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  Why?

  Perhaps the moons wanted it that way, Tengo thought. Maybe these two moons are a special message meant just for me, and I am not permitted to share this information with anyone else.

  But this was a strange way to see it. Why would the number of moons be a personal message? And what could they be trying to tell him? To Tengo it seemed less a message than a kind of complicated riddle. And if it’s a riddle, then who made it? Who’s not permitting things?

  The wind rushed between the branches of the zelkova tree, making a piercing howl, like the coldhearted breath leaking out between the teeth of a person who has lost all hope. Tengo gazed at the moons, not paying much attention to the sound of the wind, sitting there until his whole body was chilled to the bone. It must have been around fifteen minutes. No, maybe more. His sense of time had left him. His body, initially warmed by the whiskey, now felt hard and cold, like a lonely boulder at the bottom of the sea.

  The clouds continued to scud off toward the south. No matter how many were blown away, others appeared to take their place. There was an inexhaustible source of clouds in some land far to the north. Decisive people, minds fixed on the task, clothed in thick, gray uniforms, working silently from morning to night to make clouds, like bees make honey, spiders make webs, and war makes widows.

  Tengo looked at his watch. It was almost eight. The playground was still deserted. Occasionally people would walk by quickly on the street in front. People who have finished work and are on the way home all walk the same way. In the new six-story apartment building on the other side of the street the lights were on in half the units. On windy winter nights, a window with a light shining in it acquires a gentle warmth. Tengo looked from one lit window to the next, in order, like looking up at a huge luxury cruise liner from a tiny fishing boat bobbing in the night sea. As if by prearrangement, all the curtains at the windows were closed. Seen from a freezing-cold slide in a park at night, they looked like a totally different world—a world founded on different principles, a world that ran by different rules. Beyond those curtains there must be people living their quite ordinary lives, peaceful and content.

  Quite ordinary lives?

  The only image that Tengo had of quite ordinary lives was stereotypical, lacking depth and color. A married couple, probably with two kids. The mother has on an apron. Steam rising from a bubbling pot, voices around the dining table—that’s as far as his imagination took him before plowing into a solid wall. What would a quite ordinary family talk about around the dinner table? He had no memory himself of ever talking with his father at the dinner table. They each just stuffed food into their mouths, silently, whenever they felt like it. And what they ate was hard to call a real meal.

  After checking out all the illuminated windows in the building, Tengo again looked up at the pair of moons. But no matter how long he waited, neither moon said anything to him. Their faces were expressionless as they floated in the sky beside each other, like a precarious couplet in need of reworking. Today there was no message. That was the only thing they conveyed to Tengo.

  The clouds swept tirelessly toward the south. All sizes and shapes of clouds appeared, then disappeared. Some of them had very unusual shapes, as if they had their own unique thoughts—small, hard, clearly etched thoughts. But Tengo wanted to know what the moons were thinking, not the clouds.

  He finally gave up and stood, stretching his arms and legs, then climbed down from the slide. That’s all I can do. I was able to see that the number of moons hasn’t changed, and I will leave it at that for now. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, left the playground, and strode back to his apartment. As he walked he suddenly thought of Komatsu. It was about time for them to talk. He had to sort out, even if just barely, what had transpired between them. And Komatsu, too, had some things he must need to talk to Tengo about. Tengo had left the number of the sanatorium in Chikura with Komatsu’s office, but he had never heard from him. He would give Komatsu a call tomorrow. Before that, though, he needed to go to the cram school and read the letter that Fuka-Eri had left for him.

  Fuka-Eri’s letter was in his desk drawer, unopened. For such a tightly sealed envelope, it was a short letter. On a page and a half of notebook paper, in blue ink, was her writing, that distinctive cuneiform-like script, the kind of writing that would be more appropriate on a clay tablet than notebook paper. Tengo knew it must have taken her a long time to write like that.

