1q84 by Haruki Murakami
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.”
The man turned his neck several times before continuing.
“If a certain belief—call it ‘Belief A’—makes the life of that man or this woman appear to be something of deep meaning, then for them Belief A is the truth. If Belief B makes their lives appear to be powerless and puny, then Belief B turns out to be a falsehood. The distinction is quite clear. If someone insists that Belief B is the truth, people will probably hate him, ignore him, or, in some cases, attack him. It means nothing to them that Belief B might be logical or provable. Most people barely manage to preserve their sanity by denying and rejecting images of themselves as powerless and puny.”
“But people’s flesh—all flesh, with only minor differences—is a powerless and puny thing. This is self-evident, don’t you think?”
“I do,” the man said. “All flesh, with only minor differences, is a powerless and puny thing doomed soon to disintegrate and disappear. That is an unmistakable truth. But what, then, of a person’s spirit?”
“I try my best not to think about the spirit.”
“And why is that?”
“Because there is no particular need to think about it.”
“Why is there no particular need to think about the spirit? Setting aside the question of whether it has any practical value to do so, thinking about one’s own spirit is one of the most indispensable of all human tasks, is it not?”
“I have love,” Aomame declared.
Oh, no, what am I doing? she thought. Talking about love to this man I’m about to kill!
As a breeze sends ripples over the surface of a quiet pond, a faint smile spread across the man’s face, conveying a natural and even friendly emoti
“Do you think that love is all a person needs?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Now, this ‘love’ of yours—does it have a particular individual as its object?”
“It does,” Aomame said. “It is directed toward a specific man.”
“Powerless, puny flesh and an absolute love free of shadows …,” he murmured. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “You don’t seem to have any need for religion.”
“Maybe I don’t have any need.”
“Because your attitude is itself the very essence of religion, as it were.”
“You said before that religion offers not so much truth as beautiful hypotheses. Where does that leave the religion that you head?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t consider what I do to be a religious activity,” the man said. “What I am doing is listening to the voices and transmitting them to people. I am the only one who can hear the voices. That I can hear them is an unmistakable truth, but I can’t prove that their messages are the truth. All I can do is to embody their accompanying traces of heavenly grace.”
Lightly biting her lip, Aomame set down her towel. She wanted to ask what kinds of grace he was talking about, but she stopped herself. This could go on forever. She still had an important task she had to complete.
“Can you lie facedown again? I’m going to work on loosening up your neck muscles,” Aomame said.
The man stretched out his huge frame again on the yoga mat and presented the back of his thick neck to Aomame.
“In any case, you have a magic touch,” he said, using the English expression.
“Magic touch?”
“Fingers that give off extraordinary power. An acute sense for locating those special points on the body. A special capacity that is granted to very few individuals. This is not something you can learn through study and practice. I have something—a very different kind of something—that came to me in the same way. But as with all forms of heavenly grace, people have to pay a price for the gifts they are given.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” Aomame said. “I simply developed my techniques through study and a lot of practice. They were not ‘granted’ to me by anybody.”
“I’m not going to get involved in a debate with you. Just remember this: the gods give, and the gods take away. Even if you are not aware of having been granted what you possess, the gods remember what they gave you. They don’t forget a thing. You should use the abilities you have been granted with the utmost care.”
Aomame looked at her ten fingers. Then she placed them on the back of the man’s neck, concentrating all her awareness into her fingertips. The gods give, and the gods take away.
“I’ll be through soon. This is the finishing touch,” she announced drily to the man’s back.
She seemed to hear thunder in the distance. She raised her face and looked out the window. There was nothing to see but the dark sky. Again the sound came, reverberating hollowly in the quiet room.
“It is going to rain any time now,” the man declared in a voice without feeling.
Hands on the back of the man’s thick neck, Aomame searched for the special spot. This required unusual powers of concentration. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and listened for the flow of his blood there. Her fingertips strained to read detailed information from the elasticity of his skin and the conduction of his body heat. There was only one special spot, and it was exceptionally small. On some people, it was easy to find, but much more difficult on others. This man they called “Leader” was clearly the latter type. This was like trying to find a single coin in a pitch-dark room entirely by feel, while taking care not to make any sound. At last, however, she found it. She placed her fingertip on it and engraved the feel and its precise position into her mind as though marking a map, a special ability that had been imparted to her.
“Please stay in that exact position,” Aomame said to the man as he lay there prone. She reached out for the gym bag lying next to them and from it took out the hard case holding the little ice pick.
