Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

by Haruki Murakami

  What warmth we enjoyed yesterday has disappeared overnight. The Town is immersed in cold; the entire landscape has reverted to the depths of winter. From the Northern Ridge to the Southern Plain, the sky hangs unbearably low with snow-laden clouds.

  Below the window, the four old men are still digging in the open ground.

  Four men?

  Before there were three. The Official Residences, however, are populated with innumerable old men. Each stands silently in place as he digs the earth at his feet. Occasional gusts of wind flap through their thin jackets, but the old men show little sign of discomfort as they thrust their shovels relentlessly into the frozen earth. They are sweating, faces flushed. One of their number has even removed his jacket, draping it over a tree branch like molted skin.

  The room is now warm. I sit at the table with the musical instrument in hand, slowly working the bellows. The leather folds are stiff, but not unmanageable; the keys are discolored. When was the last time anyone touched it? By what route had the heirloom traveled, through how many hands? It is a mystery to me.

  I inspect the bellows box with care. It is a jewel. There is such precision in it. So very small, it compresses to fit into a pocket, yet seems to sacrifice no mechanical details.

  The shellac on the wooden boards at either end has not flaked. They bear a filligreed decoration, the intricate green arabesques well preserved. I wipe the dust with my fingers and read the letters A-C-C-O-R-D-…

  This is an accordion!

  I work it, in and out, over and over again, learning the feel of it. The buttons vie for space on the miniature instrument. More suited to a child’s or woman’s hand, the accordion is exceedingly difficult for a grown man to finger. And then one is supposed to work the bellows in rhythm!

  I try pressing the buttons in order with my right hand, while holding down the chord keys with my left. I go once through all the notes, then pause.

  The sound of the digging continues. The wind rattles at the windowpane now and again. Do the old men even hear my accordion?

  I persist with this effort for one or two hours, until I am able to render a few simple chords without error. No melody comes. Still, I press on, hoping to strike some semblance of song, but the progressions of notes lead nowhere. An accidental configuration of tones may seem almost melodic, but in the next moment all vanishes into the air.

  Perhaps it is the sound of the shovelling outdoors that keeps the notes from forming into a melody. I cannot concentrate for the noise. A rasping, uneven rhythm, the shovels plunging into the soil, how clear it reaches inside here! The sound grows so sharp, the men are digging in my head. They are hollowing out my skull.

  The wind picks up before noon, intermingled with flurries of snow. White pellets strike the windowpane with a dry patter, tumbling in disarray along the sash, soon to blow away. It is a matter of time before the snowflakes swell with moisture. Soon the earth will be covered in white again.

  I give up my struggle for song, leave the accordion on the table, and go over to the window. The old men keep digging, heedless of the snow. They do not acknowledge the white specks falling on them. No one looks at the sky, no one stays his hand, no one speaks. The forsaken jacket clings to the branch, fluttering in the wind.

  There are now six old men; the hole is waist deep. One old man is in the hole, wielding a pick at the hard bottom with astounding efficiency. The four men with shovels toss out the dirt, and the last member of the team carts the dirt downhill with a wheelbarrow. I cannot discern a leader among them. All work equally hard, no one gives orders, no one assigns tasks.

  Something about the hole begins to disturb me. It is far too large for waste disposal. And why dig now, in the gathering blizzard? They apparently dig for some purpose, even though the hole will be completely filled with snow by tomorrow morning.

  I return to my chair and gaze absently at the glowing coals. I have an instrument. Will I never be able to recall a tune? Is the accordion on the table to remain beautiful but useless? I shut my eyes and listen to the shovelling as the snow softly hits the windowpane.

  It is time for lunch. The old men finally set down their work and go indoors, leaving pick and shovels on the ground.

  There is a knock on my door. The Colonel enters, wearing his usual heavy coat and a visored cap pulled down low onto his forehead. Coat and cap are both dusted in snow.

  “Shall we have lunch?” he asks.

