent men who brought supplies every Tuesday afternoon, for the next two weeks no one else visited Aomame’s apartment. The man who claimed to be an NHK fee collector had insisted that he would be back. He had been determined, or at least that was the way it sounded to Aomame. But there hadn’t been a knock on the door since. Maybe he was busy with another route.

On the surface, these were quiet, peaceful days. Nothing happened, nobody came by, the phone didn’t ring. To be on the safe side, Tamaru called as little as possible. Aomame always kept the curtains closed, living as quietly as she could so as not to attract attention. After dark, she turned on the bare minimum number of lights.

Trying to stay as quiet as possible, she did strenuous workouts, mopped the floor every day, and spent a lot of time preparing meals. She asked for some Spanish-language tapes and went over the lessons aloud. Not speaking for a long time makes the muscles around the mouth grow slack. She had to focus on moving her mouth as much as she could, and foreign language drills were good for that. Plus Aomame had long fantasized about South America. If she could go anywhere, she would like to live in a small, peaceful country in South America, like Costa Rica. She would rent a small villa on the coast and spend the days swimming and reading. With the money she had stuffed in her bag she should be able to live for ten years there, if she watched her expenses. She couldn’t see them chasing her all the way to Costa Rica.

As she practiced Spanish conversation Aomame imagined a quiet, peaceful life on the Costa Rican beach. Could Tengo be a part of her life there? She closed her eyes and pictured the two of them sunbathing on a Caribbean beach. She wore a small, black bikini and sunglasses and was holding Tengo’s hand. But a sense of reality, the kind that would move her, was missing from the picture. It was nothing more than an ordinary tourist brochure photo.

When she ran out of things to do, she cleaned the pistol. She followed the manual and disassembled the Heckler & Koch, cleaned each part with a cloth and brush, oiled them, and then reassembled it. She made sure the action was smooth. By now she had mastered the operation and the pistol felt like a part of her body.

She would go to bed at ten, read a few pages in her book, and fall asleep. Aomame had never had trouble falling asleep. As she read, she would get sleepy. She would switch off the bedside lamp, rest her head on the pillow, and shut her eyes. With few exceptions, when she opened her eyes again it was morning.

Ordinarily she didn’t tend to dream much. Even if she did, she usually had forgotten most of the dream by the time she woke up. Sometimes faint scraps of her dream would get caught on the wall of her consciousness, but she couldn’t retrace these fragments back to any coherent narrative. All that remained were small, random images. She slept deeply, and the dreams she did have came from a very deep place. Like fish that live at the bottom of the ocean, most of her dreams weren’t able to float to the surface. Even if they did, the difference in water pressure would force a change in their appearance.

But after coming to live in this hiding place, she dreamed every night. And these were clear, realistic dreams. She would be dreaming and wake up in the middle of a dream, unable to distinguish whether she was in the real world or the dream world. Aomame couldn’t remember ever having had this experience before. She would look over at the digital clock beside her bed. The numbers would say 1:15, 2:37, or 4:07. She would close her eyes and try to fall asleep again, but it wasn’t easy. The two different worlds were silently at odds within her, fighting over her consciousness, like the mouth of a river where the seawater and the fresh water flow in.

Not much I can do about it, she told herself. I’m not even sure if this world with two moons in the sky is the real reality or not. So it shouldn’t be so strange, should it? That in a world like this, if I fall asleep and dream, I find it hard to distinguish dream from reality? And let’s not forget that I’ve killed a few men with my own hands. I’m being chased by fanatics who aren’t about to give up, and I’m hiding out. How could I not be tense, and afraid? I can still feel the sensation, in my hands, of having murdered somebody. Maybe I’ll never be able to sleep soundly the rest of my life. Maybe that’s the responsibility I have to bear, the price I have to pay.

The dreams she had—at least the ones she could recall—fell into three set categories.

The first was a dream about thunder. She is in a dark room, with thunder roaring continuously. But there is no lightning, just like the night she murdered Leader. There is something in the room. Aomame is lying in bed, naked, and something is wandering about around her, slowly, deliberately. The carpet is thick, and the air lies heavy and still. The windowpane rattles slightly in the thunder. She is afraid. She doesn’t know what is there in the room. It might be a person. Maybe it’s an animal. Maybe it’s neither one. Finally, though, whatever it is leaves the room. Not through the door, nor by the window. But still its presence fades away until it has completely disappeared. She is alone now in the room.

