1Q84 (41 page)

In answer to the question “Do you plan to keep writing fiction?” she had replied, “Fiction is simply one form for expressing one’s thoughts. It just so happens that the form I employed this time was fiction, but I can’t say what form I will use next time.” Tengo found it impossible to believe that Fuka-Eri had actually spoken in such long continuous sentences. The reporters might have strung her fragments together, filled in the gaps, and made whole sentences out of them. But then again, she might well have spoken in complete sentences like this. He couldn’t say anything about Fuka-Eri with absolute certainty.

When asked to name her favorite work of fiction, Fuka-Eri of course mentioned
The Tale of the Heike
. One reporter then asked which part of
The Tale of the Heike
she liked best, in response to which she recited her favorite passage from memory, which took a full five minutes. Everyone was so amazed, the recitation was followed by a stunned silence. Fortunately (in Tengo’s opinion), no one asked for her favorite song.

In response to the question “Who was the happiest for you about winning the new writers’ prize?” she took a long time to think (a scene that came easily to mind for Tengo), finally answering, “That’s a secret.”

As far as he could tell from the news reports, Fuka-Eri said nothing in the question-and-answer session that was untrue. Her picture was in all the papers, looking even more beautiful than the Fuka-Eri of Tengo’s memory. When he spoke with her in person, his attention was diverted from her face to her physical movements to her changes of expression to the words she formed, but seeing her in a still photograph, he was able to realize anew what a truly beautiful girl she was. A certain glow was perceptible even in the small shots taken at the press conference (in which he was able to confirm that she was wearing the same summer sweater). This glow was probably what Komatsu had called “that air about her: you know she’s not an ordinary person.”

Tengo folded the evening papers, put them away, and went to the kitchen. There he made himself a simple dinner while drinking a can of beer. The work that he himself had rewritten had won the new writers’ prize by unanimous consent, had already attracted much attention, and was on the verge of becoming a bestseller. The thought made him feel very strange. He wanted simply to celebrate the fact, but it also made him feel anxious and unsettled. He had been expecting this to happen, but he wondered if it was really all right for things to move ahead so smoothly.

While fixing dinner, he noticed that his appetite had disappeared. He had been quite hungry, but now he didn’t want to eat a thing. He covered the half-made food in plastic wrap and put it away in the refrigerator. Then he sat in a kitchen chair and drank his beer in silence while staring at the calendar on the wall. It was a free calendar from the bank containing photos of Mount Fuji. Tengo had never climbed Mount Fuji. He had never gone to the top of Tokyo Tower, either, or to the roof of a skyscraper. He had never been interested in high places. He wondered why not. Maybe it was because he had lived his whole life looking at the ground.

Komatsu’s prediction came true. The magazine containing Fuka-Eri’s
Air Chrysalis
nearly sold out the first day and soon disappeared from the bookstores. Literary magazines
never
sold out. Publishers continued to absorb the losses each month, knowing that the real purpose of these magazines was to find and publish fiction that would later be collected and sold in a hardcover edition—and to discover new young writers through the prize competitions. No one expected the magazines themselves to sell or be profitable. Which is why the news that a literary magazine had sold out in a single day drew as much attention as if snow had fallen in Okinawa (though its having sold out made no difference to its running in the red). Komatsu called to tell him the news.

“This is just great,” Komatsu said. “When a magazine sells out, people can’t wait to read the piece to find out what it’s like. So now the printers are going crazy trying to rush the book version of
Air Chrysalis
out—top priority! At this rate, it doesn’t matter whether the piece wins the Akutagawa Prize or not. Gotta sell ‘em while they’re hot! And make no mistake about it, this is going to be a bestseller, I guarantee you. So, Tengo, you’d better start planning how you’re going to spend all your money.”

One Saturday-evening newspaper’s literary column discussed
Air Chrysalis
under a headline exclaiming that the magazine had sold out in one day. Several literary critics gave their opinions, which were generally favorable. The work, they claimed, displayed such stylistic power, keen sensitivity, and imaginative richness that it was hard to believe a seventeen-year-old girl had written it. It
might
even hint at new possibilities in literary style. One critic said, “The work is not entirely without a regrettable tendency for its more fantastical elements to sometimes lose touch with reality,” which was the only negative remark Tengo noticed. But even that critic softened his tone at the end, concluding, “I will be very interested to see what kind of works this young girl goes on to write.” No, there was nothing wrong with the wind direction for now.

