Norwegian Wood (Vintage International)

by Haruki Murakami

  She was gone when I woke at twelve-thirty. I found no note of any kind. One side of my head felt strangely heavy from having drunk at an odd time. I took a shower to wake myself up, shaved, and sat in a chair, naked, drinking a bottle of juice from the refrigerator and reviewing in order the events of the night before. Each scene felt unreal and strangely distanced, as if I were viewing it through two or three layers of glass, but the events had undoubtedly happened to me. The beer glasses were still sitting on the table, and a used toothbrush lay by the sink.

  I ate a light lunch in Shinjuku and went to a telephone booth to call Midori Kobayashi on the off chance that she might be home alone waiting for a call again today. I let it ring fifteen times but no one answered. I tried again twenty minutes later with the same result. Then I took a bus back to the dorm. A special delivery letter was waiting for me in the mailbox by the entry. It was from Naoko.

  “THANKS FOR YOUR LETTER,” WROTE NAOKO. HER FAMILY HAD forwarded it “here,” she said. Far from upsetting her, its arrival had made her very happy, and in fact she had been on the point of writing to me herself.

  Having read that much, I opened my window, took off my jacket, and sat on the bed. I could hear pigeons cooing in a nearby roost. The breeze stirred the curtains. Holding the seven pages of letter paper from Naoko, I gave myself up to an endless stream of feelings. It seemed as if the colors of the real world around me had begun to drain away from my having done nothing more than read a few lines she had written. I closed my eyes and spent a long time collecting my thoughts. Finally, after one deep breath, I continued reading.

  “It’s almost four months since I came here,” she went on.

  I’ve thought a lot about you in that time. The more I’ve thought, the more I’ve come to feel that I was unfair to you. I probably should have been a better, fairer person when it came to the way I treated you.

  This may not be the most normal way to look at things, though. Girls my age never use the word fair. Ordinary girls as young as I am are basically indifferent to whether things are fair or not. The central question for them is not whether something is fair but whether or not it’s beautiful or will make them happy. Fair is a man’s word, finally, but I can’t help feeling that it is also exactly the right word for me now. And because questions of beauty and happiness have become such difficult and convoluted propositions for me now, I suspect, I find myself clinging instead to other standards—like, whether or not something is fair or honest or universally true.

  In any case, though, I believe that I have not been fair to you and that, as a result, I must have led you around in circles and hurt you deeply. In doing so, however, I have led myself around in circles and hurt myself just as deeply. I say this not as an excuse or a means of self-justification but because it is true. If I have left a wound inside you, it is not just your wound but mine as well. So please try not to hate me. I am a flawed human being—a far more flawed human being than you realize. Which is precisely why I do not want you to hate me. Because if you were to do that, I would really go to pieces. I can’t do what you can do: I can’t slip inside my shell and wait for things to pass. I don’t know for a fact that you are really like that, but sometimes you give me that impression. I often envy that in you, which may be why I led you around in circles so much.

  This may be an overanalytical way of looking at things. Don’t you agree? The therapy they perform here is certainly not overanalytical, but when you are under treatment for several months the way I am here, like it or not, you become more or less analytical. “This was caused by that, and that means this, because of which thus-and-such.” Like that. I can’t tell whether this kind of analysis is trying to simplify the world or subdivide it.

  In any case, I myself feel that I am far closer to recovery than I was at one time, and people here tell me this is true. This is the first time in a long time that I have been able to sit down and calmly write a letter. The one I wrote you in July was something I had to wring out of me (though, to tell the truth, I don’t remember what I wrote—was it terrible?), but this time I am very, very calm. Clean air, a quiet world cut off from the outside, a daily schedule for living, regular exercise: those are what I needed, it seems. How wonderful it is to be able to write someone a letter! To feel like conveying your thoughts to a person, to sit at your desk and pick up a pen, to put your thoughts into words like this is truly marvelous. Of course, once I do put them into words, I find I can only express a fraction of what I want to say, but that’s all right. I’m happy just to be able to feel I want to write to someone. And so I am writing to you. It’s seven-thirty in the evening, I’ve had my dinner, and I’ve just finished my bath. The place is hushed, and it’s pitch dark outside. I can’t see a single light through the window. I usually have a clear view of the stars from here, but not today, with the clouds. Everyone here knows a lot about the stars, and they tell me, “That’s Virgo,” or “That’s Sagittarius.” They probably learn whether they want to or not because there’s nothing to do here once the sun goes down. Which is also why they know so much about birds and flowers and insects. Speaking to them, I realize how ignorant I was about such things, which is kind of nice.