She fumbles for the light near her bed. She gets out of bed, still naked, and looks around the room. There is a hole in the wall opposite her bed, a hole big enough for one person to barely make it through. The hole isn’t in a set spot. It changes shape and moves around. It shakes, it moves, it grows bigger, it shrinks—as if it’s alive. Something left through that hole. She stares into the hole. It seems to be connected to something else, but it’s too dark inside to see, a darkness so thick that it’s as if you could cut it out and hold it in your hand. She is curious, but at the same time afraid. Her heart pounds, a cold, distant beat. The dream ends there.

The second dream took place on the shoulder of the Metropolitan Expressway. And here, too, she is totally nude. Caught in the traffic jam, people leer at her from their cars, shamelessly ogling her naked body. Most are men, but there are a few women, too. The people are staring at her less-than-ample breasts and her pubic hair and the strange way it grows, all of them evaluating her body. Some are frowning, some smiling wryly, others yawning. Others are staring intently at her, their faces blank. She wants to cover herself up—at least her breasts and groin, if she can. A scrap of cloth would do the trick, or a sheet of newspaper. But there is nothing around her she can pick up. And for some reason (she has no idea why) she can’t move her arms. From time to time the wind blows, stimulating her nipples, rustling her pubic hair.

On top of this—as if things couldn’t get any worse—it feels like she is about to get her period. Her back feels dull and heavy, her abdomen hot. What should she do if, in front of all these people, she starts bleeding?

Just then the driver’s-side door of a silver Mercedes coupe opens and a very refined middle-aged woman steps out. She’s wearing bright-colored high heels, sunglasses, and silver earrings. She’s slim, about the same height as Aomame. She wends her way through the backed-up cars, and when she comes over she takes off her coat and puts it on Aomame. It’s an eggshell-colored spring coat that comes down to her knees. It’s light as a feather. It’s simple, but obviously expensive. The coat fits her perfectly, like it was made for her. The woman buttons it up for her, all the way to the top.

“I don’t know when I can return it to you. I’m afraid I might bleed on it,” Aomame says.

Without a word, the woman shakes her head, then weaves her way back through the cars to the Mercedes coupe. From the driver’s side it looks like she lifts her hand in a small wave to Aomame, but it may be an illusion. Wrapped in the light, soft spring coat, Aomame knows she is protected. Her body is no longer exposed to anyone’s view. And right then, as if it could barely wait, a line of blood drips down her thigh. Hot, thick, heavy blood. But as she looks at it she realizes it isn’t blood. It’s colorless.

The third dream was hard to put into words. It was a rambling, incoherent dream without any setting. All that was there was a feeling of being in motion. Aomame was ceaselessly moving through time and space. It didn’t matter when or where this was. All that mattered was this movement. Everything was fluid, and a specific meaning was born of that fluidity. But as she gave herself up to it, she found her body growing transparent. She could see through her hands to the other side. Her bones, organs, and womb became visible. At this rate she might very well no longer exist. After she could no longer see herself, Aomame wondered what could possibly come then. She had no answer.

At two p.m. the phone rang and Aomame, dozing on the sofa, leapt to her feet. “Is everything going okay?” Tamaru asked.

“Yes, fine,” Aomame replied.

“How about the NHK fee collector?”

“I haven’t seen him at all. Maybe he was just threatening me, saying he would be back.”

“Could be,” Tamaru said. “We set it up so the NHK subscription fee is automatically paid from a bank account, and an up-to-date sticker is on the door. Any fee collector would be bound to see it. We called NHK and they said the same thing. It must be some kind of clerical error.”

“I just hope I don’t have to deal with him.”

“Yes, we need to avoid any kind of attention. And I don’t like it when there are mistakes.”

“But the world is full of mistakes.”

“The world can be that way, but I have my own way of doing things,” Tamaru said. “If there is anything that bothers you—anything at all—make sure you get in touch.”

“Is there anything new with Sakigake?”

“Everything has been quiet. I imagine something is going on below the surface, but we can’t tell from the outside.”

“I heard you had an informant within the organization.”