“One spot is left on the back of your neck where the flow is still blocked,” Aomame said calmly, “and I can’t seem to resolve it with only the strength of my fingers. If I can remove the blockage in this one place, it should give you great relief from your pain. I want to place one simple acupuncture needle there. Don’t worry, I’ve done this any number of times. Do you mind?”
The man released a deep breath. “I am leaving it entirely up to you. I will accept anything from you that will erase the pain I am feeling.”
She took the ice pick from the case and slipped the cork from its tip. The point had its usual deadly sharpness. She held the ice pick in her left hand and used the index finger of her right hand to locate the point she had found earlier. This was the spot, without the slightest doubt. She placed the point against the spot and took a deep breath. Now all she needed to do was bring her right hand down on the handle like a hammer and drive the needle’s exceedingly fine point deep into the spot. Then it would all be over.
But something held her back. For some reason, she was unable to bring down the fist she was holding aloft. With this, it will be all over, Aomame thought. With one stroke, I can send this man to the “other side.” Then I leave the room looking cool, change my face and name, and take on a new personality. I can do it. Without fear, without pangs of conscience. This man has repeatedly committed loathsome acts that deserve death, there can be no doubt. But, for some reason, she could not bring herself to do it. What held her right hand back was an incoherent yet persistent doubt. This is all happening too easily, her instincts were warning her.
Reason had nothing to do with it. She simply knew: something was wrong. Something was not natural. All her powers and abilities were clashing inside her, their disparate elements engaged in a fierce struggle. Her face performed deep contortions in the darkness.
“What is it?” the man called out. “I’m waiting. I’m waiting for you to finish once and for all.”
When she heard this, Aomame finally realized what was holding her back. This man knows. He knows what I am about to do to him.
“There is no need for you to hesitate,” the man said calmly. “It’s all right. What you want is also what I want.”
The thunder continued to rumble, but there was no lightning to be seen, just a roar like distant cannons. The battlefield was still far off. The man continued.
“If there were ever a perfect treatment, that is it. You did a careful job of stretching out my muscles. I have only the purest respect for your skill. But as you pointed out yourself, it is, ultimately, nothing but a symptomatic treatment. My pain has advanced to the point where it can only be resolved by severing my life at the roots, by going down to the basement and cutting the main switch. You are about to do that for me.”
Aomame maintained her pose, the left hand holding the needle against the special spot on the back of his neck, the right hand held aloft. She could move neither forward nor back.
“If you want to put a stop to what you are about to do, there are any number of ways you can do that. It’s simple,” he said. “Try bringing your right hand down.”
As directed, Aomame tried to lower her right hand. But it would not budge. It was frozen in midair, like the hand of a stone statue.
“I have the power to do that—not that it was something I ever hoped to obtain. All right, you can move your right hand now. Now you are in complete control of my life.”
Aomame became aware that she could now move her right hand freely. She clenched her fist and opened it. It felt entirely normal. He must have employed something like hypnotism. Whatever it was, it was very powerful.
“They have granted me these special powers, but in return they have impressed certain demands upon me. Their desires have become my desires—implacable desires that I have been unable to defy.”
“They?” Aomame asked. “Do you mean the Little People?”
“So
“All I know is that name. I don’t know who or what the Little People are.”
“Probably no one knows for sure who the Little People are,” the man said. “All that people are able to learn is that they exist. Have you read Frazer’s The Golden Bough?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It is a very interesting book that has much to teach us. In certain periods of history in several parts of the world—in ancient times, of course—the king was often killed at the end of his reign, usually after a fixed period of ten to twelve years. When the term ended, the people would gather together and slaughter him. This was deemed necessary for the community, and the kings themselves willingly accepted it. The killing had to be cruel and bloody, and it was considered a great honor bestowed upon the one who was king. Now, why did the king have to be killed? It was because in those days the king was the one who listened to the voices, as the representative of the people. Such a person would take it upon himself to become the circuit connecting ‘us’ with ‘them.’ And slaughtering the one who listened to the voices was the indispensable task of the community in order to maintain a balance between the minds of those who lived on the earth and the power manifested by the Little People. In the ancient world, ‘to rule’ was synonymous with ‘listening to the voices of the gods.’ Such a system was at some point abandoned, of course. Kings were no longer killed, and kingship became secular and hereditary. In this way, people stopped hearing the voices.”
Unconsciously opening and closing her elevated right hand, Aomame listened to what the man was saying.
“They have been called by many different names, but in most cases have not been called anything at all. They were simply there. The expression ‘Little People’ is just an expedient. My daughter called them that when she was very young and brought them with her.”
“Then you became a king.”