because it was so rare that the topic had been taken up as international news
in the first place, and why the Japanese newspaper had chosen the story for
“This Country, That Country.”
The eight Swedes and Americans must have been either frivolous
pleasure-seekers or lawless rebels—it was inconceivable that they had
thought very deeply about what they were doing—and they must have
exchanged spouses in the spirit of comedy. Takako was sure this was the
case.
Even so, there was no denying that something utterly improbable had
happened, really happened, twice within the past three or four days—even
if it had happened in distant countries.
Takako, twenty-nine, was certainly well aware that things one might
assume to be impossible sometimes do happen in the world. People can
bring themselves to do anything at all, for any reason whatsoever. You can
never tell what a person might do.
But she could never do it herself. She never would.
“I suppose all you really need are four people who feel the same way
about it—four people out of an uncountable number—and then it’s
possible, isn’t it?” she muttered, forcing herself to laugh.
No, it wasn’t amazing. It would cause no very terrible inconvenience, it
wasn’t a crime. And yet “all you really need” was not something one could
honestly say.
Takako decided that it would be best not to show the article to her
husband, Hirata.
Hirata had skimmed the newspaper before he left that morning—it was
unlikely that he would look through it again, or that if he did he would
happen across “This Country, That Country.” Even supposing that he did
read the column, he’d probably think it was just an amusing topic, a nice