“We’ve gotten some reports, but they’re focused on details, not the big picture. It does seem as if they are tightening up control of the faith. The faucet has been shut.”

“But they are definitely still after me.”

“Since Leader’s death, there has clearly been a large gap left in the organization. They haven’t decided yet who is going to succeed him, or what sort of policies Sakigake should take. But when it comes to pursuing you, opinion is unwavering and unanimous. Those are the facts we have been able to find out.”

“Not very heartwarming facts, are they.”

“Well, with facts what’s important is their weight and accuracy. Warmth is secondary.”

“Any way,” Aomame said, “if they capture me and the truth comes to light, that will be a problem for you as well.”

“That is why we want to get you to a place they can’t reach, as soon as we can.”

“I know. But I need you to wait a little longer.”

“She said that we would wait until the end of the year. So of course that’s what I’ll do.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’m not the one you should be thanking.”

“Be that as it may,” Aomame said. “There is one item I’d like to add to the list the next time you bring over supplies. It’s hard to say this to a man, though.”

“I’m like a rock wall,” Tamaru said. “Plus, when it comes to being gay, I’m in the big leagues.”

“I would like a home pregnancy test.”

There was silence. Finally Tamaru spoke. “You believe there’s a need for that kind of test.”

It wasn’t a question, so Aomame didn’t reply.

“Do you think you might be pregnant?” Tamaru asked.

“No, that isn’t the reason.”

Tamaru quickly turned this over in his mind. If you were quiet, you could actually hear the wheels turning.

“You don’t think you’re pregnant. Yet you need a pregnancy test.”

“That’s right.”

“Sounds like a riddle to me.”

“All I can tell you is that I would like to have the test. The kind of simple home test you can pick up in a drugstore is fine. I’d also appreciate a handbook on the female body and menstruation.”

Tamaru was silent once more—a hard, concentrated silence.

“I think it would be better if I called you back,” he said. “Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

He made a small sound in the back of his throat, and hung up the phone....

The phone rang again fifteen minutes later. It had been a long while since Aomame had heard the dowager’s voice. She felt like she was back in the greenhouse. That humid, warm space where rare butterflies flutter about, and time passes slowly.

“Are you doing all right there?”

“I’m trying to keep to a daily routine,” Aomame replied. Since the dowager wanted to know, Aomame gave her a summary of her daily schedule, her exercising and meals.

“It must be hard for you,” the dowager said, “not being able to go outside. But you have a strong will, so I’m not worried about you. I know you will be able to get through it. I would like to have you leave there as soon as possible and get you to a safer place, but if you want to stay there longer, I will do what I can to honor your wishes.”

“I am grateful for that.”

“No, I’m the one who should be grateful to you. You have done a wonderful thing for us.” A short silence followed, and then the dowager continued. “Now, I understand you have requested a pregnancy test.”

“My period is nearly three weeks late.”

“Are your periods usually regular?”

“Since they began when I was ten, I have had a period every twenty-nine days, almost without fail. Like the waxing and waning of the moon. I’ve never skipped one.”

“You are in an unusual situation right now. Your emotional balance and physical rhythm will be thrown off. It’s possible your period might stop, or the timing may be off.”

“It has never happened before, but I understand how it could.”

“According to Tamaru you don’t see how you could be pregnant.”

“The last time I had sexual relations with a man was the middle of June. After that, nothing at all.”

“Still, you suspect you might be pregnant. Is there any evidence for that? Other than your period being late?”

“I just have a feeling about it.”

“A feeling?”

“A feeling inside me.”

“A feeling that you have conceived?”

“Once we talked about eggs, remember? The evening we went to see Tsubasa. About how women have a set number of them?”

“I remember. The average woman has about four hundred eggs. Each month, she releases one of them.”

“Well, I have the distinct sensation that one of those eggs has been fertilized. I don’t know if sensation is the right word, though.”

The dowager pondered this. “I have had two children, so I think I have a very good idea of what you mean by sensation. But you’re saying you’ve been impregnated without having had sex with a man. That is a little difficult to accept.”

“I know. I feel the same way.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask this, but is it possible you’ve had sexual relations with someone while you weren’t conscious?”

“That is not possible. My mind is always clear.”

The dowager chose her words carefully. “I have always thought of you as a very calm, logical person.”

