Tengo led a very orderly life in the small town by the sea. Once his days fell into a pattern, he tried his best to keep them that way. He wasn’t sure why he did so, but it seemed important. In the morning he would take a walk, work on his novel, then go to see his father in the sanatorium and read whatever he had at hand. Then he would go back to his room and sleep. One day followed the next like the monotonous rhythm of the work songs farmers sing as they plant their rice paddies.

There were several warm nights, followed by surprisingly cold ones. Autumn advanced a step, then retreated, but was steadily deepening. The change in seasons didn’t bring any change to Tengo’s life, however—he simply modeled each day on the one preceding it. He tried his best to become an invisible observer, staying quiet, keeping the effect of his presence to a minimum, silently waiting for that time to come. As the days passed, the difference between one day and the next grew fainter. A week passed, then ten days. But the air chrysalis never materialized. In the afternoon when his father was at the examination room, the only thing on his bed was the small, pitiful, person-shaped depression.

Was that just a one-time event? Tengo thought, biting his lip as he sat in the small room in the gathering twilight. A special revelation never to appear again? Or did I just see an illusion? No one answered him. The only sound that reached him was the roar of the far-off sea, and the wind blowing through the pine windbreak.

Tengo wasn’t certain that he was doing the right thing. Maybe the time he was spending here, in this room in a sanatorium in a town far from Tokyo, was meaningless. Even if it was, though, he didn’t think he could leave. Here in this room, he had seen the air chrysalis, and inside, in a faint light, the small sleeping figure of Aomame. He had touched it. Even if this was a one-time event, even if it was nothing more than a fleeting illusion, he wanted to stay as long as he possibly could, tracing with his mind’s eye the scene as he had witnessed it....

Once they discovered that he was not going back to Tokyo, the nurses began to act more friendly. They would take a short break between tasks and stop to chat. If they had a free moment they came to his father’s room to talk with him. They brought him tea and cakes. Two nurses alternated in caring for Tengo’s father—Nurse Omura, who was in her mid-thirties (she was the one who wore her hair up with a ballpoint pen stuck through her bun), and Nurse Adachi, who had rosy cheeks and wore her hair in a ponytail. Nurse Tamura, a middle-aged nurse with metal-framed glasses, usually staffed the reception desk, but if they happened to be shorthanded she would pitch in and care for his father too. All three of them seemed to take a personal interest in Tengo.

Except for his special hour at twilight, Tengo had plenty of time on his hands and talked with them about all kinds of things. It was more like a question-and-answer session, though, with the nurses asking questions about his life and Tengo responding as honestly as he could.

The nurses talked about their own lives as well. All three had been born in this area, had entered nursing school after high school, and had become nurses. They all found work at the sanatorium monotonous and boring, the working hours long and irregular, but they were happy to be able to work in their hometown. The work was much less stressful than being at a general hospital, where they would face life-and-death situations on a daily basis. The old people in the sanatorium gradually lost their memory and died, not really understanding their situation. There was little blood, and the staff minimized any pain. No one was brought there by ambulance in the middle of the night, and there were no distraught, sobbing families to deal with. The cost of living was low in the area, so even with a salary that wasn’t the most generous they were able to comfortably get by. Nurse Tamura, the one with glasses, had lost her husband five years earlier in an accident, and lived in a nearby town with her mother. Nurse Omura, who wore the ballpoint pen in her hair, had two little boys and a husband who drove a cab. Young Miss Adachi lived in an apartment on the outskirts of town with her sister, who was three years older and worked as a hair stylist.

“You are such a kind person, Tengo,” Nurse Omura said as she changed an IV bag. “There’s no one else I know who comes here to read aloud to an unconscious patient.”

The praise made Tengo uncomfortable. “I just happen to have some vacation days,” he said. “But I won’t be here all that long.”

“No matter how much free time someone might have, they don’t come to a place like this because they want to,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but these are patients who will never recover. As time passes it makes people get more and more depressed.”

“My father asked me to read to him. He said he didn’t mind what I read. This was a long time ago, when he was still conscious. Besides, I don’t have anything else to do, so I might as well come here.”