  Tengo read the letter over and over. She had to get out of his place. Right this minute, she had written, because they were being watched. She had underlined these three places with a soft, thick pencil. Terribly eloquent underlining.

  Who was watching us, and how she knew this—about this she said nothing. In the world that Fuka-Eri lived in, it seemed that facts were not conveyed directly. Like a map showing buried pirate treasure, things had to be connected through hints and riddles, ellipses and variations. He had grown used to it and, for the time being, provisionally, accepted whatever Fuka-Eri announced. When she said that they were being watched, no doubt they actually were being watched. When she felt that she had to get out, that meant the time had come for her to leave. The first thing to do was to accept all those statements as one comprehensive fact. Later on he could discover, or surmise, the background, the details, the basis for these hypotheses—or else just give up on it from the very beginning.

  We’re being watched.

  Did this mean people from Sakigake had found Fuka-Eri? They knew about his relationship with her. They had uncovered the fact that he was the one, at Komatsu’s request, who rewrote Air Chrysalis, which would explain why Ushikawa tried to get closer to Tengo. And if that was true, then there was a distinct possibility his apartment was under surveillance.

  If this was true, though, they were really taking their time. Fuka-Eri had settled down in his apartment for nearly three months. These were organized people, people with real power and influence. If they had wanted to, they could have grabbed her anytime. There was no need to go to all the trouble of putting his apartment under surveillance. And if they really were watching her, they wouldn’t let her just leave.

  The more Tengo tried to follow the logic of it, the more confused he got. All he concluded was that they weren’t trying to grab Fuka-Eri. Maybe at a certain point they had changed objectives. They weren’t after Fuka-Eri, but someone connected to her. For some reason they no longer viewed Fuka-Eri as a threat to Sakigake. If you accept that, though, then why go to the trouble of putting Tengo’s apartment under surveillance?

  Tengo used the pay phone at the cram school to call Komatsu’s office. It was Sunday, but Tengo knew that he liked to come in and work on the weekend. The office could be a nice place, he liked to say, if there was nobody else there. But no one answered. Tengo glanced at his watch. It was eleven a.m., too early for Komatsu to show up at work. He started his day, and it didn’t matter what day of the week it was, after the sun had reached its zenith. Tengo, on a chair in the cafeteria, sipped the weak coffee and reread the letter from Fuka-Eri. As always she used hardly any kanji at all, and no paragraphs or punctuation.

  Tengo you are back from the cat town and are reading this letter that’s good but we’re being watched so I have to get out of this place right this minute do not worry about me but I can’t stay here any longer as I said before the person you are looking for is within walking distance of here but be careful not to let somebody see you

  Tengo read this telegram-like letter again three times, then folded it and put it in his pocket. As before, the more he read it, the more believable her words became. He was being watched by someone. Now he accepted this as a certainty. He looked up and scanned the cram school cafeteria. Class was in session so the cafeteria was nearly deserted. A handful of students were there, studying textbooks or writing in their notebooks. But he didn’t spot anyone in the shadows stealthily spying on him.

  A basic question remained: If they weren’t watching Fuka-Eri, then
why would there be surveillance here? Were they interested in Tengo himself, or was it his apartment? Tengo considered this. This was all at the level of conjecture. Somehow, he didn’t feel he was the object of their interest. His role in Air Chrysalis was long past.

  Fuka-Eri had barely taken a step out of his apartment, so her sense that she was being watched meant that his apartment was under surveillance. But where could somebody keep his place under watch? The area where he lived was a crowded urban neighborhood, but Tengo’s third-floor apartment was, oddly enough, situated so that it was almost out of anyone’s line of sight. That was one of the reasons he liked the place and had lived there so long. His older girlfriend had liked the apartment for the same reason. “Putting aside how the place looks,” she often said, “it’s amazingly tranquil. Much like the person who lives here.”