  “That would be wonderful,” I say.

  A few minutes later, he returns and puts a pot on the stove. Only then does he shed his coat and cap and gloves. Last he takes a seat, rubbing his tousled frosted-white scalp.

  “I was not able to be here for breakfast,” says the old officer. “I had tasks to attend to this morning. I had no time to eat.”

  “Were you digging the hole?”

  “The hole? No, that is nothing I do,” answers the Colonel, with a hesitant laugh. “I had business in Town.”

  The pot is now hot. He ladles out two bowls and sets them on the table. A hearty vegetable chowder with noodles. He blows to cool it before taking a sip.

  “Tell me, what is that hole for?” I ask the Colonel.

  “Nothing at all,” he says, guiding a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “They dig for the sake of digging. So in that sense, it is a very pure hole.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It is simple enough. They dig their hole because they want to dig. Nothing more or less.”

  I think about the pure hole and all it might mean.

  “They dig holes from time to time,” the Colonel explains. “It is probably for them what chess is for me. It has no special meaning, does not transport them anywhere. All of us dig at our own pure holes. We have nothing to achieve by our activities, nowhere to get to. Is there not something marvelous about this? We hurt no one and no one gets hurt. No victory, no defeat.”

  “I think I understand.”

  The old officer finishes one last spoonful of soup.

  “Perhaps you do not understand. But our way is proper to us. It is proper, peaceful, and pure. Soon enough, it will begin to make sense to you.

  “For many years, I led the life of a soldier. I do not regret that; it was a fine life. The smell of gunsmoke and blood, the flash of sabers, the call of the bugle. I sometimes still think about the drama. Yet I cannot recall what it was that sent us charging into the fray. Honor? Patriotism? A thirst for combat? Hatred? I can only guess.

  “You are fearful now of losing your mind, as I once feared myself. Let me say, however, that to relinquish your self carries no shame,” the Colonel breaks off and searches the air for words. “Lay down your mind and peace will come. A peace deeper than anything you have known.”

  I nod quietly.

  “I hear talk in Town about your shadow,” says the Colonel. “Your shadow is not well. He cannot hold down food, he has been sick in bed for three days, he may not have long. Will you see him one last time? If you have nothing against it, that is. I am sure he wants to see you.”

  “Of course I will see him,” I say. “But will the Gatekeeper let me?”

  “Your shadow is on the verge of death. A person has the right to see his own shadow under these circumstances. There are rules about this. The Town observes the passing of a shadow as a solemn event, and the Gatekeeper does not interfere. There is no reason for him to interfere.”

  “I’ll go over right away,” I say, with only the slightest pause.

  “Good. I knew you would,” says the old soldier, drawing near to pat me on the shoulder. “Best to hurry before evening, before the snow gets too thick. A shadow is the closest thing a person has. Take a long look and leave no remorse. See that your shadow dies well. It is for your own sake.”

  “Yes,” I say. I don my coat, wrapping my scarf around my neck.

  31

  Fares, Police, Detergent

  THE distance to Aoyama Itchome was not great. We walked along the tracks, hiding behind columns whenev
er a train passed. We could see all the passengers clearly, but none of them even looked outside. They read newspapers or stared blankly. Few in number, practically all had seats. The rush-hour peak had passed; still I seemed to remember the ten-o’clock Ginza Line being more crowded.

  “What day is it today?” I asked the girl.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” she said.

  “Not many passengers for a weekday. Do you think it could be Sunday?”

  “And if it is Sunday?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’d just be Sunday.”

  The subway tracks were wide with no obstructions, a dream to walk. The fluorescent light on the walls gave off more than adequate illumination, and thanks to the ventilation system, there was plenty of fresh air. At least compared to the dead air below.

  We let one Ginza-bound shuttle go past, then another heading in the opposite direction toward Shibuya. By then we were near enough to Aoyama Itchome to watch the station platform from the shadows. What a nuisance it’d be to get caught on the tracks by a station attendant. A steel ladder led up onto the end of the platform, after which we only had to climb over a short barrier.