  The number of people living here is right around seventy. In addition, the staff (doctors, nurses, office staff, etc.) come to just over twenty. It’s such a wide-open place, these are not big numbers at all. Far from it: it might be closer to say the place is on the empty side. It’s big and filled with nature and everybody lives quietly—so quietly you sometimes feel that this is the normal, real world. Which of course it’s not. We can have it this way because we live here under certain preconditions.

  I play tennis and basketball. Basketball teams are made up of both staff and (I hate the word, but there’s no way around it) patients. When I’m absorbed in a game, though, I lose track of who are the patients and who are staff. This is kind of strange. I know this will sound strange, but when I look at the people around me during a game, they all look equally deformed.

  I said this one day to the doctor in charge of my case, and he told me that, in a sense, what I was feeling was right, that we are in here not to correct the deformation but to accustom ourselves to it: that one of our problems was our inability to recognize and accept our own deformities. Just as each person has certain idiosyncracies in the way he or she walks, people have idiosyncracies in the way they think and feel and see things, and though you might want to correct them, it doesn’t happen overnight, and if you try to force the issue in one case, something else might go funny. He gave me a very simplified explanation, of course, and it’s just one small part of the problems we have, but I think I understand what he was trying to say. It may well be that we can never fully adapt to our own deformities. Unable to find a place inside ourselves for the very real pain and suffering that these deformities cause, we come here to get away from such things. As long as we are here, we can get by without hurting others or being hurt by them because we know that we are “deformed.” That’s what distinguishes us from the outside world: most people go about their lives there unconscious of their deformities, while in this little world of ours the deformities themselves are a precondition. Just as Indians wear feathers on their heads to show which tribes they belong to, we wear our deformities in the open. And we live quietly so as not to hurt one another.

  In addition to playing sports, all participate in the raising of vegetables: tomatoes, eggplants, cucumbers, watermelon, strawberries, scallions, cabbage, daikon radishes, and on and on. We raise just about everything. We use hot houses, too. The people here know a lot about vegetable farming, and they put a lot of energy into it. They read books on the subject and call in experts and talk from morning to night about which fertilizer to use and the condition of the soil and stuff like that. I have come to love growing vegetables. It’s marvelous to watch different fruits and vegetables getting bigger and bigger each day. Have you ever raised watermelon? They swell up, just like some kind of little animals.
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br />   We eat freshly picked fruits and vegetables every day. They also serve meat and fish, of course, but when you’re living here you feel less and less like eating those because the vegetables are so fresh and delicious. Sometimes we go out and gather wild plants and mushrooms. We have experts on that kind of thing (come to think of it, this place is crawling with experts) who tell us which plants to pick and which to avoid. As a result of all this, I’ve gained over six pounds since I got here. My weight is just about perfect, thanks to the exercise and the good eating on a regular schedule.

  When we’re not farming, we read or listen to music or knit. We don’t have TV or radio, but we do have a very decent library with books and records. The record collection has everything from Mahler symphonies to the Beatles, and I’m always borrowing records to listen to in my room.

  The one real problem with this facility is that once you’re here you don’t want to leave—or you’re afraid to leave. As long as we’re here, we feel calm and peaceful. Our deformities seem natural. We think we’ve recovered. But we can never be sure that the outside world would accept us in the same way.