  Just before the sun set each day, a large crow would fly over to his window. This was the crow Fuka-Eri had talked about on the phone. It settled in the window box and rubbed its large, jet-black wings against the glass. This was part of the crow’s daily routine, to rest for a spell outside his apartment before homing back to its nest. This crow seemed to be curious about the interior of Tengo’s apartment. The large, inky eyes on either side of its head shifted swiftly, gathering information through a gap in the curtain. Crows are highly intelligent animals, and extremely curious. Fuka-Eri claimed to be able to talk with this crow. Still, it was ridiculous to think that a crow could be somebody’s tool to reconnoiter Tengo’s apartment.

  So how were they watching him?

  On the way home from the station Tengo stopped by a supermarket and bought some vegetables, eggs, milk, and fish. Standing at the entrance to his building, paper bag in hand, he glanced all around just to make sure. Nothing looked suspicious, the same scene as always—the electric lines hanging in the air like dark entrails; the small front yard, its lawn withered in the winter cold; the rusty mailboxes. He listened carefully, but all he could hear was the distinctive, incessant background noise of the city, like the faint hum of wings.

  He went into his apartment, put away the food, then went over to the window, drew back the curtains, and inspected the scene outside. Across the road were three old houses, two-story homes built on minuscule lots. The owners were all long-term, elderly residents, people with crabby expressions who loathed any kind of change, so they weren’t about to welcome a newcomer to their second floor. Plus, even if someone was on the second floor and leaned way out the window, all they would be able to see was a glimpse of his ceiling.

  Tengo closed the window, boiled water, and made coffee. As he sat at the dining table and drank it, he considered every scenario he could think of. Someone nearby was keeping him under watch. And Aomame was (or had been) within walking distance. Was there some connection between the two? Or was it all mere coincidence? He thought long and hard, but he couldn’t reach a conclusion. His thoughts went around and around, like a poor mouse stuck in an exitless maze allowed only to smell the cheese.

  He gave up thinking about it and glanced through the newspaper he had bought at the station kiosk. Ronald Reagan, just reelected president that fall, had taken to calling Prime Minister Yasuhiro Nakasone Yasu, and Nakasone was calling him Ron. It might have been the way the photo was taken, but the two of them looked like a couple of men in the construction industry discussing how they were going to switch to cheap, shoddy building material. Riots in India following the assassination of Indira Gandhi were still ongoing, with Sikhs being butchered throughout the country. In Japan there was an unprecedented bumper crop of apples. But nothing in the paper aroused Tengo’s interest.

  He waited until the clock showed two and then called Komatsu’s office once more.

  As always, it took twelve rings before Komatsu picked up. Tengo wasn’t sure why, but it always seemed hard for him to get to the phone.

  “Tengo, it’s been a while,” Komatsu said. His voice sounded like the old Komatsu. Smooth, a bit forced, difficult to pin down.

  “I took two weeks off from work and was in Chiba. I just got back last night.”

  “You said your father wasn’t doing so well. It must have been hard on you.”

  “Not really. He’s in a deep coma, so I just spent time with him, gazing at his sleeping face. The rest of the time I was at the inn, writing.”

  “Still, you’re talking about a life-or-death situation, so it couldn’t have been easy for you.”

  Tengo changed the subject. “When we talked last, quite a while ago, you mentioned having to talk with me about something.”

  “I remember,” Komatsu said. “I would like to have a nice long talk with you, if you’re free?”

  “If it’s something important, maybe the sooner the better?”

  “Yes, sooner is better.”

  “Tonight could work for me.”

  “That would be fine. I’m free tonight, too. Say, seven?”

  “Seven it is,” Tengo said.

  Komatsu told him to meet him in a small bar near his office, a place Tengo had been to a number of times. “It’s open on Sundays,” Komatsu added, “but there are hardly any people there then. So we can have a nice, quiet talk.”

  “Is this going to be a long story?”

