The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

by Haruki Murakami

  “Oh, by the way, this may seem very rude, but I wonder if I could ask you for a beer. All this talking has made me very thirsty. If you don’t mind, I’ll just grab one myself. I know where it is. While I was waiting, I took the liberty of peeking into the refrigerator.”

  I nodded to him. Ushikawa went to the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. Then he sat down on the sofa again, drinking straight from the bottle with obvious relish, his huge Adam’s apple twitching above the knot of his tie like some kind of animal.

  “I tell you, Mr. Okada, a cold beer at the end of the day is the best thing life has to offer. Some choosy people say that a too cold beer doesn’t taste good, but I couldn’t disagree more. The first beer should be so cold you can’t even taste it. The second one should be a little less chilled, but I want that first one to be like ice. I want it to be so cold my temples throb with pain. This is my own personal preference, of course.”

  Still leaning against the pillar, I took another sip of my own beer. Lips tightly closed in a straight line, Ushikawa surveyed the room for some moments.

  “I must say, Mr. Okada, for a man without a wife, you do keep the house clean. I’m very impressed. I myself am absolutely hopeless, I’m embarrassed to say. My place is a mess, a garbage heap, a pigsty. I haven’t washed the bathtub for a year or more. Perhaps I neglected to tell you that I was also deserted by my wife. Five years ago. So I can feel a certain sympathy for you, Mr. Okada, or to avoid the risk of misinterpretation, let me just say that I can understand how you feel. Of course, my situation was different from yours. It was only natural for my wife to leave me. I was the worst husband in the world. Far from complaining, I have to admire her for having put up with me as long as she did. I used to beat her. No one else: she was the only one I could beat up on. You can tell what a weakling I am. Got the heart of a flea. I would do nothing but kiss ass outside the house; people would call me Ushi and order me around, and I would just suck up to them all the more. So when I got home I would take it out on my wife. Heh heh heh—pretty bad, eh? And I knew just how bad I was, but I couldn’t stop. It was like a sickness. I’d beat her face out of shape until you couldn’t recognize her. And not just beat her: I’d slam her against the wall and kick her, pour hot tea on her, throw things at her, you name it. The kids would try to stop me, and I’d end up hitting them. Little kids: seven, eight years old. And not just push them around: I’d wallop them with everything I had. I was an absolute devil. I’d try to stop myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t control myself. After a certain point, I would tell myself that I had done enough damage, that I had to stop, but I didn’t know how to stop. Do you see what a horror I was? So then, five years ago, when my daughter was five, I broke her arm—just snapped it. That’s when my wife finally got fed up with me and left with both kids. I haven’t seen any of them since. Haven’t even heard from them. But what can I do? It’s my own fault.”

  I said nothing to him. The cat came over to me and gave a short meow, as if looking for attention.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry, I wasn’t planning to exhaust you with all these boring details. You must be wondering if I have any business that has brought me here this evening. Well, I have. I didn’t come here for small talk, Mr. Okada. The Doctor—which is to say, Dr. Wataya—ordered me to come to see you. I will now tell you exactly what he told me, so please listen.

  “First of all, Dr. Wataya is not opposed to the idea of reconsidering a relationship between you and Ms. Kumiko. In other words, he would not object if both of you decided that you wanted to go back to your previous relationship. At the moment, Ms. Kumiko herself has no such intention, so nothing would happen right away, but if you were to reject any possibility of divorce and insist that you wanted to wait as long as it took, he could accept that. He will no longer insist upon a divorce, as he has in the past, and so he would not mind if you wanted to use me as a conduit if there was something you wanted to communicate to Ms. Kumiko. In other words, no more locking horns on every little thing: a renewal of diplomatic relations, as it were. This is the first item of business. How does it strike you, Mr. Okada?”

  I lowered myself to the floor and stroked the cat’s head, but I said nothing. Ushikawa watched me and the cat for a time, then continued to speak.