“I’ve always tried to be,” Aomame said.

“In spite of that, you think you are pregnant without having had sex.”

“I think that possibility exists. To put it more accurately,” Aomame replied. “Of course, it might not make any sense even to consider it.”

“I understand,” the dowager said. “Let’s wait and see what happens. The pregnancy kit will be there tomorrow. It will come at the same time and in the same way as the rest of the supplies. We will include several types of tests, just to be sure.”

“I really appreciate it,” Aomame said.

“If it does turn out that you are pregnant, when do you think it happened?”

“I think it was that night when I went to the Hotel Okura. The night there was a storm.”

The dowager gave a short sigh. “You can pinpoint it that clearly?”

“I calculated it, and that night just happened to be the day when I was most fertile.”

“Which would mean that you are two months along.”

“That’s right,” Aomame said.

“Do you have any morning sickness? This would normally be when you would have the worst time of it.”

“No, I don’t feel nauseous at all. I don’t know why, though.”

The dowager took her time, and carefully chose her next words. “If you do the test and it does turn out you’re pregnant, how do you think you’ll react?”

“I suppose I’ll try to figure out who the child’s biological father could be. This would be very important to me.”

“But you have no idea.”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“I understand,” the dowager said, calmly. “At any rate, whatever does happen, I will always be with you. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. I want you to remember that.”

“I’m sorry to cause so much trouble at a time like this,” Aomame said.

“It’s no trouble at all,” the dowager said. “This is the most important thing for a woman. Let’s wait for the test results, and then decide what we’ll do. Just relax.”

And she quietly hung up.

Someone knocked at the door. Aomame was in the bedroom doing yoga, and she stopped and listened carefully. The knock was hard and insistent. She remembered that sound.

She took the automatic pistol from the drawer and switched off the safety. She pulled back the slide to send a round into the chamber. She stuck the pistol in the back of her sweatpants and softly padded out to the dining room. She gripped the softball bat in both hands and stared at the door.

“Miss Takai,” a thick, hoarse voice called out. “Are you there, Miss Takai? NHK here, come to collect the subscription fee.”

Plastic tape was wrapped around the handle of the bat so it wouldn’t slip.

“Miss Takai, to repeat myself, I know you’re in there. So please stop playing this silly game of hide-and-seek. You’re inside, and you’re listening to my voice.”

The man was saying almost exactly the same things he had said the previous time, like a tape being replayed.

“I told you I would be back, but you probably thought that was just an empty threat. You should know that I always keep my promises. And if there are fees to collect, I most definitely will collect them. You’re in there, Miss Takai, and you’re listening. And you’re thinking this: If I just stay patient, the collector will give up and go away.”

He knocked on the door again for some time. Twenty, maybe twenty-five times. What sort of hands does this man have? Aomame wondered. And why doesn’t he use the doorbell?

“And I know you’re thinking this, too,” the fee collector said, as if reading her mind. “You are thinking that this man must have pretty tough hands. And that his hands must hurt, pounding on the door like this so many times. And there is another thing you are thinking: Why in the world is he knocking, anyway? There’s a doorbell, so why not ring that?”

Aomame grimaced.

The fee collector continued. “No, I don’t want to ring the bell. If I do, all you hear is the bell ringing, that’s all. No matter who pushes the bell, it makes the same harmless little sound. Now, a knock—that has personality. You use your physical body to knock on something and there’s a flesh-and-blood emotion behind it. Of course my hand does hurt. I’m not Superman, after all. But it can’t be helped. This is my profession. And every profession, no matter high or low, deserves respect. Don’t you agree, Miss Takai?”

Knocks pounded on the door again. Twenty-seven in all, powerful knocks with a fixed pause between each one. Aomame’s hands grew sweaty as they gripped the bat.

“Miss Takai, people who receive the NHK TV signal have to pay the fee—it’s the law. There are no two ways about it. It is a rule we have to follow. So why don’t you just cheerfully pay the fee? I’m not pounding on your door because I want to, and I know you don’t want this unpleasantness to go on forever. You must be thinking, Why do I have to go through this? So just cheerfully pay up. Then you can go back to your quiet life again.”

