1Q84 (36 page)

Tengo sensed, too, that something very like desire was growing inside him. This was the first time in his life he had ever experienced such a feeling. All through high school and college, his judo coach and older teammates would often say to him, “You have the talent and the strength, and you practice enough, but you just don’t have the desire.” They were probably right. He lacked that drive to win at all costs, which is why he would often make it to the semifinals and the finals but lose the all-important championship match. He exhibited these tendencies in everything, not just judo. He was more placid than determined. It was the same with his fiction. He could write with some style and make up reasonably interesting stories, but his work lacked the strength to grab the reader by the throat. Something was missing. And so he would always make it to the short list but never take the new writers’ prize, as Komatsu had said.

After he finished rewriting
Air Chrysalis
, however, Tengo was truly chagrined for the first time in his life. While engaged in the rewrite, he had been totally absorbed in the process, moving his hands without thinking. Once he had completed the work and handed it to Komatsu, however, Tengo was assaulted by a profound sense of powerlessness. Once the powerlessness began to abate, a kind of rage surged up from deep inside him. The rage was directed at Tengo himself.
I used another person’s story to create a rewrite that amounts to a literary fraud, and I did it with far more passion than I bring to my own work. Isn’t a writer someone who finds the story hidden inside and uses the proper words to express it? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You should be able to write something as good as
Air Chrysalis
if you make up your mind to do it. Isn’t that true?

But he had to prove it to himself.

Tengo decided to discard the manuscript he had written thus far and start a brand-new story from scratch. He closed his eyes and, for a long time, listened closely to the dripping of the little spring inside him. Eventually the words began to come naturally to him. Little by little, taking all the time he needed, he began to form them into sentences.

In early May Komatsu called him for the first time in quite a while. The phone rang just before nine o’clock at night.

“It’s all set,” Komatsu said, with a note of excitement in his voice. This was rare for him.

Tengo could not tell at first what Komatsu was talking about. “What’s all set?”

“What else?
Air Chrysalis
took the new writers’ award a few minutes ago. The committee reached a unanimous decision, with none of the usual debate. I guess you could say it was inevitable, it’s such a powerful work. In any case, things have started to move. We’re in this together from now on, Tengo. Let’s give it our best shot.”

Tengo glanced at the calendar on the wall. Come to think of it, today
was
the day the screening committee was going to pick the winner. Tengo had been so absorbed in writing his own novel, he had lost all sense of time.

“So what happens now?” Tengo asked. “In terms of the prize schedule, I mean.”

“Tomorrow the newspapers announce it—every paper in the country. They’ll probably have photos, too. A pretty seventeen-year-old girl wins: that alone will cause a sensation. Don’t take this the wrong way, but that has a lot more news value than if the new writers’ prize had gone to some thirty-year-old cram school teacher who looks like a bear coming out of hibernation.”

“Way more,” Tengo said.

“Then comes the award ceremony on May 16 in a Shinbashi hotel. The press conference is all arranged.”

“Will Fuka-Eri be there?”

“I’m sure she will, this time at least. There’s no way the winner of a new writers’ prize wouldn’t be present at the award ceremony. If we can get through that without any major mishaps, we can then adopt a policy of total secrecy. ‘Sorry, but the author does not wish to make public appearances.’ We can hold them at bay like that, and the truth will never come out.”

Tengo tried to imagine Fuka-Eri holding a press conference in a hotel ballroom. A row of microphones, cameras flashing. He couldn’t picture it.

“Do you really need to have a press conference?” he asked Komatsu.

“We’ll have to, at least once, to keep up appearances.”

“It’s bound to be a disaster!”

“Which is why it’s your job, Tengo, to make sure it doesn’t turn into a disaster.”

Tengo went silent. Ominous dark clouds appeared on the horizon.

“Hey, are you still there?” Komatsu asked.

“I’m here,” Tengo said. “What does that mean—it’s
my job
?”

“You have to drill Fuka-Eri on how a press conference works and how to deal with it. Pretty much the same sorts of questions come up every time, so you should prepare answers for questions they’re likely to ask, and have her memorize them word for word. You teach at a cram school. You must know how to do stuff like that.”

