1q84 by Haruki Murakami
The old man seemed to have taken a liking to Ushikawa. This made Ushikawa uncomfortable.
“By the way, what sort of person is Mrs. Ogata?” Ushikawa asked, trying to sound casual.
“I really don’t know that much about her,” the old man replied, knitting his brow like the spirit of an old, withered tree. “She lives a very quiet, reserved life. I’ve done business here for many years, but at most I’ve just caught glimpses of her from afar. When she goes out she always has a chauffeur, and her maids do all the shopping. She has a man who is like her personal secretary and he takes care of most everything. I mean, she’s a well-bred, wealthy woman, and you can’t expect her to talk with the hoi polloi.” The old man frowned, and from the midst of those wrinkles came a wink, directed at Ushikawa.
By hoi polloi, the old man with the yellowed face seemed to be talking about a group composed primarily of two people: himself and Ushikawa.
Ushikawa asked another question. “How long has Mrs. Ogata been active in providing a safe house for victims of domestic violence?”
“I’m not really sure. I’ve only heard from others that the place is a kind of kakekomidera. But about four years ago, people started to go in and out of that apartment building. Four or five years, something like that.” The old man lifted the teacup to his lips and drank his cold tea. “It was about then that they built a new gate and the security got tighter. It’s a safe house, after all, and if anyone can just wander in, the folks who live there won’t be able to relax.”
The old man seemed to come back to the present. He looked at Ushikawa a bit suspiciously. “So—you said you’re looking for a reasonably priced place to rent?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then you better try somewhere else. This neighborhood is full of expensive mansions and even if there are places for rent that come on the market, they’re all high-end rentals aimed at foreigners who work in the embassies. A long time ago there were a lot of regular people who lived around here, ones who weren’t so wealthy. As a matter of fact, finding places for them is how our business got started. But there aren’t any affordable houses left, so I’m thinking of closing the business. Land prices in Tokyo have skyrocketed and small fry like me can’t handle it anymore. Unless you have bags of cash to spare, I suggest you try elsewhere.”
“I’ll do that,” Ushikawa said. “The truth is, I am a bit strapped. I’ll try some other location.”
The old man breathed out cigarette smoke and a sigh. “But once Mrs. Ogata passes, you can bet that mansion will disappear. That son of hers is a real go-getter, and there’s no way he’s going to let a prime piece of real estate like that in a premium area just sit around. He’ll knock it down in a flash and put up an ultra-high-end condo. He may very well be drawing up the blueprints as we speak.”
“If that happens this whole neighborhood won’t be quite as serene as it is now.”
“Yup, you won’t recognize it.”
“You mentioned her son. What business is he in?”
“Basically he’s in real estate. The same as me. But the difference between us is like chalk and cheese. Like a Rolls-Royce and an old bicycle. He takes a huge amount of capital and then makes investments on his own, one after another. He licks up all the honey himself, without leaving a drop behind. Nothing spills over in my direction, I can tell you that. The world sucks, that’s for sure.”
“I was just walking around a while ago and wandered all around the outskirts of that mansion. I was impressed. It’s quite a place.”
“Well, it’s definitely the best residence in this neighborhood. When I picture those beautiful willow trees being chopped down, it hurts.” The old man shook his head as if he really were in pain. “I can only hope that Mrs. Ogata lives a little longer.”
“I hear you,” Ushikawa agreed.
Ushikawa found a listing for the Center for Victims of Domestic Violence in the phone book and decided to contact them. It was a nonprofit organization, run by volunteers and headed by several lawyers. Ushikawa made an appointment in the name of his phony office, the New Japan Foundation for the Advancement of Scholarship and the Arts. He led them to believe he might be a potential donor, and they set the time for the appointment.
Ushikawa proffered his business card (which was the same as the one he had given to Tengo) and explained how one of the purposes of his foundation was to pinpoint an outstanding nonprofit organization that was making a real contribution to society, and provide them with a grant. Though he couldn’t reveal who the sponsor was, the grant could be used in any way the recipient wished. The only requirement was to submit a simple report by the end of the year.
Ushikawa’s appearance didn’t inspire any goodwill or trust, and the young lawyer he spoke with eyed him warily at first. However, they were chronically short on funds, and had to accept any support, no matter the source.