  We looked on as another Ginza-bound shuttle pulled to a stop at the platform, let passengers out, then took on new passengers. The conductor saw that all was in order and gave the signal to depart. The station attendants disappeared once the train was out of sight.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Don’t run, just walk normal.”

  “Check.”

  Stepping out from behind a pillar, we mounted the ladder at the end of the platform, nonchalant and disinterested, as if we did this sort of thing every day. We stepped around the railing. Several people looked our way, visibly alarmed. We were covered with mud, clothes drenched, hair matted, eyes squinting at the ordinary light—I guess we didn’t look like subway employees. Who the hell were we?

  Before they’d reached any conclusions, we’d sauntered past and were already at the wicket. That’s when it occurred to me, we didn’t have tickets.

  “We’ll say we lost them and pay the fare,” she said.

  So that’s what I told the young attendant at the gate.

  “Did you look carefully?” he asked. “You have lots of pockets. Could you please check again?”

  We stood there dripping and filthy and searched our clothes for tickets that had never been there, while the attendant eyed us incredulously.

  No, it seemed we’d realty lost them, I said.

  “Where did you get on?”

  “Shibuya.”

  “How much did you pay?”

  “A hundred twenty, hundred forty yen, something like that.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I was thinking about other things.”

  “Honestly, you got on at Shibuya?”

  “The line starts from Shibuya, doesn’t it? How could we cheat on the fare?”

  “You could have come through the underpass from the opposite platform. The Ginza Line’s pretty long. For all I know, you could have caught the Tozai Line all the way from Tsudanuma and transferred at Nihonbashi.”

  “Tsudanuma?”

  “Strictly hypothetical,” said the station attendant.

  “So how much is it from Tsudanuma? I’ll pay that. Will that make you happy?”

  “Did you come from Tsudanuma?”

  “No,” I said. “Never been to Tsudanuma in my life.”

  “Then why pay the fare?”

  “I’m just doing what you said.”

  “I said that was strictly hypothetical.”

  By now, the next train had arrived. Twelve passengers got off and passed through the wicket. We watched them. Not one of them had lost a ticket. Whereupon we resumed negotiations with the attendant.

  “Okay, tell me from where do I have to pay?” I said.

  “From where you got on,” he insisted.

  “Shibuya, like I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “But you don’t remember the fare.”

  “Who remembers fares? Do you remember how much coffee costs at McDonald’s?”

  “I don’t drink McDonald’s coffee,” said the station attendant. “It’s a waste of money.”

  “Purely hypothetical,” I said. “But you forget details like that.”

  “That may be, but people who say they’ve lost tickets always plead cheaper fares. They all come over to this platform and say they got on in Shibuya.”

  “I already said I’d pay whatever fare you want, didn’t I? Just tell me how much.”

  “How should I know?”

  I threw down a thousand-yen bill and we marched out. The attendant yelled at us, but we pretended not to hear. Who’s going to argue over subway tickets when the world’s about to end. And we hadn’t even taken the subway.

  Above ground, fine needles of rain were coming down. On my last, precious day. It could rain for a whole month like in a J. G. Ballard novel, but let it wait until I was out of the picture. Today was my day to lie in the sun, listen to music, drink a cold beer.

  The rain, however, showed no sign of letting up. I thought of buying a morning edition and reading the weather forecast, but the nearest newsstand was back down in the subway station. Scratch the paper. It was going to be a gray day, whatever day it was.

  Everyone was walking with open umbrellas. Everyone except us. We ducked under the portico of a building and gazed out at the drizzly intersection streaming with cars of different colors.

  “Thank goodness, it’s raining,” said the girl.

  “How’s that?”

  “Easy on the eyes.”

  “Great.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “First we get something hot to drink, then head home for a bath.”