“What do you read to him?”

“All kinds of things. I just pick whatever book I’m in the midst of reading, and read aloud from wherever I’ve left off.”

“What are you reading right now?”

“Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa.”

The nurse shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

“It was written in 1937. Dinesen was from Denmark. She married a Swedish nobleman, moved to Africa just before the First World War, and they ran a plantation there. After she divorced him, she continued to run the plantation on her own. The book is about her experiences at the time.”

The nurse took his father’s temperature, noted it on his chart, then returned the ballpoint pen to her hair and brushed back her bangs. “I wonder if I could hear you read for a bit,” she said.

“I don’t know if you’ll like it,” Tengo said.

She sat down on a stool and crossed her legs. They were sturdy looking, fleshy, but nicely shaped. “Just go ahead and read, if you would.”

Tengo slowly began to read from where he had left off. It was the kind of passage that was best read slowly, like time flowing over the African landscape.

When in Africa in March the long rains begin after four months of hot, dry weather, the richness of growth and the freshness and fragrance everywhere are overwhelming.

But the farmer holds back his heart and dares not trust to the generosity of nature, he listens, dreading to hear a decrease in the roar of the falling rain. The water that the earth is now drinking in must bring the farm, with all the vegetable, animal and human life on it, through four rainless months to come.

It is a lovely sight when the roads of the farm have all been turned into streams of running water, and the farmer wades through the mud with a singing heart, out to the flowering and dripping coffee-fields. But it happens in the middle of the rainy season that in the evening the stars show themselves through the thinning clouds; then he stands outside his house and stares up, as if hanging himself on to the sky to milk down more rain. He cries to the sky: “Give me enough and more than enough. My heart is bared to thee now, and I will not let thee go except thou bless me. Drown me if you like, but kill me not with caprices. No coitus interruptus, heaven, heaven!”

“Coitus interruptus?” the nurse asked, frowning.

“She’s the kind of person who doesn’t mince words.”

“Still, it seems awfully graphic to use when you’re addressing God.”

“I’m with you on that,” Tengo said.

Sometimes a cool, colourless day in the months after the rainy season calls back the time of the marka mbaya, the bad year, the time of the drought. In those days the Kikuyu used to graze their cows round my house, and a boy amongst them who had a flute, from time to time played a short tune on it. When I have heard this tune again, it has recalled in one single moment all our anguish and despair of the past. It has got the salt taste of tears in it. But at the same time I found in the tune, unexpectedly surprisingly, a vigour, a curious sweetness, a song. Had those hard times really had all these in them? There was youth in us then, a wild hope. It was during those long days that we were all of us merged into a unity, so that on another planet we shall recognize one another, and the things cry to each other, the cuckoo clock and my books to the lean-fleshed cows on the lawn and the sorrowful old Kikuyus: “You also were there. You also were part of the Ngong farm.” That bad time blessed us and went away.

“That’s a wonderful passage,” the nurse said. “I can really picture the scene. Isak Dinesen’s Out of Africa, you said?”

“That’s right.”

“You have a nice voice, too. It’s deep, and full of emotion. Very nice for reading aloud.”

“Thanks.”

The nurse sat on the stool, closed her eyes for a while, and breathed quietly, as if she were still experiencing the afterglow of the passage. Tengo could see the swell of her chest under her uniform rise and fall as she breathed. As he watched this, Tengo remembered his older girlfriend. Friday afternoons, undressing her, touching her hard nipples. Her deep sighs, her wet vagina. Outside, beyond the closed curtains, a tranquil rain was falling. She was feeling the heft of his balls in her hand. But these memories didn’t arouse him. The scenery and emotions were distant and vague, as though seen through a thin film.

Some time later the nurse opened her eyes and looked at Tengo. Her eyes seemed to read his thoughts. But she was not accusing him. A faint smile rose to her lips as she stood up and looked down at him.

“I have to be going.” She patted her hair to check that the ballpoint pen was there, spun around, and left the room.

Every evening he called Fuka-Eri. Nothing really happened today, she would tell him. The phone had rung a few times, but she followed instructions and didn’t answer. “I’m glad,” Tengo told her. “Just let it ring.”