“You want
me
to do it?”

“Of course. She trusts you, for some reason. She’ll listen to you. There’s no way I can do it. She hasn’t even agreed to meet me.”

Tengo sighed. He wished he could cut all ties with
Air Chrysalis
. He had done everything asked of him, and now he just wanted to concentrate on his own work. Something told him, however, that it was not going to be that simple, and he knew that bad premonitions have a far higher accuracy rate than good ones.

“Are you free in the evening the day after tomorrow?” Komatsu asked.

“I am.”

“Six o’clock at the usual cafe in Shinjuku. Fuka-Eri will be there.”

“I can’t do what you’re asking me to do,” Tengo said to Komatsu. “I don’t know anything about press conferences. I’ve never even seen one.”

“You want to be a novelist, right? So imagine it. Isn’t that the job of the novelist—to imagine things he’s never seen?”

“Yes, but aren’t you the one who told me all I had to do was rewrite
Air Chrysalis
, that you’d take care of everything else after that, that I could just sit on the sidelines and watch the rest of the game?”

“Look, I’d gladly do it if I could. I’m not crazy about asking people to do things for me, but that’s exactly what I’m doing now, pleading with you to do this job because I can’t do it. Don’t you see? It’s as if we’re in a boat shooting the rapids. I’ve got my hands full steering the rudder, so I’m letting you take the oar. If you tell me you can’t do it, the boat’s going to capsize and we all might go under, including Fuka-Eri. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

Tengo sighed again. Why did he always get himself backed into a corner where he couldn’t refuse? “Okay, I’ll do my best. But I can’t promise it’s going to work.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Komatsu said. “I’ll owe you big for this. I mean, Fuka-Eri seems to have made up her mind not to talk to anyone but you. And there’s one more thing. You and I have to set up a new company.”

“A company?”

“Company, office, firm—call it anything you like. To handle Fuka-Eri’s literary activities. A paper company, of course. Officially, Fuka-Eri will be paid by the company. We’ll have Professor Ebisuno be her representative and you’ll be a company employee. We can make up some kind of title for you, it doesn’t matter, but the main thing is the company will pay you. I’ll be in on it, too, but without revealing my name. If people found out that I was involved,
that
would cause some serious trouble. Anyway, that’s how we divide up the profits. All I need is for you to put your seal on a few documents, and I’ll take care of the rest. I know a good lawyer.”

Tengo thought about what Komatsu was telling him. “Can you please just drop me from your plan? I don’t need to be paid. I enjoyed rewriting
Air Chrysalis
, and I learned a lot from it. I’m glad that Fuka-Eri got the prize and I’ll do my best to prepare her for the press conference. But that’s all. I don’t want to have anything to do with this convoluted ‘company’ arrangement. That would be straight-up fraud.”

“You can’t turn back now, Tengo,” Komatsu said. “Straight-up fraud? Maybe so. But you must have known that from the start when we decided to pull the wool over people’s eyes with this half-invented author, Fuka-Eri. Am I right? Of course something like this is going to involve money, and that’s going to require a sophisticated system to handle it. This is not child’s play. It’s too late to start saying you don’t want to have anything to do with it, that it’s too dangerous, that you don’t need money. If you were going to get out of the boat, you should have done it before, while the stream was still gentle. You can’t do it now. We need an official head count to set up a company, and I can’t start bringing in new people now who don’t know what’s going on. You have to do it. You’re right in the thick of what’s happening now.”

Tengo racked his brain without producing a single useful thought. “I do have one question, though,” he said to Komatsu. “Judging from what you’re saying, Professor Ebisuno intends to give his full approval to the plan. It sounds as if he’s already agreed to set up the fake company and act as a representative.”

“As Fuka-Eri’s guardian, the Professor understands and approves of the entire situation and has given us the green light. I called him as soon as you told me about your talk with him. He remembered me, of course. I think he didn’t say anything about me because he wanted to get your uncensored opinion of me. He said you impressed him as a sharp observer of people. What in the world did you tell him about me?”