  “Well, of course, Mr. Okada, you can’t say a word until you’ve heard everything I have to say. All right, then, I will continue through to the end. Here is the second item of business. This gets a little complicated, I’m afraid. It has to do with an article called ‘The Hanging House,’ which appeared in one of the weekly magazines. I don’t know if you have read it or not, Mr. Okada, but it is a very interesting piece. Well written. ‘Jinxed land in posh Setagaya residential neighborhood. Many people met untimely deaths there over the years. What mystery man has recently bought the place? What is going on behind that high fence? One riddle after another …’

  “Anyhow, Dr. Wataya read the piece and realized that the ‘hanging house’ is very close to the house you live in, Mr. Okada. The idea began to gnaw at him that there might be some connection between it and you. So he investigated … or, should I say the lowly Ushikawa, on his short little legs, took the liberty of investigating the matter, and—bingo!—there you were, Mr. Okada, just as he had predicted, going back and forth down that back passageway every day to the other house, obviously very much involved with whatever it is that is going on inside there. I myself was truly amazed to see such a powerful display of Dr. Wataya’s penetrating intelligence.

  “There’s only been one article so far, with no follow-up, but who knows? Dying embers can always rekindle. I mean, that’s a pretty fascinating story. So Dr. Wataya is more than a little nervous. What if his brother-in-law’s name were to come out in some unpleasant connection? Think of the scandal that could erupt! Dr. Wataya is the man of the moment, after all. The media would have a field day. And then there’s this difficult business with you and Ms. Kumiko. They would blow it up out of all proportion. I mean, everybody has something he would rather not have aired in public, right? Especially when it comes to personal affairs. This is a delicate moment in the Doctor’s political career, after all. He has to proceed with the utmost caution until he’s ready to take off. So what he has in mind for you is a little deal of sorts he’s cooked up. If you will cut all connection with this ‘hanging house,’ Mr. Okada, he will give some serious thought to bringing you and Ms. Kumiko back together again. That’s all there is to it. How does that strike you, Mr. Okada? Have I set it out clearly enough?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “So what do you think? What is your reaction to all this?”

  Stroking the cat’s neck, I thought about it for a while. Then I said, “I don’t get it. What made Noboru Wataya think that I had anything to do with that house? How did he make the connection?”

  Ushikawa’s face broke up again into one of his big smiles, but his eyes remained as cold as glass. He took a crushed pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up with a match. “Ah, Mr. Okada, you ask such difficult questions. Remember, I am just a lowly messenger. A stupid carrier pigeon. I carry slips of paper back and forth. I think you understand. I can say this, however: the Doctor is no fool. He knows how to use his brain, and he has a kind of sixth sense, something that ordinary people do not possess. And also let me tell you this, Mr. Okada: he has a very real kind of power that he can exercise in this world, a power that grows stronger every day. You had better not ignore it. You may have your reasons for not liking him—and that is perfectly fine as far as I am concerned, it’s none of my business—but things have gone beyond the level of simple likes and dislikes. I want you to understand that.”

  “If Noboru Wataya is so powerful, why doesn’t he just stop the magazine from publishing any more articles? That would be a whole lot simpler.”

  Ushikawa smiled. Then he inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

  “Dear, dear Mr. Okada, you mustn’t say such reckless things. You and I live in J
apan, after all, one of the world’s most truly democratic states. Correct? This is no dictatorship where all you see around you are banana plantations and soccer fields. No matter how much power a politician may have in this country, quashing an article in a magazine is not a simple thing. It would be far too dangerous. You might succeed in getting the company brass in your pocket, but someone is going to be left dissatisfied. And that could end up attracting all the more attention. It just doesn’t pay to try pushing people around when such a hot story is involved. It’s true.

  “And just between you and me, there may be some vicious players involved in this affair, types you don’t know anything about, Mr. Okada. If that’s the case, this is eventually going to include more than our dear Doctor. Once that happens, we could be talking about a whole new ball game. Let’s compare this to a visit to the dentist. So far, we’re at the stage of poking a spot where the novocaine’s still working. Which is why no one’s complaining. But soon the drill is going to hit a nerve, and then somebody’s going to jump out of the chair. Somebody could get seriously angry. Do you see what I’m saying? I’m not trying to threaten you, but it seems to me—to old Ushikawa here—that you are slowly being dragged into dangerous territory without even realizing it.”