When Tengo called her he would let it ring three times, hang up, then immediately dial again, but she didn’t always follow this arrangement. Most of the time she picked up on the first set of rings.

“We have to follow our plan,” Tengo cautioned her each time this happened.

“I know who it is. There is no need to worry,” Fuka-Eri said.

“You know it’s me calling?”

“I don’t answer the other phone calls.”

I guess that’s possible, Tengo thought. He himself could sense when a call was coming in from Komatsu. The way it rang was sort of nervous and fidgety, like someone tapping their fingers persistently on a desktop. But this was, after all, just a feeling. It wasn’t as if he knew who was on the phone.

Fuka-Eri’s days were just as monotonous as Tengo’s. She never set foot outside the apartment. There was no TV, and she didn’t read any books. She hardly ate anything, so at this point there was no need to go out shopping.

“Since I’m not moving much there’s not much need to eat,” Fuka-Eri said.

“What are you doing by yourself every day?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

She didn’t answer the question. “There’s a crow that comes, too.”

“The crow comes once every day.”

“It comes many times, not just once,” she said.

“Is it the same crow?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody else comes?”

“The N-H-K person came again.”

“Is it the same NHK person as before?”

“He says, Mr. Kawana, you’re a thief, in a loud voice.”

“You mean he yells that right outside my door?”

“So everyone else can hear him.”

Tengo pondered this for a moment. “Don’t worry about that. It has nothing to do with you, and it’s not going to cause any harm.”

“He said he knows you are hiding in here.”

“Don’t let it bother you,” Tengo said. “He can’t tell that. He’s just saying it to intimidate me. NHK people do that sometimes.”

Tengo had witnessed his father do exactly the same thing any number of times. A Sunday afternoon, his father’s voice, filled with malice, ringing out down the hallway of a public housing project. Threatening and ridiculing the resident. Tengo lightly pressed the tips of his fingers against his temple. The memory brought with it a heavy load of other baggage.

As if sensing something from his silence, Fuka-Eri asked, “Are you okay.”

“I’m fine. Just ignore the NHK person, okay?”

“The crow said the same thing.”

“Glad to hear it,” Tengo said.

Ever since he saw two moons in the sky, and an air chrysalis materializing on his father’s bed in the sanatorium, nothing surprised Tengo very much. Fuka-Eri and the crow exchanging opinions by the windowsill wasn’t hurting anybody.

“I think I’ll be here a little longer. I can’t go back to Tokyo yet. Is that all right?”

“You should be there as long as you want to be.”

And then she hung up. Their conversation vanished in an instant, as if someone had taken a nicely sharpened hatchet to the phone line and chopped it in two.

Afterward Tengo called the publishing company where Komatsu worked. He wasn’t in. He had put in a brief appearance around one p.m. but then had left, and the person on the phone had no idea where he was or if he was coming back. This wasn’t that unusual for Komatsu. Tengo left the number for the sanatorium, saying that was where he could be found during the day, and asked that Komatsu call back. If he had left the inn’s number and Komatsu ended up calling in the middle of the night, that would be a problem.

The last time he had heard from Komatsu had been near the end of September, just a short talk on the phone. Since then Komatsu hadn’t been in touch, and neither had Tengo. For a three-week period starting at the end of August, Komatsu had disappeared. He had called the publisher with some vague excuse, claiming he was ill and needed time off to rest, but hadn’t called afterward, as if he were a missing person. Tengo was concerned, but not overly worried. Komatsu had always done his own thing. Tengo was sure that he would show up before long and saunter back into the office.

Such self-centered behavior was usually forbidden in a corporate environment. But in Komatsu’s case, one of his colleagues always smoothed things over so he didn’t get in trouble. Komatsu wasn’t the most popular man, but somehow there always seemed to be a willing person on hand, ready to clean up whatever mess he left behind. The publishing house, for its part, was willing, to a certain extent, to look the other way. Komatsu was self-centered, uncooperative, and insolent, but when it came to his job, he was capable. He had handled, on his own, the bestseller Air Chrysalis. So they weren’t about to fire him.

