1Q84 Read Free

boredom. The mother’s annoyance showed on her face as she cautioned the child to keep still. Aomame could see her mouth moving. The scene was unchanged from ten minutes earlier. In those ten minutes, the car had probably advanced less than ten yards.
    Aomame thought hard, arranging everything in order of priority. She needed hardly any time to reach a conclusion. As if to coincide with this, the final movement of the Janacek was just beginning.
    She pulled her small Ray-Ban sunglasses partway out of her shoulder bag and took three thousand-yen bills from her wallet. Handing the bills to the driver, she said, “I’ll get out here. I really can’t be late for this appointment.”
    The driver nodded and took the money. “Would you like a receipt?”
    “No need. And keep the change.”
    “Thanks very much,” he said. “Be careful, it looks windy out there. Don’t slip.”
    “I’ll be careful,” Aomame said.
    “And also,” the driver said, facing the mirror, “please remember: things are not what they seem.”
    Things are not what they seem
, Aomame repeated mentally. “What do you mean by that?” she asked with knitted brows.
    The driver chose his words carefully: “It’s just that you’re about to do something
out of the ordinary
. Am I right? People do not ordinarily climb down the emergency stairs of the Metropolitan Expressway in the middle of the day—especially women.”
    “I suppose you’re right.”
    “Right. And after you
do
something like that, the everyday
look
of things might seem to change a little. Things may look
different
to you than they did before. I’ve had that experience myself. But don’t let appearances fool you. There’s always only one reality.”
    Aomame thought about what he was saying, and in the course of her thinking, the Janacek ended and the audience broke into immediate applause. This was obviously a live recording. The applause was long and enthusiastic. There were even occasional calls of “Bravo!” She imagined the smiling conductor bowing repeatedly to the standing audience. He would then raise his head, raise his arms, shake hands with the concertmaster, turn away from the audience, raise his arms again in praise of the orchestra, face front, and take another deep bow. As she listened to the long recorded applause, it sounded less like applause and more like an endless Martian sandstorm.
    “There is always, as I said, only one reality,” the driver repeated slowly, as if underlining an important passage in a book.
    “Of course,” Aomame said. He was right. A physical object could only be in one place at one time. Einstein proved that. Reality was utterly coolheaded and utterly lonely.
    Aomame pointed toward the car stereo. “Great sound.”
    The driver nodded. “What was the name of that composer again?”
    “Janacek.”
    “Janacek,” the driver repeated, as if committing an important password to memory. Then he pulled the lever that opened the passenger door. “Be careful,” he said. “I hope you get to your appointment on time.”
    Aomame stepped out of the cab, gripping the strap of her large leather shoulder bag. The applause was still going. She started walking carefully along the left edge of the elevated road toward the emergency turnout some ten meters ahead. Each time a large truck roared by on the opposite side, she felt the surface of the road shake—or, rather, undulate—through her high heels, as if she were walking on the deck of an aircraft carrier on a stormy sea.
    The little girl in the front seat of the red Suzuki Alto stuck her head out of her window and stared, open-mouthed, at Aomame passing by. Then she turned to her mother and asked, “Mommy, what is that lady doing? Where’s she going? I want to get out and walk too. Please, Mommy! Pleeease!” The mother responded to her cries in silence, shaking her head and shooting an accusatory glance at Aomame. The girl’s loud pleading and the mother’s glance were the only