1Q84 (76 page)

“I was going to let it ring three times and then call again. We had an arrangement,” Tengo said wearily.

“I forgot,” Fuka-Eri said with apparent unconcern.

“I’m sure I asked you not to forget.”

“Want to do it again,” Fuka-Eri asked.

“No, never mind, we’re talking. Has anything unusual happened since I left?”

“No calls. Nobody came.”

“Good. I’m through working. I’ll be coming back now.”

“A big crow came and cawed outside the window,” Fuka-Eri said.

“He comes every evening. Nothing to worry about. It’s like a social call. Anyhow, I should be back by seven.”

“Better hurry.”

“Why’s that?” Tengo asked.

“The Little People are stirring.”

“The Little People are stirring,” Tengo repeated her words. “In my apartment?”

“No. Somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else.”

“Way far away.”

“But you can hear them.”

“I can hear them.”

“Does it mean something?” Tengo asked.

“That something extra ordinary is starting.”

It took Tengo a moment to realize she meant “extraordinary.” “And what kind of extraordinary something would that be?”

“I can’t tell that much.”

“The Little People are going to make this extraordinary thing happen?”

Fuka-Eri shook her head. He could feel it through the phone. It meant she didn’t know.

“Better come back before the thunder starts,” she said.

“Thunder?”

“If the train stops running, we’ll be apart.”

Tengo turned and looked out the window. It was a calm late-summer evening without a cloud in the sky. “It doesn’t look like thunder.”

“You can’t tell from looks.”

“I’ll hurry,” Tengo said.

“Better hurry,” Fuka-Eri said, and hung up.

Tengo stepped outside, looked up once again at the clear evening sky, and walked briskly toward Yoyogi Station, Ushikawa’s words resounding in his head like a tape on auto-repeat.

What I’m trying to say is this: there are things in this world that are better left as unknowns. The business about your mother, for example. Learning the truth would just hurt you. And once you do learn the truth, you end up having to take on a certain responsibility for it
.

And somewhere the Little People are stirring. They apparently have something to do with an extraordinary event that is coming our way. For now, the sky is beautiful and clear, but you can’t tell by how things look. Maybe the thunder will
roar, the rain will fall, and the trains will stop. Got to hurry back to the apartment. Fuka-Eri’s voice was strangely compelling
.

“We have to join forces,” she had said.

Those long arms were reaching out from somewhere.
We have to join forces. Because we’ll be the world’s strongest male/female duo
.

The Beat Goes On.

Aomame spread her blue foam yoga mat on the carpeted bedroom floor. Then she told the man to take off his top. He got down from the bed and pulled off his shirt. He looked even bigger without a shirt on. He was deep-chested, with bulging muscles, and had no drooping excess flesh. To all appearances, this was a very healthy body.

Following Aomame’s directions, he lay facedown on the mat. Aomame touched his wrist and took his pulse. It was strong and steady.

“Are you doing some kind of regular exercise?” Aomame asked.

“Not really,” he said. “Just breathing.”

“Just breathing?”

“It’s a little different from ordinary breathing,” the man said.

“Like you were doing before in the dark, I suppose. Deep, repetitive breathing with all the muscles of your body.”

Facedown, he gave a little nod.

Aomame could not quite grasp it. While his intense style of breathing certainly must take a good deal of physical strength, was it possible for mere breathing to maintain such a tight, powerful body?

“What I’m about to do now involves a good deal of pain,” Aomame said in a voice without inflection. “It has to hurt for it to do any good. On the other hand, I can adjust the amount of pain. So if it hurts, don’t just bear it—speak up.”

The man paused for a moment before saying, “If there is a pain I’ve never tasted, I’d like to try it.” This sounded mildly sarcastic to her.

“Pain is not fun for anybody.”

“But a painful technique is more effective, is that it? I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.”

Aomame allowed herself a momentary facial expression in the pale darkness. Then she said, “I understand. Let’s both see how it goes.”

As always, Aomame started with the stretching of the shoulder blades. The first thing she noticed when she touched his flesh was its suppleness. This was fine, healthy flesh, fundamentally different in composition from the tired, stiff flesh of the urbanites with whom she dealt at the gym. At the same time, however, she had a strong sense that its natural “flow” was being blocked by something, the way a river’s flow can be blocked temporarily by floating timber or other debris.

Leaning her weight into her elbow, Aomame squeezed the man’s shoulder upward—slowly at first, but then with a serious application of strength. She knew he was feeling pain—intense pain that would make any ordinary human being cry out. But he bore it in silence. His breathing remained calm, nor was there any hint of a frown on his face.
He tolerates pain well
, she thought. She decided to see how much he could stand. She held nothing back from her next push, until the shoulder blade joint gave out with a dull snap and she could tell that the track had been switched. The man’s breathing paused momentarily but immediately resumed its quiet, steady pace.

“Your shoulder blade was tremendously obstructed,” Aomame explained, “but that took care of it. Now the flow is back to normal.”

She jammed her fingers in under the shoulder blade up to the second joint. The muscles here were meant to be flexible, and once the obstruction was removed they would quickly return to normal.

“That feels much better,” the man murmured.

“It must have hurt quite a bit.”

“Not more than I could stand.”

“I myself have a rather high tolerance for pain, but if someone had done the same thing to me, I’m pretty sure I would have cried out.”

“In most cases, one pain is alleviated or canceled out by another pain. The senses are, ultimately, relative.”

Aomame placed her hand on his left shoulder blade, felt for the muscles with her fingertips, and determined that they were in about the same condition that the right ones had been.
Let’s see just how relative this can be
. “I’ll do the left side now. It should hurt about as much as the right side did.”

“Do what you need to. Don’t worry about me.”

“Meaning, I shouldn’t hold back at all?”