As Tengo had predicted, one day Komatsu simply returned, without explaining why he was away or apologizing for his absence, and came back to work. Tengo heard the news from another editor he worked with who happened to mention it.

“So how is Mr. Komatsu feeling?” Tengo asked the editor.

“He seems fine,” the man replied. “Though he seems less talkative than before.”

“Less talkative?” Tengo asked, a bit surprised.

“How should I put it—he’s less sociable than before.”

“Was he really quite sick?”

“How should I know?” the editor said, apathetically. “He says he’s fine, so I have to go with that. Now that he’s back we’ve been able to take care of the work that has been piling up. While he was away there were all sorts of things to do with Air Chrysalis that were a real pain, things I had to take care of in his absence.”

“Speaking of Air Chrysalis, are there any developments in the case of the missing author, Fuka-Eri?”

“No, no updates. No progress at all, and not any idea where the author is. Everybody is at their wits’ end.”

“I’ve been reading the newspapers but haven’t seen a single mention of it recently.”

“The media has mostly backed off the story, or maybe they’re deliberately distancing themselves from it. And the police don’t appear to be actively pursuing the case. Mr. Komatsu will know the details, so he would be the one to ask. But as I said, he has gotten a bit less talkative. Actually he’s not himself at all. He used to be brimming with confidence, but he has toned that down, and has gotten more introspective, I guess you would say, just sitting there half the time. He’s more difficult to get along with, too. Sometimes it seems like he has totally forgotten that there are other people around, like he is all by himself inside a hole.”

“Introspective,” Tengo said.

“You’ll know what I mean when you talk with him.”

Tengo had thanked him and hung up.

A few days later, in the evening, Tengo called Komatsu. He was in the office. Just like the editor had told him, the way Komatsu spoke had changed. Usually the words slipped out smoothly without a pause, but now there was awkwardness about him, as if he were preoccupied. Something must be bothering him, Tengo thought. At any rate, this was no longer the cool Komatsu he knew.

“Are you completely well now?” Tengo asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you took a long break from work because you weren’t feeling well, right?”

“That’s right,” Komatsu said, as if he had just recalled the fact. A short silence followed. “I’m fine now. I’ll tell you all about it sometime, before long. I can’t really explain it at this point.”

Sometime, before long. Tengo mulled over the words. There was something odd about the sound of Komatsu’s voice. The sense of distance that you would normally expect was missing, and his words were flat, without any depth.

Tengo found an appropriate point in the conversation to say good-bye, and hung up. He decided not to bring up Air Chrysalis or Fuka-Eri. Something in Komatsu’s tone indicated he was trying to avoid these topics. Had Komatsu ever had trouble discussing anything before?

This phone call, at the end of September, was the last time he had spoken to Komatsu. More than two months had passed since then. Komatsu usually loved to have long talks on the phone. Tengo was, as it were, the wall against which Komatsu hit a tennis ball. Maybe he was going through a period when he just didn’t want to talk to anyone, Tengo surmised. Everybody has times like that, even somebody like Komatsu. And Tengo, for his part, didn’t have anything pressing he had to discuss with him. Air Chrysalis had stopped selling and had practically vanished from the public eye, and Tengo knew exactly where the missing Fuka-Eri happened to be. If Komatsu had something he needed to discuss, then he would surely call. No calls simply meant he didn’t have anything to talk about.

But Tengo was thinking that it was getting about time to call him. I’ll tell you all about it sometime, before long. Komatsu’s words had stuck with him, oddly enough, and he couldn’t shake them.

Tengo called his friend who was subbing for him at the cram school, to see how things were going.

“Everything’s fine,” his friend replied. “How is your father doing?”

“He has been in a coma the whole time,” Tengo explained. “He’s breathing, and his temperature and blood pressure are low but stable. But he’s unconscious. I don’t think he’s in any pain. It’s like he has gone over completely to the dream world.”

“Not such a bad way to go,” his friend said, without much emotion. What he was trying to say was This might sound a little insensitive, but depending on how you look at it, that’s not such a bad way to die. But he had left out such prefatory remarks. If you study for a few years in a mathematics department, you get used to that kind of abbreviated conversation.