  We went into a supermarket with the ubiquitous sandwich stand. The checker jumped when she saw us all covered in mud, but quickly recovered to take our orders.

  “That’s two cream of corn soups and one ham and egg-salad sandwich, is that right, sir?” she confirmed.

  “Right,” I said. “Say there, what day is it today?”

  “Sunday.”

  “What did I tell you?” I said to the chubby girl.

  I picked up a copy of Sports Nippon from the adjacent stool. Not much to gain from a tabloid, but what the hell. The paper was dated Sunday, October 2. No weather forecast, but the racing page went into track conditions in some detail. Rain made it tough racing for quarterhorses. At Jingu Stadium, Yakult lost to Chunichi, 6-2. And no one the wiser that there was a huge hive of INKlings right under them.

  The girl claimed the back pages. Some seedy article which addressed the question “Is Swallowing Semen Good for the Complexion?”

  “Do you like having your semen swallowed?” the girl wanted to know.

  “It’s okay,” I answered.

  “Listen to what it says here: The typical man enjoys it when a woman swallows his semen. This is a sign of total obeisance toward the man on the part of the woman. It is at once a ceremony and an affirmation.’ ”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Anyone ever swallow yours?”

  “Uh, I can’t remember.”

  “Hmph,” she pouted and dove back into her article. I read the batting averages for the Central and Pacific Leagues.

  Our order arrived. Anything would have tasted good.

  We left the place and caught a taxi. It was ages before we got one to stop, we were so dirty. The driver was a young guy with long hair, a huge stereoblaster on the seat next to him. I shouted our destination over the blare of the Police, then sank into the backrest.

  “Hey, where you guys been?” asked the driver.

  “We had a knock-down drag-out fight in the rain,” answered the girl.

  “Wow, baad” said the driver. “Oughta see yourselves. You look wild. Got a great bruise there upside your neck.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Like I dig it,” said the driver.

  “How come?” ask
ed the girl.

  “Me, I only pick up rockers. Clean, dirty, makes no difference. Music’s my poison. You guys into the Police?”

  “Sure.” I told him what he wanted to hear.

  “In a company, they don’t letcha play this shit. They say, play kayokyoku. No way, man. I mean, really. Matchi? Seiko? I can’t hack sugar pop. But the Police, they’re baad. Twenty-four hours, nonstop. And reggae’s happenin’, too. How’re you guys for reggae?”

  “I can get into it,” I said.

  After the Police tape, the driver popped in Bob Marley Live. The dashboard was crammed with tapes.

  I was tired and cold and sleepy. I was coming apart at the seams and in no good condition. I couldn’t handle the vibes, but at least we got a ride. I sat back and watched the driver’s shoulders bounce to the reggae beat.

  The taxi pulled up in front of my apartment. I got out and handed the driver an extra thousand yen as a tip. “Buy yourself a tape,” I told him.

  “Get down,” he said. “You can ride with me anytime.”

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  “In ten, fifteen years, it’s gonna be rock taxis all over, eh? World’s going to be baaad.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “real bad.”

  As if I really believed that. It’d been fifteen years since Jim Morrison died, and never once had I come across a Doors taxi. There are things that change in this world and things that don’t. Department stores haven’t stopped piping in Raimond Lefebvre Orchestra Muzak, beer halls still play to polkas, shopping arcades play Ventures’ Christmas carols from mid-November.

  We went up in the elevator to find the apartment door propped up against the door frame. Why had anyoxie bothered? I pushed open the steel door like Cro-Magnon Man rolling the boulder from the mouth of his cave. I let the girl in first, slid the door back in place so that no one could see in, then fastened the door chain as a pretense of security.

  The room was neat and clean. For a second I thought I was in the wrong apartment. The furniture had been righted, the food cleaned from the floor, the broken bottles and dishes had disappeared. Books and records were back on the shelf, clothes were hanging in the wardrobe. The kitchen and bathroom and bedroom were spotless.