“What does Professor Ebisuno have to gain from participating in this plan? He can’t possibly be doing it for the money.”

“You’re right about that. He’s not the kind of guy to be influenced by a little spare change.”

“So why would he let himself get involved in such a risky plan? Does he have something to gain from it?”

“I don’t know any better than you do. He’s a hard one to read.”

“And so are you. That gives us a lot of deep motives to guess about.”

“Well, anyway,” Komatsu said, “the Professor may look like just another innocent old guy, but in fact he’s quite inscrutable.”

“How much does Fuka-Eri know about the plan?”

“She doesn’t know—and she doesn’t need to know—anything about the behind-the-scenes stuff. She trusts Professor Ebisuno and she likes you. That’s why I’m asking you for more help.”

Tengo shifted the phone from one hand to the other. He felt a need to trace the progress of the current situation. “By the way, Professor Ebisuno is not a scholar anymore, is he? He left the university, and he’s not writing books or anything.”

“True, he’s cut all ties with academia. He was an outstanding scholar, but he doesn’t seem to miss the academic world. But then, he never did want much to do with authority or the organization. He was always something of a maverick.”

“What sort of work is he doing now?”

“I think he’s a stockbroker,” Komatsu said. “Or, if that sounds too old-fashioned, he’s an investment consultant. He manages money for people, and while he moves it around for them, he makes his own profit on the side. He stays holed up on the mountaintop, issuing suggestions to buy or sell. His instinct for it is frighteningly good. He also excels at analyzing data and has put together his own system. It was just a hobby for him at first, but it became his main profession. So that’s the story. He’s pretty famous in those circles. One thing’s for sure: he’s not hurting for money.”

“I don’t see any connection between cultural anthropology and stock trading,” Tengo said.

“In general, there is no connection, but there is for him.”

“And he’s a hard one to read.”

“Exactly.”

Tengo pressed his fingertips against his temples. Then, resigning himself to his fate, he said, “I’ll meet Fuka-Eri at the usual cafe in Shinjuku at six o’clock the day after tomorrow, and we’ll prepare for the press conference. That’s what you want me to do, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Komatsu said. “You know, Tengo, don’t think too hard about this stuff for the time being. Just go with the flow. Things like this don’t happen all that often in one lifetime. This is the magnificent world of a picaresque novel. Just brace yourself and enjoy the smell of evil. We’re shooting the rapids. And when we go over the falls, let’s do it together in grand style!”

Tengo met Fuka-Eri at the Shinjuku cafe in the evening two days later. She wore a slim pair of jeans and a thin summer sweater that clearly revealed the outline of her breasts. Her hair hung down long and straight, and her skin had a fresh glow. The male customers kept glancing in her direction. Tengo could feel their gazes. Fuka-Eri herself, though, seemed totally unaware of them. When this girl was announced as the winner of a literary magazine’s new writers’ prize, it would almost certainly cause a commotion.

Fuka-Eri had already received word that she had won the prize, but she seemed neither pleased nor excited by it. She didn’t care one way or the other. It was a summerlike day, but she ordered hot cocoa and clutched the cup in both hands, savoring every drop. No one had told her about the upcoming press conference, but when Tengo explained, she had no reaction.

“You
do
know what a press conference is, don’t you?”

“Press conference …” Fuka-Eri repeated the words.

“You sit up on the podium and answer questions from a bunch of newspaper and magazine reporters. They’ll take your picture. There might even be TV cameras. The whole country will see reports on the questions and answers. It’s very unusual for a seventeen-year-old girl to win a literary magazine’s new writers’ award. It’ll be big news. They’ll make a big deal of the fact that the committee’s decision was unanimous. That almost never happens.”

“Questions and answers,” Fuka-Eri asked.

“They ask the questions, you give the answers.”

“What kind of questions.”

“All kinds of questions. About the work, about you, about your private life, your hobbies, your plans for the future. It might be a good idea to prepare answers now for those kinds of questions.”

“Why.”

“It’s safer that way. So you aren’t at a loss for answers and don’t say anything that might invite misunderstanding. It wouldn’t hurt to get ready for it now. Kind of like a rehearsal.”