“Have you looked at the moon recently?” Tengo suddenly asked. This friend was probably the only person he knew who wouldn’t find it suspicious to be asked, out of the blue, about the moon.

His friend gave it some thought. “Now that you mention it, I don’t recall looking at the moon recently. What’s going on with the moon?”

“When you have a chance, would you look at it for me? And tell me what you think.”

“What I think? From what standpoint?”

“Any standpoint at all. I would just like to hear what you think when you see the moon.”

A short pause. “It might be hard to find the right way to express what I think about it.”

“No, don’t worry about expression. What’s important are the most obvious characteristics.”

“You want me to look at the moon and tell you what I think are the most obvious characteristics?”

“That’s right,” Tengo replied. “If nothing strikes you, then that’s fine.”

“It’s overcast today, so I don’t think you can see the moon, but when it clears up I’ll take a look. If I remember.”

Tengo thanked him and hung up. If he remembers. This was one of the problems with math department graduates. When it came to areas they weren’t interested in, their memory was surprisingly short-lived.

When visiting hours were over and Tengo was leaving the sanatorium he said good-bye to Nurse Tamura, the nurse at the reception desk. “Thank you. Good night,” he said.

“How many more days will you be here?” she asked, pressing the bridge of her glasses on her nose. She seemed to have finished her shift, because she had changed from her uniform into a pleated dark purple skirt, a white blouse, and a gray cardigan.

Tengo came to a halt and thought for a minute. “I’m not sure. It depends on how things go.”

“Can you still take time off from your job?”

“I asked somebody to teach my classes for me, so I should be okay for a while.”

“Where do you usually eat?” the nurse asked.

“At a restaurant in town,” he replied. “They only provide breakfast at the inn so I go someplace nearby and eat their set meal, or a rice bowl, that sort of thing.”

“Is it good?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Though I don’t really notice what it tastes like.”

“That won’t do,” the nurse said, looking displeased. “You have to eat more nutritious food. I mean, look—these days your face reminds me of a horse sleeping standing up.”

“A horse sleeping standing up?” Tengo asked, surprised.

“Horses sleep standing up. You’ve never seen that?”

Tengo shook his head. “No, I never have.”

“Their faces look like yours,” the middle-aged nurse said. “Go check out your face in the mirror. At first glance you can’t tell they’re asleep, but if you look closely you will see that their eyes are open, but they aren’t seeing anything.”

“Horses sleep with their eyes open?”

The nurse nodded deeply. “Just like you.”

For a moment Tengo did think about going to the bathroom and looking at himself in the mirror, but he decided against it. “I understand. I’ll try to eat better from now on.”

“Would you care to go out to get some yakiniku?”

“Yakiniku?” Tengo didn’t eat much meat. He didn’t usually crave it. But now that she had brought it up, he thought it might be good to have some meat for a change. His body might indeed be crying out for more nourishment.

“All of us were talking about going out now to eat some yakiniku. You should join us.”

“All of us?”

“The others finish work at six thirty and we’ll meet afterward. There will be three of us. Interested?”

The other two were Nurse Omura and Nurse Adachi. The three of them seemed to enjoy spending time together, even after work. Tengo considered the idea of going out to eat yakiniku with them. He didn’t want to disrupt his simple lifestyle, but he couldn’t think of a plausible excuse in order to refuse. It was obvious to them that in a town like this Tengo would have plenty of free time on his hands.

“If you don’t think I’ll be a bother.”

“Of course you won’t,” the nurse said. “I don’t invite people out if I think they’ll be a bother. So don’t hesitate to come with us. It will be nice to have a healthy young man along for a change.”

“Well, healthy I definitely am,” Tengo said in an uncertain voice.

“That is the most important thing,” the nurse declared, giving it her professional opinion.

It wasn’t easy for all three nurses to be off duty at the same time, but once a month they managed it. The three of them would go into town, eat something nutritious, have a few drinks, sing karaoke, let loose, and blow off some steam. They definitely needed a change of scenery. Life in this rural town was monotonous, and with the exception of the doctors and other nurses at work, the only people they saw were the elderly, those devoid of memory and signs of life.

