Nutmeg's earrings were large plastic things, the same exact color as her suit. They were a unique deep green that seemed to have been made from a combination of several colors, and so they had probably been special-ordered to match the suit. Or perhaps the opposite was true: the suit had been made to match the earrings-like making a niche in the wall the exact shape of a refrigerator. Maybe not a bad way to look at things, I thought. She had come in wearing sunglasses in spite of the rain, and their lenses had almost certainly been green. Her stockings were green too. Today was obviously green day.
With her usual series of smooth linked movements, Nutmeg drew a cigarette from her bag, put it in her mouth, and lit it with her cigarette lighter, curling her lip just slightly. The lighter, at least, was not green but the expensive-looking slim gold one she always used. It did go very well with the green, though. Nutmeg then crossed her green-stockinged legs. Checking her knees carefully, she adjusted her skirt. Then, as if it were an extension of her knees, she looked at my face.
Not bad, I said again. The same as always. Nutmeg nodded. You're not tired? You don't feel as if you need some rest? No, not especially. I think I've gotten used to the work. Its a lot easier for me now than it was at first. Nutmeg said nothing to that. The smoke of her cigarette rose straight up like an Indian fakirs magic rope, to be sucked in by the ceiling ventilator. As far as I knew, this ventilator was the worlds quietest and strongest.
How are you doing? I asked. Me? Are you tired? Nutmeg looked at me. Do I look tired? She had in fact looked tired to me from the moment our eyes first met. When I told her this, she gave a short sigh. There was another article about this place in a magazine that came out this morning-part of the Mystery of the Hanging House series. Sounds like the title of a horror movie. That's the second one, isn't it? I said. It certainly is, said Nutmeg. And in fact, another magazine carried a related article not too long ago, but fortunately no one seems to have noticed the connection. So far. Did something new come out? About us? She reached toward an ashtray and carefully crushed out her cigarette. Then she gave her head a little shake. Her green earrings fluttered like butterflies in early spring. Not really, she said, then paused. Who we are, what were doing here: no one knows yet. I'll leave you a copy, so you can read it if you're interested. But what Id really like to ask you about is something that somebody whispered to me the other day: that you have a brother-in-law who's a famous young politician. Is it true?
Unfortunately, it is, I said. My wifes brother. Meaning the brother of the wife who is no longer with you? That's right. I wonder if he's caught wind of what you're doing here?
He knows I come here every day and that I'm doing something. He had somebody investigate for him. I think he was worried about what I might be doing. But I don't think he's figured out anything else yet.
Nutmeg thought about my answer for a while. Then she raised her face to mine and asked, You don't like this brother-in-law of yours very much, do you?
Not very much, no. And he doesn't like you. To put it mildly. And now he's worried about what you're doing here. Why is that? If it comes out that his brother-in-law is involved with something suspicious, it could turn into a scandal for him. Hes the man of the moment, after all. I suppose its natural that he would worry about such things.
So he couldn't be the one leaking information about this place to the mass media, then, could he?
To be quite honest, I don't know what Noboru Wataya has in mind. But common sense tells me he'd have nothing to gain by leaking things to the press. He'd be more likely to want to keep things under wraps.
For a long time, Nutmeg went on turning the slim gold lighter in her fingers. It looked like a gold windmill on a day with little wind.
Why haven't you said anything to us about this brother-in-law of yours? Nutmeg asked.
It isn't just you. I try not to mention him to anybody, I said. We haven't liked each other from the beginning, and now we practically hate each other. I wasn't hiding him from you. I just didn't think there was any need to bring up the subject.
Nutmeg released a somewhat longer sigh. You should have told us. Maybe I should have, I said. I'm sure you can imagine whats involved here. We have clients coming to us from politics and business. Powerful people. And famous people. Their privacy has to be protected. That's why we've taken such extreme precautions. You know that much. I nodded.
Cinnamon has gone to a lot of time and trouble to put together the precise and complicated system we have for maintaining our secrecy- a labyrinth of dummy companies, books under layers of camouflage, a totally anonymous parking space in that hotel in Akasaka, stringent management of the clientele, control of income and expenses, design of this house: his mind gave birth to all of this. Until now, the system has worked almost perfectly in accordance with his calculations. Of course, it takes a lot of money to support such a system, but money is no problem for us. The important thing is that the women who come to us can feel secure that they will be protected absolutely.
What you're saying is that that security is being undermined. Yes, unfortunately. Nutmeg picked up a box of cigarettes and took one out, but she just held it for a long time between her fingers without lighting it. And to make matters worse, I have this fairly famous politician for a brother-in-law, which only increases the possibility of scandal. Exactly, said Nutmeg, curling her lip slightly. So what is Cinnamon's analysis of the situation?
Hes not saying anything. Like a big oyster on the bottom of the sea. He has burrowed inside himself and locked the door, and he's doing some serious thinking.
Nutmeg's eyes were fixed on mine. At last, as though recalling that it was there in her hand, she lit her cigarette. Then she said, I Still think about it a lot-about my husband and the way he was killed. Why did they have to murder him? Why did they have to smear the hotel room with blood and tear out his insides and take them away? I just cant think of any reason for doing such a thing. My husband was not the kind of person who had to be killed in such an unusual way.
But my husbands death is not the only thing. All these inexplicable events that have occurred in my life so far- the intense passion that welled up inside me for fashion design and the way it suddenly disappeared; the way Cinnamon stopped speaking; the way I became swept up in this strange work we do- its as though they were all ingeniously programmed from the start for the very purpose of bringing me here, where I am today. Its a thought I cant seem to shake off. I feel as if my every move is being controlled by some kind of incredibly long arm thats reaching out from somewhere far away, and that my life has been nothing more than a convenient passageway for all these things moving through it.
The faint sounds of Cinnamon's vacuuming came from the next room. He was performing his tasks in his usual concentrated, systematic manner. Haven't you ever felt that way?