  Ushikawa seemed finally to have made his point.

  “You mean I should pull out before I get hurt?” I asked.

  Ushikawa nodded. “This is like playing catch in the middle of the expressway, Mr. Okada. It’s a very dangerous game.”

  “In addition to which, it’s going to cause Noboru Wataya a lot of trouble. So if I just fold up my cards, he’ll put me in touch with Kumiko.”

  Ushikawa nodded again. “That about sums it up.”

  I took a swallow of beer. Then I said, “First of all, let me tell you this. I’m going to get Kumiko back, but I’m going to do it myself, not with help from Noboru Wataya. I don’t want his help. And you’re certainly right about one thing: I don’t like Noboru Wataya. As you say, though, this is not just a question of likes and dislikes. It’s something more basic than that. I don’t simply dislike him: I cannot accept the fact of his very existence. And so I refuse to make any deals with him. Please be so kind as to convey that to him for me. And don’t you ever come into this house again without my permission. It is my house, not some hotel lobby or train station.”

  Ushikawa narrowed his eyes and stared at me awhile from behind his glasses. His eyes never moved. As before, they were devoid of emotion. Not that they were expressionless. But all he had there was something fabricated temporarily for the occasion. At that point, he held his disproportionately large right palm aloft, as if testing for rain.

  “I understand completely,” he said. “I never thought this would be easy, so I’m not particularly surprised by your answer. Besides, I don’t surprise very easily. I understand how you feel, and I’m glad everything is out in the open like this, no hemming and hawing, just a simple yes or no. Makes it easier for everybody. All I need as a carrier pigeon is another convoluted answer where you can’t tell black from white! The world has too many of those as it is! Not that I’m complaining, but all I seem to get every day are sphinxes giving me riddles. This job is bad for my health, let me tell you. Living like this, before you know it, you become devious by nature. Do you see what I mean, Mr. Okada? You become suspicious, always looking for ulterior motives, never able to put your faith in anything that’s clear and simple. It’s a terrible thing, Mr. Okada, it really is.

  “So, fine, Mr. Okada, I will let the Doctor know that you have given him a very clear-cut answer. But don’t expect things to end there. You may want to finish this business, but it’s not that simple. I will probably have to come to see you again. I’m sorry to put you through this, having to deal with such an ugly, messy little fellow, but please try to accustom yourself to my existence, at least. I don’t harbor any feelings toward you as an individual, Mr. Okada. Really. But for the time being, whether you like it or not, I’m going to be one of those things that you can’t just sweep away. I know it’s an odd way to put it, but please try to think of me like that. I can promise you one thing, though. I will not be letting myself into your house again. You are quite right: that is not a proper way to behave. I should go down on my knees and beg to be let in. This time I had no choice. Please try to understand. I am not always so reckless. Appearances to the contrary, I am an ordinary human being. From now on, I will do as other people do and call beforehand. That should be all right, don’t you think? I will ring once, hang up, then ring again. You’ll know it’s me that way, and you can tell yourself, ‘Oh, it’s that stupid Ushikawa again,’ when you pick up the phone. But do pick up the phone. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to let myself in again. Personally, I would rather not do such a thing, but I am being paid to wag my tail, so when my boss says ‘Do it!’ I have to try my best to do it. You understand.”

  I said nothing to him. Ushikawa crushed what was left of his cigarette in the bottom of the cat food can, then glanced at his watch as if suddenly recalling something. “Oh, my, my, my—look how late it is! First I come barging in, then I talk you to death and take your beer. Please excuse me. As I said earlier, I don’t have anybody to go home to, so when I find someone I can talk to, I settle in for the night. Sad, don’t you think? I tell you, Mr. Okada, living alone is not something you should do for long. What is it they say? ‘No man is an island.’ Or is it ‘The devil finds mischief for idle hands’?”

