Aomame looked at her watch and stood up. There was still some time left until sunset, but already a hint of evening marked the sky--a different blue mixed in with the blue of the afternoon.
"According to Chekhov," Tamaru said, rising from his chair, "once a gun appears in a story, it has to be fired."
Tamaru stood facing Aomame directly. He was only an inch or two taller than she was. "Meaning, don't bring unnecessary props into a story. If a pistol appears, it has to be fired at some point. Chekhov liked to write stories that did away with all useless ornamentation."
Aomame straightened the sleeves of her dress and slung her bag over her shoulder. "And that worries you--if a pistol comes on the scene, it's sure to be fired at some point."
"In Chekhov's view, yes."
"So you're thinking you'd rather not hand me a pistol."
"They're dangerous. And illegal. And Chekhov is a writer you can trust."
"But this is not a story. We're talking about the real world."
Tamaru narrowed his eyes and looked hard at Aomame. Then, slowly opening his mouth, he said, "Who knows?"