Fuka-Eri called Tengo four days before the hardcover version of
Air Chrysalis
was due out. It was nine in the morning.

“Are you up,” she asked in her usual uninflected way, without a question mark.

“Of course I’m up,” Tengo said.

“Are you free this afternoon.”

“After four, any time.”

“Can you meet me.”

“I can,” Tengo said.

“Is that last place okay,” Fuka-Eri asked.

“Fine,” Tengo said. “I’ll go to the same cafe in Shinjuku at four o’clock. Oh, and your photos in the paper looked good. The ones from the press conference.”

“I wore the same sweater,” she said.

“It looked good on you,” Tengo said.

“Because you like my chest shape.”

“Maybe so. But more important in this case was making a good impression on people.”

Fuka-Eri kept silent at her end, as if she had just set something on a nearby shelf and was looking at it. Maybe she was thinking about the connection between the shape of her chest and making a good impression. The more he thought about it, the less Tengo himself could see the connection.

“Four o’clock,” Fuka-Eri said, and hung up.

Fuka-Eri was already waiting for Tengo when he walked into the usual cafe just before four. Next to her sat Professor Ebisuno. He was dressed in a pale gray long-sleeved shirt and dark gray pants. As before, his back was perfectly straight. He could have been a sculpture. Tengo was somewhat surprised to find the Professor with her. Komatsu had said that the Professor almost never “came down from the mountains.”

Tengo took a seat opposite them and ordered a cup of coffee. The rainy season hadn’t even started, but the weather felt like midsummer. Even so, Fuka-Eri sat there sipping a hot cup of cocoa. Professor Ebisuno had ordered iced coffee but hadn’t touched it yet. The ice had begun to melt, forming a clear layer on top.

“Thanks for coming,” the Professor said.

Tengo’s coffee arrived. He took a sip.

Professor Ebisuno spoke slowly, as if performing a test of his speaking voice: “Everything seems to be going as planned for now,” he said. “You made major contributions to the project. Truly major. The first thing I must do is thank you.”

“I’m grateful to hear you say that, but as you know, where this matter is concerned, officially I don’t exist,” Tengo said. “And officially nonexistent people can’t make contributions.”

Professor Ebisuno rubbed his hands over the table as if warming them.

“You needn’t be so modest,” the Professor said. “Whatever the public face of the matter may be, you
do
exist. If it hadn’t been for you, things would not have come this far or gone this smoothly. Thanks to you,
Air Chrysalis
became a much better work, deeper and richer than I ever imagined it could be. That Komatsu fellow really
does
have an eye for talent.”

Beside him, Fuka-Eri went on drinking her cocoa in silence, like a kitten licking milk. She wore a simple white short-sleeved blouse and a rather short navy-blue skirt. As always, she wore no jewelry. Her long, straight hair hid her face when she leaned forward to drink.

“I wanted to be sure to tell you this in person, which is why I troubled you to come here today,” Professor Ebisuno said.

“You really don’t have to worry about me, Professor. Rewriting
Air Chrysalis
was a very meaningful project for me.”

“I still think I need to thank you for it properly.”

“It really isn’t necessary,” Tengo said. “If you don’t mind, though, there’s something personal I want to ask you about Eri.”

“No, I don’t mind, if it’s a question I can answer.”

“I was just wondering if you are Eri’s legal guardian.”

The Professor shook his head. “No, I am not. I would like to become her legal guardian if possible, but as I told you before, I haven’t been able to make the slightest contact with her parents. I have no legal rights as far as she is concerned. But I took her in when she came to my house seven years ago, and I have been raising her ever since.”

“If that’s the case, then, wouldn’t the most normal thing be for you to want to keep her existence quiet? If she steps into the spotlight like this, it could stir up trouble. She’s a minor, after all …”

“Trouble? You mean if her parents sued to regain custody, or if she were forced to return to the commune?”

“Yes, I don’t quite get what’s involved here.”

“Your doubts are entirely justified. But the other side is not in any position to take conspicuous action, either. The more publicity Eri receives, the more attention they are going to attract if they attempt anything involving her. And attention is the one thing they most want to avoid.”