  After sweeping some imaginary dust from his lap, Ushikawa stood up slowly.

  “No need to see me out,” he said. “I let myself in, after all; I can let myself out. I’ll be sure to lock the door. One last word of advice, though, Mr. Okada, though you may not want to hear this: There are things in this world it is better not to know about. Of course, those are the very things that people most want to know about. It’s strange. I know I’m being very general.… I wonder when we’ll meet again? I hope things are better by then. Oh, well, good night.”

  •

  The quiet rain continued through the night, tapering off toward dawn, but the sticky presence of the strange little man, and the smell of his unfiltered cigarettes, remained in the house as long as the lingering dampness.

  Cinnamon’s Strange Sign Language

  •

  The Musical Offering

  “Cinnamon stopped talking once and for all just before his sixth birthday,” Nutmeg said to me. “It was the year he should have entered elementary school. All of a sudden, that February, he stopped talking. And as strange as it may seem, it was night before we noticed that he hadn’t said a word all day. True, he was never much of a talker, but still. When it finally occurred to me what was happening, I did everything I could to make him speak. I talked to him, I shook him; nothing worked. He was like a stone. I didn’t know whether he had suddenly lost the power to speak or he had decided on his own that he would stop speaking. And I still don’t know. But he’s never said another word—never made another sound. He’ll never scream if he’s in pain, and you can tickle him but he’ll never laugh out loud.”

  Nutmeg took her son to several different ear, nose, and throat specialists, but none of them could locate the cause. All they could determine was that it was not physical. Cinnamon could hear perfectly well, but he wouldn’t speak. All the doctors concluded that it must be psychological in origin. Nutmeg took him to a psychiatrist friend of hers, but he also was unable to determine a cause for Cinnamon’s continued silence. He administered an IQ. test, but there was no problem there. In fact, he turned out to have an unusually high IQ. The doctor could find no evidence of emotional problems, either. “Has he experienced some kind of unusual shock?” the psychiatrist asked Nutmeg. “Try to think. Could he have witnessed something abnormal or been subjected to violence at home?” But Nutmeg could think of nothing. One day her son had been normal in every way: he had eaten his meals in the normal way, had normal conversations with her, gone to bed when he was supposed to, had
no trouble falling asleep. And the next morning he had sunk into a world of deep silence. There had been no problems in the home. The child was being brought up under the ever watchful gaze of Nutmeg and her mother, neither of whom had ever raised a hand to him. The doctor concluded that the only thing they could do was observe him and hope that something would turn up. Unless they knew the cause, there was no way to treat him. Nutmeg should bring Cinnamon to see the doctor once a week, in the course of which they might figure out what had happened. It was possible that he would just start speaking again, like someone waking from a dream. All they could do was wait. True, the child was not speaking, but there was nothing else wrong with him.…

  And so they waited, but Cinnamon never again rose to the surface of his deep ocean of silence.

  •

  Its electric motor producing a low hum, the front gate began to swing inward at nine o’clock in the morning, and Cinnamon’s Mercedes-Benz 500SEL pulled into the driveway. The car phone’s antenna protruded from the back window like a newly sprouted tentacle. I watched through a crack in the blinds. The car looked like some kind of huge migratory fish, afraid of nothing. The brand-new black tires traced a silent arc over the concrete surface and came to a stop in the designated spot. They traced exactly the same arc every morning and stopped in exactly the same place with probably no more than two inches’ variation.

  I was drinking the coffee that I had brewed for myself a few minutes earlier. The rain had stopped, but gray clouds covered the sky, and the ground was still black and cold and wet. The birds raised sharp cries as they flitted back and forth in search of worms on the ground. The driver’s door opened after a short pause, and Cinnamon stepped out, wearing sunglasses. After a quick scan of the area, he took the glasses off and slipped them into his breast pocket. Then he closed the car door. The precise sound of the big Mercedes’s door latch was different from the sounds other car doors made. For me, this sound marked the beginning of another day at the Residence.