  My doctor says it’s time I began having contact with “outside people”—meaning normal people in the normal world. When he says that, the only face I see is yours. To tell the truth, I don’t want to see my parents. They’re too upset over me, and seeing them puts me in a bad mood. Plus, there are things I have to explain to you. I’m not sure I can explain them very well, but they’re important things I can’t go on avoiding any longer.

  Still, you shouldn’t feel that I’m a burden to you. The one thing I don’t want to be is a burden to anyone. I can sense the good feelings you have for me. They make me very happy. All I am doing in this letter is trying to convey that happiness to you. Those good feelings of yours are probably just what I need at this point in my life. Please forgive me if anything I’ve written here upsets you. As I said before, I am a far more flawed human being than you realize.

  I sometimes wonder: IF you and I had met under absolutely ordinary circumstances, and IF we had liked each other, what would have happened? If I had been normal and you had been normal (which, of course, you are) and there had been no Kizuki, what would have happened? Of course, this “IF” is way too big. I’m trying hard at least to be fair and honest. It’s all I can do at this point. I hope to convey some small part of my feelings to you this way.

  Unlike an ordinary hospital, this facility has free visiting hours. As long as you call the day before, you can come anytime. You can even eat with me, and there’s a place for you to stay. Please come and see me sometime when it’s convenient for you. I look forward to seeing you. I’m enclosing a map. Sorry this turned into such a long letter.

  I read Naoko’s letter all the way through, and then I read it again. After that I went downstairs, bought a Coke from the vending machine, and drank it while reading the letter one more time. I put the seven pages of letter paper back into the envelope and laid it on my desk. My name and address had been written on the pink envelope in perfect, tiny characters that were just a bit too precisely formed for those of a girl. I sat at my desk, studying the envelope. The return address on the back said “Ami Hostel.” An odd name. I thought about it for a few minutes, concluding that the “ami” must be from the French word for “friend.”

  After putting the letter away in my desk drawer, I changed clothes and went out. I was afraid that if I stayed near the letter I would end up reading it ten, twenty, who knew how many times? I walked the streets of Tokyo on Sunday without a destination, as I had always done with Naoko. I wandered from one street to the next, recalling her letter line by line and mulling each sentence over as best I could. When the sun went down, I returned to my dorm and placed a long-distance call to the Ami Hostel. A woman receptionist answered. I asked her if it might be possible for me to visit Naoko the following afternoon. She took my name and said I should call back in half an hour.

  The same woman answered when I called back after eating. It would indeed be possible for me to see Naoko, she said. I thanked her, hung up, and put a change of clothes and a few toilet articles in my knapsack. Then I picked up The Magic Mountain again, reading and sipping brandy and waiting to get sleepy. Even so, I didn’t fall asleep until after one o’clock in the morning.

  AS SOON AS I WOKE UP AT SEVEN O’CLOCK ON MONDAY MORNING, I washed my face, shaved, and went straight to the dorm head’s room without eating breakfast to say that I was going to be gone for two days hiking in the hills. He was used to my taking short trips when I had free time, and reacted without surprise. I took a crowded commuter train to Tokyo Station and bought a bullet-train ticket to Kyoto, literally jumping onto the first Hikari express to pull out. I made do with coffee and a sandwich for breakfast and dozed for an hour.

  I arrived in Kyoto a few minutes before eleven. Following Naoko’s instructions, I took a city bus to a small terminal serving the northern suburbs. The next bus to my destination would not be leaving until 11:35, I was told, and the trip would take a little over an hour. I bought a ticket and went to a bookstore across the street for a map. Back in the waiting room, I studied the map to see if I could find exactly where the Ami Hostel was located. It turned out to be much farther into the mountains than I had imagined. The bus would have to cross several hills in its trek north, then turn around where the canyon road dead-ended and return to the city. My stop would be just before the end of the line. There was a trailhead near the bus stop, according to Naoko, and if I followed the trail for twenty minutes I would reach Ami Hostel. If it was that deep in the mountains, no wonder it was a quiet place!

