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I’d always felt that I was striving for something good, though, reaching toward the light, and so it really hadn’t been that bad. Things had come to feel so normal that I could hardly believe it when I would remember I couldn’t call her up to talk whenever I wanted to anymore, about whatever was on my mind.
    I had always been thinking about her, about what I could do for her, but she would be unconscious, or in a daze, out of it. That was what really hurt.
    The meeting that afternoon went smoothly.
    I had a pleasant discussion with the managers of the Infant Development Center—a couple who had worked, apparently, in a preschool in the United States—and we agreed that I would paint a cheery group of animals or something along those lines. I was a bit troubled by the bumpiness of the wall, but it would take too long and be too expensive to fill in all the depressions, and I had the feeling I could obviate the need by brushing on a heavy undercoat. There was nothing but dirt in front of the wall, so I wouldn’t even have to spread a plastic sheet.
    These things would make the work a lot easier, and it sounded as if the local government could help out financially; I’d have about five hundred thousand yen, which was enough to allow me to hire a driver for at least a few days. Having a helper would make things much easier: it was a boon to have a car, of course, and he could help me lug the twenty or so cans of water-based paint I’d need back and forth every day. I got permission to borrow the school’s ladder, and with a bit of luck it sounded as if I might be able to leave my tools in the storage room, as long as there was space. Everything was getting off to a good start. When you’re working at a semipublic site like this, the least bit of friction at the beginning can make things drag on and on. It looked as though things were going to work out this time.
    I wonder if Nakajima will come stay over tonight, too? I thought as I stood gazing down the length of the wall, all alone.
    I wasn’t exactly excited, but I felt a warm glow inside.
    I felt like someone with a brand-new boyfriend.
    Sometimes, though, I imagined what it might be like if I happened to fall passionately in love with someone else, and it became inconvenient to have Nakajima around. What would I do then? At the moment, I wasn’t really sure. He’d had a tremendous influence on me, that was true, but that seemed kind of different from being head over heels in love.
    Right now it wasn’t really an issue, because I was enjoying myself, but it would be a pain if something like that happened after we had become more deeply involved.
    And what would happen to Nakajima if I did meet someone else and just chased him out? How did I know he wouldn’t kill himself, or go crazy?
    I couldn’t begin to imagine how someone like him, with his awful past, might feel because I had never suffered any terrible wounds. Of course, it would be even worse if I thought I could understand. Recognizing how totally ignorant you are is the only honest way to deal with people who’ve been through something traumatic.
    Still, I had the feeling it would be okay. I would go on liking Nakajima.
    I had taken such great care to reach this point, and now, little by little, I was falling in love. Even putting it in conservative terms, it would probably be fair to say that I needed him—no one else would do. I had the sense that he was the one.
    It’s like when you decide to build a house: some people want to go and find the land first, then hire an architect to help them draw up the plans, and then choose the materials for the walls and everything all on their own. I’m not like that. I prefer to wander around until I stumble across something, then do the best I can with it, scrutinizing this thing I’ve discovered, getting to know it for what it is.
    By the same token, some muralists will neatly fill in all the joints in a wall, transform it into a perfectly white canvas,