The three nurses ate and drank a lot, and Tengo couldn’t keep up. As they got livelier, he sat beside them, quietly eating a moderate amount of grilled meat and sipping his draft beer so he didn’t get drunk. After they left the yakiniku place, they went to a bar, bought a bottle of whiskey, and belted out karaoke. The three nurses took turns singing their favorite songs, then teamed up to do a Candies number, complete with choreographed steps. Tengo was sure they had practiced, they were that good. Tengo wasn’t into karaoke, but he did manage one Yosui Inoue song he vaguely remembered.

Nurse Adachi was normally reserved, but after a few drinks, she turned animated and bold. Once she got a bit tipsy, her red cheeks turned a healthy tanned color. She giggled at silly jokes and leaned back, in an entirely natural way, on Tengo’s shoulder. Nurse Omura had changed into a light blue dress and had let down her hair. She looked three or four years younger and her voice dropped an octave. Her usually brisk, businesslike manner was subdued, and she moved languidly, as if she had taken on a different personality. Only Nurse Tamura, with her metal-framed glasses, looked and acted the same as always.

“My kids are staying with a neighbor tonight,” Nurse Omura explained. “And my husband has to work the night shift. You have to take advantage of times like this to just go out and have fun. It’s important to get away from it all sometimes. Don’t you agree, Tengo?”

The three nurses had started calling him by his first name. Most people around him seemed to do that naturally. Even his students called him “Tengo” behind his back.

“Yes, that’s for sure,” Tengo agreed.

“We just have to get out sometimes,” Nurse Tamura said, sipping a glass of Suntory Old whiskey and water. “We’re just flesh and blood, after all.”

“Take off our uniforms, and we’re just ordinary women,” Miss Adachi said, and giggled at her comment.

“Tell me, Tengo,” Nurse Omura said. “Is it okay to ask this?”

“Ask what?”

“Are you seeing anybody?”

“Yes, tell us,” Nurse Adachi said, crunching down on some corn nuts with her large, white teeth.

“It’s not an easy thing to talk about,” Tengo said.

“We don’t mind if it’s not easy to talk about,” the experienced Nurse Tamura said. “We have lots of time, and we would love to hear about it. I’m dying to hear this hard-to-talk-about story.”

“Tell us, tell us!” Nurse Adachi said, clapping her hands lightly and giggling.

“It’s not all that interesting,” Tengo said. “It’s kind of trite and pointless.”

“Well, then just cut to the chase,” Nurse Omura said. “Do you have a girlfriend, or not?”

Tengo gave in. “At this point, I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Hmm,” Nurse Tamura said. She stirred the ice in her glass with a finger and licked it. “That won’t do. That won’t do at all. A young, vigorous man like yourself without a girlfriend, it’s such a waste.”

“It’s not good for your body, either,” the large Nurse Omura said. “If you keep it stored inside you for a long time, you’ll go soft in the head.”

Young Nurse Adachi was still giggling. “You’ll go soft in the head,” she said, and poked her forehead.

“I did have someone until recently,” Tengo said, somewhat apologetically.

“But she left?” Nurse Tamura said, pushing up the bridge of her glasses.

Tengo nodded.

“You mean she dumped you?”

“I don’t know,” Tengo said, inclining his head. “Maybe she did. I think I probably was dumped.”

“By any chance is that person—a lot older than you?” Nurse Tamura asked, her eyes narrowed.

“Yes, she is,” Tengo said. How did she know that?

“Didn’t I tell you?” Nurse Tamura said, looking proudly at the other two nurses. They nodded.

“I told the others that,” Nurse Tamura said, “that you were going out with an older woman. Women can sniff out these things.”

“Sniff, sniff,” went Nurse Adachi.

“On top of that, maybe she was already married,” Nurse Omura said in a lazy tone. “Am I right?”

Tengo hesitated for a moment and then nodded. Lying was pointless.

“You bad boy,” Nurse Adachi said, and poked him in the thigh.