“By ‘they,’ I suppose you mean the Sakigake people?”

“Exactly,” the Professor said. “The Religious Juridical Person Sakigake. Don’t forget, I’ve devoted seven years of my life to raising Eri, and she herself clearly wants to go on living with us. Whatever situation her parents are in, the fact is they’ve ignored her for seven long years. There’s no way I can hand her over just like that.”

Tengo took a moment to organize his thoughts. Then he said, “So
Air Chrysalis
becomes the bestseller it’s supposed to be. And Eri attracts everyone’s attention. And that makes it harder for Sakigake to do anything. That much I understand. But how are things supposed to go from there in your view, Professor Ebisuno?”

“I don’t know any better than you do,” the Professor said matter-of-factly. “What happens from here on out is unknown territory for anybody. There’s no map. We don’t find out what’s waiting for us around the next corner until we turn it. I have no idea.”

“You have no idea,” Tengo said.

“Yes, it may sound irresponsible of me, but ‘I have no idea’ is the gist of this story. You throw a stone into a deep pond. Splash. The sound is big, and it reverberates throughout the surrounding area. What comes out of the pond after that? All we can do is stare at the pond, holding our breath.”

This brought conversation at the table to a momentary halt. Each of the three pictured ripples spreading on a pond. Tengo waited patiently for his imaginary ripples to settle down before speaking again.

“As I said the first time we met, what we are engaged in is a kind of fraud, possibly an offense to our whole society. A not inconsiderable amount of money may enter the picture as well before long, and the lies are going to snowball until finally the situation is beyond anyone’s control. And when the truth comes out, everyone involved—including Eri here—will be hurt in some way, perhaps even ruined, at least socially. Can you go along with that?”

Professor Ebisuno touched the frame of his glasses. “I have no choice but to go along with it.”

“But I understand from Mr. Komatsu that you are planning to become a representative of the phony company that he is putting together in connection with
Air Chrysalis
, which means you will be fully participating in Komatsu’s plan. In other words, you are taking steps to have yourself smeared in the mud.”

“That might well be the end result.”

“As far as I understand it, Professor, you are a man of superior intellect, with broad practical wisdom and a unique worldview. In spite of that, you don’t know where this plan is headed. You say you can’t predict what will come up around the next corner. How a man like you can put himself into such a tenuous, risky position is beyond me.”

“Aside from all the embarrassing overestimation of ‘a man like me,’ ” the Professor said, taking a breath, “I understand what you’re trying to say.”

A moment of silence followed.

“Nobody knows what is going to happen,” Fuka-Eri interjected, without warning. Then she went back into her silence. Her cup of cocoa was empty.

“True,” the Professor said. “Nobody knows what is going to happen. Eri is right.”

“But you must have some sort of plan in mind, I would think,” Tengo said.

“I do have some sort of plan in mind,” Professor Ebisuno said.

“May I guess what it is?”

“Of course you may.”

“The publication of
Air Chrysalis
might lead to revelations about what happened to Eri’s parents. Is that what you mean about throwing a stone in a pond?”

“That’s pretty close,” Professor Ebisuno said. “If
Air Chrysalis
becomes a bestseller, the media are going to swarm like carp in a pond. In fact, the commotion has already started. After the press conference, requests for interviews started pouring in from magazines and TV. I’m turning them all down, of course, but things are likely to get increasingly overheated as publication of the book draws near. If we don’t do interviews, they’ll use every tool at their disposal to look into Eri’s background. Sooner or later it will come out—who her parents are, where and how she was raised, who’s looking after her now. All of that should make for interesting news.

“I’m not doing this for fun or profit. I enjoy my nice, quiet life in the mountains, and I don’t want to get mixed up with anything that is going to draw the attention of the public. What I am hoping is that I can spread bait to guide the attention of the media toward Eri’s parents.
Where are they now, and what are they doing?
In other words, I want the media to do for me what the police can’t or won’t do. I’m also thinking that, if it works well, we might even be able to exploit the flow of events to rescue the two of them. In any case, Fukada and his wife are both very important to me—and of course to Eri. I can’t just leave them unaccounted for like this.”