The man’s voice echoed loudly down the hallway. This man is enjoying the sound of his own voice, Aomame thought. He’s getting a kick out of insulting people, making fun of them and abusing them. She could sense the perverse pleasure he was getting from this.

“You’re quite the stubborn lady, aren’t you, Miss Takai. I’m impressed. You’re like a shellfish at the bottom of a deep ocean, maintaining a strict silence. But I know you’re in there. You’re there, glaring at me through the door. The tension is making your underarms sweat. Do I have that right?”

Thirteen more knocks. Then he stopped. Aomame realized she was, indeed, sweating under her arms.

“All right. That’s enough for today. But I’ll be back soon. I’m starting to grow fond of this door. There are lots of doors in the world, and this one is not bad at all. It is definitely a door worth knocking on. At this rate I won’t be able to relax unless I drop by here regularly to give it a few good knocks. Good-bye, Miss Takai. I’ll be back.”

Silence reigned. The fee collector had apparently left for good, but she hadn’t heard any footsteps. Maybe he was pretending to have left and was waiting outside the door. Aomame gripped the bat even tighter and waited a couple of minutes.

“I’m still here,” the fee collector suddenly announced. “Ha! You thought I left, didn’t you? But I’m still here. I lied. Sorry about that, Miss Takai. That’s the sort of person I am.”

She heard him cough. An intentionally grating cough.

“I’ve been at this job for a long time. And over the years I’ve become able to picture the people on the other side of the door. This is the truth. Quite a few people hide behind their door and try to get away with not paying the NHK fee. I’ve been dealing with them for decades. Listen, Miss Takai.”

He knocked three times, louder than he ever had.

“Listen, Miss Takai. You’re very clever at hiding, like a flounder on the sea floor covered in sand. Mimicry, they call it. But in the end you won’t be able to escape. Someone will come and open this door. You can count on it. As a veteran NHK fee collector, I guarantee it. You can hide as cleverly as you like, but in the final analysis mimicry is deception, pure and simple. It doesn’t solve a thing. It’s true, Miss Takai. I’ll be on my way soon. Don’t worry, this time for real. But I’ll be back soon. When you hear a knock, you’ll know it’s me. Well, see you, Miss Takai. Take care!”

She couldn’t hear any footsteps this time, either. She waited five minutes, then went up to the door and listened carefully. She squinted through the peephole. No one was outside. This time the fee collector really had left, it seemed.

Aomame leaned the metal bat up against the kitchen counter. She slid the round out of the pistol’s chamber, set the safety, wrapped it back up in a pair of thick tights, and returned it to the drawer. She lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes. The man’s voice still rang in her ears.

But in the end you won’t be able to escape. Someone will come and open this door.

At least this man wasn’t from Sakigake. They would take a quieter, more indirect approach. They would never yell in an apartment hallway, insinuate things like that, putting their target on guard. That was not their MO. Aomame pictured Buzzcut and Ponytail. They would sneak up on you without making a sound. And before you knew it, they would be standing right behind you.

Aomame shook her head, and breathed quietly.

Maybe he really was an NHK fee collector. If so, it was strange that he didn’t notice the sticker that said they paid the subscription fee automatically. Aomame had checked that the sticker was pasted to the side of the door. Maybe the man was a mental patient. But the things he said had a bit too much reality to them for that. The man certainly did seem to sense my presence on the other side of the door. As if he had sniffed out my secret, or a part of it. But he did not have the power to open the door and come in. The door had to be opened from inside. And I’m not planning on opening it.

No, she thought, it’s hard to say that for sure. Someday I might open the door. If Tengo were to show up at the playground, I wouldn’t hesitate to open the door and rush outside. It doesn’t matter what might be waiting for me.

Aomame sank down into the garden chair on the balcony and gazed as usual through the cracks in the screen at the playground. A high school couple were sitting on the bench underneath the zelkova tree, discussing something, serious expressions on their faces. Two young mothers were watching their children, not yet old enough for kindergarten, playing in the sandbox. They were deep in conversation yet kept their eyes glued to their children. A typical afternoon scene in a park. Aomame stared at the top of the slide for a long time.

She brought her hand down to her abdomen, shut her eyes, and listened carefully, trying to pick up the voice. Something was definitely alive inside her. A small, living something. She knew it.

Dohta, she whispered.

Maza, something replied.