Tengo had to admit that Komatsu could be right. The man possessed good editorial instincts, if nothing else.

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to give her a chance, would it?” Tengo asked.

“You mean, throw her in, see if she sinks or swims?”

“In a word.”

“I’ve done too much of that already. I don’t want to watch anybody else drown.”

“Well, what about me?”

“You at least are willing to work hard,” Komatsu said cautiously. “As far as I can tell, you don’t cut corners. You’re very modest when it comes to the act of writing. And why? Because you like to write. I value that in you. It’s the single most important quality for somebody who wants to be a writer.”

“But not, in itself, enough.”

“No, of course, not in itself enough. There also has to be that ‘special something,’ an indefinable quality, something I can’t quite put my finger on. That’s the part of fiction I value more highly than anything else. Stuff I understand perfectly doesn’t interest me. Obviously. It’s very simple.”

Tengo fell silent for a while. Then he said, “Does Fuka-Eri’s writing have something you don’t understand perfectly?”

“Yes, it does, of course. She has something important. I don’t know what it is exactly, but she has it, that much is clear. It’s obvious to you, and it’s obvious to me. Anybody can see it, like the smoke from a bonfire on a windless afternoon. But whatever she has, Tengo, she probably can’t carry it on her own.”

“Meaning, if we throw her in the water, she’ll drown?”

“Exactly.”

“And that’s why you don’t want to put her on the short list.”

“That is exactly why.” Komatsu contorted his lips and folded his hands on the table. “Which brings us to a point in the conversation where I have to be very careful how I express myself.”