“Ten years older,” Tengo said.

“Goodness!” Nurse Omura exclaimed.

“Ah, so you had an experienced, older married woman loving you,” Nurse Tamura, herself a mother, said. “I’m envious. Maybe I should do that myself. And comfort lonely, gentle young Tengo here. I might not look it, but I still have a pretty decent body.”

She grabbed Tengo’s hand and was about to press it against her breasts. The other two women managed to stop her. Even if you were letting your hair down, there was a line that shouldn’t be crossed between nurses and a patient’s relative. That’s what they seemed to think—or else they were afraid that someone might spot them. It was a small town, and rumors spread quickly. Maybe Nurse Tamura’s husband was the jealous type. Tengo had enough problems and didn’t want to get caught up in any more.

“You’re really something,” Nurse Tamura said, wanting to change the subject. “You come all this way here, sit by your father’s bedside for hours a day reading aloud to him … Not many people would do that.”

Young Nurse Adachi tilted her head a bit. “I agree, he really is something. I really respect you for that.”

“You know, we’re always praising you,” Nurse Tamura said.

Tengo’s face reddened. He wasn’t in this town to nurse his father. He was staying here hoping to again see the air chrysalis, and the faint light it gave off, and inside it, the sleeping figure of Aomame. That was the only reason he remained here. Taking care of his unconscious father was only a pretext. But he couldn’t reveal the truth. If he did, he would have to start by explaining an air chrysalis.

“It’s because I never did anything for him up till now.” Awkwardly, he scrunched up his large frame in the narrow wooden chair, sounding uncomfortable. But the nurses found his attitude appealingly humble.

Tengo wanted to tell them he was sleepy so he could get up and go back to his inn, but he couldn’t find the right opportunity. He wasn’t the type, after all, to assert himself.

“Yes, but—” Nurse Omura said, and cleared her throat. “To get back to what we were talking about, I wonder why you and that married woman ten years older than you broke up. I imagine you were getting along all right? Did her husband find out or something?”

“I don’t know the reason,” Tengo said. “At one point she just stopped calling, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Hmm,” Nurse Adachi said. “I wonder if she was tired of you.”

Nurse Omura shook her head. She held one index finger pointing straight up and turned to her younger colleague. “You still don’t know anything about the world. You don’t get it at all. A forty-year-old married woman who snags a young, vigorous, delicious young man like this one and enjoys him to the fullest doesn’t then just up and say Thanks. It was fun. Bye! It’s impossible. Of course, the other way around happens sometimes.”

“Is that right?” Nurse Adachi said, inclining her head just a fraction. “I guess I’m a bit naive.”

“Yes, that’s the way it is,” Nurse Omura declared. She looked at Tengo for a while, as if stepping back from a stone monument to examine the words chiseled into it. Then she nodded. “When you get a little older you’ll understand.”

“Oh, my—it’s been simply ages,” Nurse Tamura said, sinking deeper into her chair.

For a time the three nurses were lost in a conversation about the sexual escapades of someone he didn’t know (another nurse, he surmised). With his glass of whiskey and water in hand, Tengo surveyed these three nurses, picturing the three witches in Macbeth. The ones who chant “Fair is foul, and foul is fair,” as they fill Macbeth’s head with evil ambitions. But Tengo wasn’t seeing the three nurses as evil beings. They were kind and straightforward women. They worked hard and took good care of his father. Overworked, living in this small, less-than-stimulating fishing town, they were just letting off steam, as they did once every month. But when he witnessed how the energy in these three women, all of different generations, was converging, he couldn’t help but envision the moors of Scotland—a gloomy, overcast sky, a cold wind and rain howling through the heath.

In college he had read Macbeth in English class, and somehow a few lines remained with him.

Why should he remember only these lines? He couldn’t even recall who spoke them in the play. But they made Tengo think of that persistent NHK collector, knocking at the door of his apartment in Koenji. Tengo looked at his own thumbs. They didn’t feel pricked. Still, Shakespeare’s skillful rhyme had an ominous ring to it.

Tengo prayed that Fuka-Eri wouldn’t unlock the door.