“I’ll need to know more about your activities,” Ushikawa said. The lawyer explained how they had started the organization. Ushikawa found this history boring, but he listened carefully, his expression one of devoted interest. He made all the appropriate noises, nodded in all the right places, and kept his expression docile and open. As he did, the lawyer warmed up to him. Ushikawa was a highly trained listener, adopting such a sincere and receptive manner that he almost always succeeded in putting the other person at ease.
He found the opportunity to casually nudge the conversation in the direction of the safe house. For the unfortunate women who are running away from domestic violence, he asked, if they can’t find an appropriate place to go, where do they end up living? He put on an expression that showed his deep sympathy for these women whose fate was like that of leaves tossed about in some outrageously strong wind.
“In instances like that we have several safe houses where they can go,” the young lawyer replied.
“Safe houses?”
“Temporary refuges. There aren’t many, but there are places that charitable people have offered us. One person has even provided an entire apartment building for us to use.”
“An entire apartment building,” Ushikawa said, sounding impressed. “I guess some people can be quite generous.”
“That’s right. Whenever our activities are covered in newspapers or magazines, inevitably we’ll get a call from people wanting to help out. Without offers from people like that, we would never be able to keep this organization going, since we depend almost entirely on contributions.”
“What you’re doing is very meaningful,” Ushikawa said.
The lawyer flashed him a vulnerable smile. Nobody’s easier to fool, Ushikawa thought, than the person who is convinced that he is right.
“How many women would you say are living in that apartment building now?”
“It depends, but—let’s see—I would say usually four or five,” the lawyer said.
“About that charitable person who provided that apartment building,” Ushikawa said, “how did this person get involved? I’m thinking there must have been some event that led up to this interest.”
The lawyer tilted his head. “I really don’t know. Though in the past this person was, it seems, involved in similar activities, on an individual level. As far as we’re concerned, we’re just grateful for this individual’s kindness. We don’t ask the reasons behind it.”
“Of course,” Ushikawa nodded. “I assume you keep the locations of your safe houses secret?”
“Correct. We have to make sure that the women are protected, plus many of our donors prefer to remain anonymous. I mean, we’re dealing with acts of violence, after all.”
They talked for a while longer, but Ushikawa was unable to extract any more useful information. What Ushikawa knew were the following facts: the Center for Victims of Domestic Violence had begun operations in earnest four years ago. Not long afterward, a certain “donor” had contacted them and offered them use of a vacant apartment building as a safe house. The donor had read about their activities in the newspape
“Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me,” Ushikawa said warmly to the idealistic young lawyer. “Your organization is certainly making a valuable contribution. I’ll present what I have learned here to our board of directors. We should be getting in touch with you fairly soon. In the meantime, my very best wishes for your continued success.”
Next, Ushikawa began to investigate the death of the dowager’s daughter. The daughter had married an elite bureaucrat in the Ministry of Transport and was only thirty-six when she died. He didn’t know the cause yet. Not long after she died, her husband left the Ministry of Transport. These were the only facts Ushikawa had unearthed so far. He didn’t know why the husband had left the ministry, or what sort of life he had led afterward. The Ministry of Transport was not the sort of government office that willingly revealed information regarding its inner workings to ordinary citizens. But Ushikawa had a sharp sense of smell, and something smelled fishy. He couldn’t believe that losing his wife would have made the man so overcome with grief that he would quit his job and go into hiding.
Ushikawa knew there weren’t many thirty-six-year-old women who died of illness. Not that there weren’t some. No matter how old you are, or how blessed your circumstances, you can suddenly fall ill and die—from cancer, a brain tumor, peritonitis, acute pneumonia. The human body is a fragile thing. But for an affluent woman of thirty-six to join the ranks of the dead—in all likelihood it was not a natural death, but either an accident or suicide.
Let me speculate here, Ushikawa said to himself. Following the famous rule of Occam’s razor, I’ll try to find the simplest possible explanation. Eliminate all unnecessary factors, boil it all down to one logical line, and then look at the situation.
Let’s say the dowager’s daughter didn’t die of illness but by suicide. Ushikawa rubbed his hands together as he pondered this. It wouldn’t be too hard to pretend that a suicide was actually death by illness, especially for someone with money and influence. Take this a step further and say that this daughter was the victim of domestic violence, grew despondent, and took her own life. Certainly not an impossibility. It was a well-known fact that certain members of the so-called elite had disgusting personalities and dark, twisted tendencies, as if they had taken more than the share of darkness allotted to them.