  Komatsu thought about this. “I’m not sure. Until I actually tell it to you, I have no idea how long it will be.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll be happy to listen. Because we’re in the same boat together, right? Or have you changed to another?”

  “No, not at all,” Komatsu said, his tone more serious. “We’re still in the same boat. Anyway, I’ll see you at seven. I’ll tell you everything then.”

  After he hung up, Tengo sat down at his desk, switched on his word processor, and typed up the story he had written out in fountain pen at the inn in Chikura. As he reread the story, he pictured the town in his mind: the sanatorium, the faces of the three nurses; the wind from the sea rustling through the pine trees, the pure white seagulls floating up above. Tengo stood up, pulled back the curtains, opened the sliding glass door, and deeply inhaled the cold air.

  Tengo you are back from the cat town and are reading this letter that’s good

  So wrote Fuka-Eri in her letter. But this apartment he had returned to was under surveillance. There could even be a hidden camera right here in the room. Anxious now that he had thought of this, Tengo scoured every corner of the apartment. But he found no hidden camera, no electronic bugs. This was, after all, an old, tiny, one-room unit, and anything like that would be next to impossible to keep hidden.

  Tengo kept typing his manuscript until it grew dark. It took him much longer than he expected because he rewrote parts as he typed. He stopped for a moment to turn on the desk lamp and realized that the crow hadn’t come by today. He could tell when it came by from the sound, the large wings rubbing against the window. It left behind faint smudge marks on the glass, like a code waiting to be deciphered.

  At five thirty he made a simple dinner. He wasn’t that hungry, but he had barely eaten anything for lunch. Best to get something in my stomach, he figured. He made a tomato and wakame salad and ate a slice of toast. At six fifteen he pulled on a black, high-neck sweater and an olive-green corduroy blazer and left the apartment. As he exited the front door he stopped and looked around again, but nothing caught his eye—no man hiding in the shadows of a telephone pole, no suspicious-looking car parked nearby. Even the crow wasn’t there. But this made Tengo all the more uneasy. All the seemingly benign things around him seemed to be watching him. Who knew if the people around—the housewife with her shopping basket; the silent old man taking his dog for a walk; the high school students, tennis rackets slung over their shoulders, pedaling by, ignoring him—might be part of a cleverly disguised Sakigake surveillance team.

  I’m being paranoid, Tengo told himself. I need to be careful, but it’s no good to get overly jumpy. He hurried on toward the station, shooting an occasional glance behind him to make sure he wasn’t bein
g followed. If he was being shadowed, Tengo was sure he would know it. His peripheral vision was better than most people’s, and he had excellent eyesight. After glancing back three times, he was certain that there was no one tailing him.

  He arrived at the bar at five minutes before seven. Komatsu was not there yet, and Tengo was the first customer of the evening. A lush arrangement of bright flowers was in a large vase on the counter and the smell of freshly cut greenery wafted toward him. Tengo sat in a booth in the back and ordered a draft beer. He took a paperback out of the pocket of his jacket and began reading.

  Komatsu came at seven fifteen. He had on a tweed jacket, a light cashmere sweater, a cashmere muffler, wool trousers, and suede shoes. His usual outfit. High-quality, tasteful clothes, nicely worn out. When he wore these, the clothes looked like he had been born in them. Maybe any new clothes he bought he then slept in and rolled around in. Maybe he washed them over and over and laid them out to dry in the shade. Only once they were broken in and faded would he wear them in front of others. At any rate, the clothes did make him look like a veteran editor. From the way he was dressed, that was the only possible thing he could be. Komatsu sat down across from Tengo and also ordered a draft beer.

  “You seem the same as ever,” Komatsu commented. “How is the new novel coming?”

  “I’m getting there, slowly but surely.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Writers have to keep on writing if they want to mature, like caterpillars endlessly chewing on leaves. It’s like I told you—taking on the rewrite of Air Chrysalis would have a good influence on your own writing. Was I right?”