“No need for that.”

Following the same procedure, Aomame corrected the joints and the muscles around the left shoulder blade. As instructed, she did not hold back. Once she had decided she would not hold anything back, Aomame took the shortest possible route without hesitation. The man reacted even more calmly than he had with the right side. He accepted the pain with complete equanimity, making only one brief swallowing sound in his throat.
All right, let’s see how much he can stand
, Aomame thought.

She started working on his muscles one after another in order, loosening them up, following her mental checklist. All she had to do was mechanically follow the usual route, like a capable and fearless night watchman making the rounds of his building with a flashlight.

All of his muscles were more or less “blocked,” like a region that has suffered a horrible disaster, its waterways obstructed, their embankments collapsed. Any ordinary human being in such a condition would probably not be able to stand up—or even breathe normally. This man was supported by his sturdy flesh and strong will. However despicable his behavior might have been, Aomame could not deny him her professional admiration for his ability to bear such intense pain in silence.

She worked on one muscle after another, forcing it to move, bending and stretching it to the limit, and each time the joint would release a dull pop. She was fully aware that this was something close to torture. She had performed this muscle stretching on many athletes, tough men used to living with physical pain, but even the toughest of them at some point couldn’t stop themselves from letting out a cry—or something close to a cry. Some even wet themselves. But this man never even groaned. He was very impressive. Still, it was possible to guess the pain he was feeling from the sweat oozing on the back of his neck. Aomame herself was starting to develop a film of sweat on her body.

It took close to thirty minutes for her to loosen up the muscles on the back of his body. When this was finished, she took a moment’s break to wipe the sweat from her forehead.

This is very odd
, Aomame thought.
I came here to kill this man. In my bag is the superfine ice pick I made. If I hold its point at the right spot on the back of his neck and punch the handle, it will be all over. He would never know what happened to him as his life came to an instantaneous end and he moved on to another world. That way, in effect, his body would be released from all pain. Instead, I’m spending all my energy to ease the pain that he is feeling in the real world
.

I am probably doing it because this is the work that I have been given to do
, Aomame thought.
Whenever I have work before me, I have to pour all my strength into getting it done. That is just the way I am. If I am given the job of curing problem muscles, then I will pour all my strength into that. If I have to kill a person and have a proper reason for doing so, I will do that with all my strength
.

Obviously, though, I can’t do both at the same time. The two jobs have conflicting purposes and call for incompatible methods. I can only do one at a time. At the moment I am trying to bring this man’s muscles back to as normal a
state as possible. I am concentrating my mind on that task and mobilizing all the strength I can muster up. I can think about the other task after this one is finished
.

At the same time, Aomame was unable to suppress her curiosity. The man’s far-from-ordinary illness; the fine, healthy muscles so terribly obstructed by it; the strong will and powerful flesh that enabled him to bear the intense pain he called his “payment for heavenly grace”: all aroused her curiosity. She wanted to see what she could do for this man, what kind of response his flesh would show. It was a matter of both professional curiosity and personal curiosity.
Also, if I killed him now, I would have to leave right away. If the job ends too quickly, the two men in the next room might find it suspicious. I told them that it would take an hour at the very least
.

“I’m halfway done. Now I’ll do the second half. Could you please turn over onto your back?”

The man rolled over slowly like some large aquatic animal that has been cast up on the shore.

“The pain is definitely lessening,” the man said after releasing a long breath. “None of the treatments I have tried thus far have done as much.”

“I am only treating the symptoms, however, not solving the basic problem. Until you identify the cause, the same thing will probably keep happening.”

“I know that. I considered using morphine, but I would rather not use drugs if possible. Long-term use of drugs destroys the function of the brain.”

“I will go on with the rest of the treatment now,” Aomame said. “I gather you are all right with my not holding back.”

“It goes without saying.”

Aomame emptied her mind and worked on the man’s muscles with total concentration. The structure of each muscle in the human body was engraved in her professional memory—its function, the bones to which it was attached, its unique characteristics, its sensitivities. She inspected, shook, and effectively worked on each muscle and joint in order, the way zealous inquisitors used to test every point of pain in their victims’ bodies.

Thirty minutes later, they were bathed in sweat, panting like lovers who have just had miraculously deep sex. The man said nothing for a time, and Aomame was at a loss for words.

Finally, the man spoke: “I don’t want to exaggerate, but I feel as if every part of my body has been replaced.”

Aomame said, “You might experience something of a backlash tonight. During the night your muscles might tighten up tremendously and let out a scream, but don’t worry, they will be back to normal tomorrow morning.”

If you have a tomorrow morning
, Aomame thought.

Sitting cross-legged on the yoga mat, the man took several deep breaths, as though testing the condition of his body. Then he said, “You really do seem to have a special talent.”

Aomame toweled the sweat from her face as she said, “What I do is strictly practical. I studied the structure and function of the muscles in college and have expanded my knowledge through actual practice. I’ve put together my own system by making tiny adjustments to my technique, just doing things that are obvious and reasonable. ‘Truth’ here is for the most part observable and provable. It also involves a good deal of pain, of course.”

The man opened his eyes and looked at Aomame as though intrigued. “So that is what you believe.”

“What do you mean?” Aomame asked.

“That truth is strictly something observable and provable.”

Aomame pursed her lips slightly. “I’m not saying it is true for all truths, just that it happens to be the case in my professional field. Of course, if it were true in all fields, things in general would be a lot easier to grasp.”

“Not at all,” the man said.

“Why is that?”

“Most people are not looking for provable truths. As you said, truth is often accompanied by intense pain, and almost no one is looking for painful truths. What people need is beautiful, comforting stories that make them feel as if their lives have some meaning. Which is where religion comes from.”