If that were the case, what would the rich old dowager do? Would she call it fate, say that nothing else could be done, and give up? Not very likely. She would take suitable revenge against whatever force had driven her daughter to her untimely end. Ushikawa felt he had a better understanding of the dowager. She was a daring, bright woman, with a clear vision and a strong will. And she would spare neither fortune nor influence to avenge the death of the one she loved.
Ushikawa had no way of knowing what kind of retaliation she had actually taken toward her daughter’s husband, since all trace of him had vanished into thin air. He didn’t think that the dowager had gone so far as to take the man’s life. But he had no doubt that she had taken some sort of decisive action. And it was hard to believe that she had left any trail behind.
Ushikawa’s conjectures thus far seemed to make sense, though he had no proof. His theory, however, did clear up a lot of questions. Licking his lips, Ushikawa vigorously rubbed his hands together. Beyond this point, though, things started to get a little hazy.
The dowager had set up the safe house to sublimate her desire for revenge, turning it into something more useful and positive. Then, at the sports club she frequented, she got to know the young instructor Aomame, and somehow—he had no idea how—they came to a secret understanding. After meticulous preparation, Aomame got access to the suite at the Hotel Okura and murdered Leader. The method she used was unclear. Aomame might be quite proficient in murdering people using a special technique. As a result, despite being closely guarded by two very dedicated and able bodyguards, Leader wound up dead.
Up to this point, the threads tying his conjectures held together—barely—but when it came to linking Sakigake’s Leader to the center for battered women, Ushikawa was at a total loss. At this point his thought process hit a roadblock and a very sharp razor neatly severed all the threads.
. . .
What Sakigake wanted from Ushikawa at this point were answers to two questions: Who planned the murder of Leader? and Where was Aomame?
Ushikawa was the one who had run the original background check on Aomame, and he had found nothing suspicious about her at all. But after she had left, Leader expired. And right after that, Aomame disappeared. Poof—like a gust of smoke in the wind. Sakigake had to have been very upset with Ushikawa, convinced that his investigation hadn’t been thorough enough.
But in fact, as always, his investigation left nothing to be desired. As he had told Buzzcut, Ushikawa was a stickler for making sure all the bases were covered. He could be faulted for not having checked her phone records beforehand, but unless there was something extraordinarily suspicious about a situation, that wasn’t something he normally did. And as far as he could tell from his investigations, there wasn’t a single suspect thing about Aomame.
Ushikawa didn’t want them to be upset with him forever. They paid him well, but they were a dangerous bunch. Ushikawa was one of the few who knew how they had secretly disposed of Leader’s body, which made him a potential liability. He knew he had to come up with something concrete to show them so they would know he was a valuable resource, someone worth keeping alive.
He had no proof that the old dowager from Azabu was mixed up in Leader’s murder. At this point it was pure speculation. He did know that some deep secret lay hidden inside that mansion with its magnificent willows. Ushikawa’s sense of smell told him this, and his job was to bring that truth to light. It wouldn’t be easy. The place was under heavy guard, with professionals involved.
Yakuza?
Perhaps. Businessmen, those involved in real estate in particular, are often involved in secret negotiations with yakuza. When the going gets rough, the yakuza get called in. It was possible the old dowager might be making use of their influence. But Ushikawa wasn’t very certain of this—the old dowager was too well bred to deal with people like them. Also, it was hard to imagine that she would use yakuza to protect women who were victims of domestic violence. Probably she had her own security apparatus in place, one that she paid for herself. Her own personal system she had refined. It would cost her, but then, she wasn’t hurting for funds. And this system of hers might employ violence when there was a perceived need.
If Ushikawa’s hypothesis was correct, then Aomame must have gone into hiding somewhere far away, with the aid of the old dowager. They would have carefully erased any trail, given her a new identity and a new name, possibly even a new face. If that was the case, then it would be impossible for Ushikawa’s painstaking little private investigation to track her down.
At this point the only thing to do was to try to learn more about the dowager. His hope was that he would run across a seam that would lead him to discover something about Aomame’s whereabouts. Things might work out, and then again they might not. But Ushikawa had some strong points: his sharp sense of smell and his tenaciousness. He would never let go of something once he latched onto it. Besides these, he asked himself, what other talents do I have worth mentioning? Do I have other abilities I can be proud of?
Not one, Ushikawa answered himself, convinced he was right.
CHAPTER 5
Aomame
NO MATTER HOW LONG YOU KEEP QUIET
Aomame 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 mo
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.