  The bus pulled out with twenty passengers aboard, following the Kamo River through the north end of Kyoto. The tightly packed city streets gave way to more sparse housing, then fields and vacant land. Black tile roofs and vinyl-sided hothouses caught the early autumn sun and sent it back with a glare. When the bus entered the canyon, the driver had to start hauling the steering wheel back and forth to follow the twists and curves of the road, and I began to feel queasy. I could still taste my morning coffee. By the time the number of curves began to decrease to the point where I felt some relief, the bus plunged into a chilling cedar forest. The trees might have been old growth the way they towered over the road, blocking out the sun and covering everything in gloomy shadows. The breeze flowing into the bus’s open windows turned suddenly cold, its dampness sharp against the skin. The valley road hugged the riverbank, continuing so long through the trees it began to seem as if the whole world had been buried forever in cedar forest—at which point the forest ended, and we came out to an open basin surrounded by mountain peaks. Broad, green farmland spread out in all directions, and the river by the road looked bright and clear. A single thread of white smoke rose in the distance. Some houses had laundry drying in the sun, and dogs were howling. Each farmhouse had firewood out front piled up to the eaves, usually with a cat resting somewhere on the pile. The road was lined with such houses for a time, but I saw not a single person.

  The scenery repeated this pattern any number of times. The bus would enter cedar forest, come out to a village, then go back into forest. It would stop at a village to let people off, but no one ever got on. Forty minutes after leaving the city, the bus reached a mountain pass with a wide-open view. The driver stopped the bus and announced that we would be waiting there for five or six minutes: people could step down from the bus if they wished. There were only four passengers left now, including me. We all got out and stretched or smoked and looked down at the panorama of Kyoto far below. The driver went off to the side for a pee. A suntanned man in his early fifties who had boarded the bus with a big, rope-tied cardboard carton asked me if I was going out to hike in the mountains. I said yes to keep it simple.

  Eventually another bus came climbing up from the other side of the pass and stopped next to ours. The driver got out, had a short talk with our driver, and the two men climbed back into their buses. The four of us returned to
our seats, and the buses pulled out in opposite directions. It was not immediately clear to me why our bus had had to wait for the other one, but a short way down the other side of the mountain the road narrowed suddenly. Two big buses could never have passed each other on the road, and in fact passing ordinary cars coming in the other direction required a good deal of maneuvering, with one or the other vehicle having to back up and squeeze into the overhang of a curve.

  The villages along the road were far smaller now, and the level areas under cultivation far more narrow. The mountain was steeper, its walls pressed closer to the bus windows. They seemed to have just as many dogs as the other places, though, and the arrival of the bus would set off a howling competition.

  At the stop where I got off, there was nothing—no houses, no fields, just the bus stop sign, a little stream, and the trail opening. I slung my knapsack over my shoulder and started up the track. The stream ran along the left side of the trail, and a forest of deciduous trees lined the right side. I had been climbing the gentle slope for some fifteen minutes when I came to a road leading into the woods on the right, the opening barely wide enough to accommodate a car. “Ami Hostel. Private. No Trespassing,” read the sign by the road.

  Sharply etched tire tracks ran up the road through the trees. The occasional flapping of wings echoed in the woods. The sound came through with strange clarity, as if amplified above the other voices of the forest. Once, from far away, I heard what might have been a rifle shot, but it was a small and muffled sound, as if it had passed through several filters.

  Beyond the woods I came to a white stone wall. It was no higher than my own height and, lacking additional barriers on top, would have been easy for me to scale. The black iron gate looked sturdy enough, but it was wide open, and there was no one manning the guardhouse. Another sign like the last one stood by the gate: “Ami Hostel. Private. No Trespassing.” A few clues suggested the guard had been there until some moments before: the ashtray held three butts, a teacup stood there half empty, a transistor radio sat on a shelf, and the clock on the wall ticked off the time with a dry sound. I waited a while for the person to come back, but when that showed no sign of happening, I gave a few pushes to something that looked as if it might be a bell. The area just inside the gate was a parking lot. In it stood a minibus, a four-wheel-drive Land Cruiser, and a dark blue Volvo. The lot could have held thirty cars, but only those three were parked there now.