First Person Singular

by Haruki Murakami

  “Of course,” I said.

  The monkey blinked widely several times. His long eyelashes waved up and down like palm fronds in the breeze. He took a big, slow breath, the kind of deep breath a long jumper takes before he starts to run.

  “I believe that love is the indispensable fuel that allows us to go on living. Someday that love may end. Or it may never amount to anything. But even if love fades away, even if it’s unrequited, you can still hold on to the memory of having loved someone, of having fallen in love with someone. And that’s a valuable source of warmth. Without that heat source a person’s heart—and a monkey’s heart, too—would turn into a bitterly cold, barren wasteland. A place where not a ray of sunlight falls, where the wildflowers of peace, the trees of hope, have no chance to grow. I treasure the names of those seven beautiful women I loved here in my heart.” At this, the monkey laid a palm on his chest. “I plan to use these memories as my own little fuel source I burn on cold nights to keep me warm as I live out what’s left of my own personal life.”

  The monkey chuckled again, and lightly shook his head a few times.

  “That’s a strange way of putting it, isn’t it,” he said. “Personal life. When I’m a monkey, not a person. Hee hee…”

  * * *

  —

  It was eleven thirty when we finally finished drinking the two large bottles of beer. I should be going, the monkey said. “I started feeling so good I ran off at the mouth, I’m afraid. My apologies.”

  “No, I found it an interesting story,” I said. Maybe interesting wasn’t the right word. I mean, sharing a beer and chatting together with a monkey was a pretty unusual experience. Add to that the fact that this particular monkey loved Bruckner and stole women’s names because he was driven to do so by sexual desire (or perhaps love), and interesting didn’t begin to describe it. It was the most incredible thing I’d ever heard. But I didn’t want to stir the monkey’s emotions any more than necessary, so I chose this more calming, neutral expression.

  As we said goodbye, I handed the monkey a ¥1,000 bill as a tip. “It’s not much, but please buy yourself something good to eat.”

  At first the monkey refused, but I insisted and he finally accepted it. He folded the bill and carefully slipped it into the pocket of his sweatpants.

  “It’s very kind of you,” he said. “You’ve listened to my absurd life story, treated me to beer, and now this kind gesture. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  The monkey put the empty beer bottles and glasses on the tray and carried it out of the room.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, I checked out of the inn and went back to Tokyo, but I didn’t see the monkey anywhere. At the front desk, the creepy old man with no hair or eyebrows was nowhere to be seen, and neither was the aged cat with the nose issues. Instead, a fat, surly middle-aged woman was manning the front, and when I said I’d like to pay for the additional charges for last night’s beer, she said, emphatically, that there were no incidental charges on my bill. All we have here is canned beer from the vending machine, she insisted. We never provide bottled beer.

  Once again, I was confused. It felt like bits of reality and unreality were randomly changing places. But I had definitely shared two large bottles of Sapporo beer with the monkey as I listened to his life story.

  I was going to bring up the monkey with the middle-aged woman, but decided against it. Maybe the monkey didn’t really exist, and it was all an illusion, the product of a brain pickled after soaking too long in the hot springs. Or maybe what I had seen was a long, strange, realistic dream. So if I said something like “You have an employee who’s an elderly monkey who can speak, right?” things might go sideways, and, worst-case scenario, they’d think I was insane. Another possibility was that the monkey was an off-the-books employee, and the inn couldn’t mention it publicly, not wanting the tax office or health department to catch wind of it—a real possibility.

  On the train ride back home, I mentally replayed everything the monkey had told me. I jotted down all the details, as best I could remember, in a notebook I used for work, thinking that when I got back to Tokyo I’d write down the whole thing from start to finish.

  If the monkey really did exist—and that’s the only way I could see it—I wasn’t at all sure how much I should accept of what he had told me over beer. It was hard to judge it fairly. Was that really possible? To steal women’s names and possess them yourself? Was this some unique ability that only the Shinagawa monkey was given? Maybe the monkey was a pathological liar. Who could say? Naturally I’d never heard of a monkey with mythomania before, but if a monkey could speak human language as skillfully as he did, it wouldn’t be beyond the realm of possibility for him to also be a habitual liar.

  I’d interviewed numerous people as part of my work, and had become pretty good at sniffing out who you could believe and who you couldn’t. After someone talks for a while, you pick up some subtle hints and certain signals the man (or woman) sends out, and you get an intuitive sense of whether or not they’re believable. And I just didn’t get the feeling that what the Shinagawa monkey told me was a made-up story. The look in his eyes and his expression, the way he’d ponder things every once in a while, his pauses, gestures, the way he’d get stuck for words—nothing about it seemed artificial or forced. And above all was the total, even painful, honesty of his confession.

  My relaxed solo journey over, I returned to the whirlwind routine of the city. Even without any major work-related assignments, somehow as I get older I find myself busier than ever. And time seems to steadily speed up. In the end I never told anyone about the Shinagawa monkey, or wrote anything about him. Why try if no one would ever believe me? People would only end up saying I was just “making up stuff again.” I also couldn’t figure out what format to use. It was way too bizarre to write about it as if it were real, and as long as I couldn’t provide proof—proof, that is, that the monkey actually existed—no one would ever buy it. That said, if I wrote about it as fiction, it lacked a clear focus, or a point. I could well imagine, even before I started writing about it, my editor’s puzzled expression after reading the manuscript, and the question that would follow: “I hesitate to ask you, since you’re the author, but—what’s the theme of this story supposed to be?”

  Theme? Can’t say there is one. It’s just about an old monkey who speaks human language, in a tiny town in Gunma Prefecture, who scrubs guests’ backs in the hot springs, enjoys cold beer, falls in love with human women, and steals their names. Where’s the theme in that? Or moral?

  And as time passed, the memory of that hot springs town began to fade. No matter how vivid memories may be, they can’t win out against the power of time.

  * * *

  —

  But now, five years later, I’ve decided to write about it, based on the notes I scribbled down in my notebook back then. All because of something that happened recently that got me thinking. If that incident hadn’t taken place, I might well not be writing this.

  I had a work-related appointment in the coffee lounge of a hotel in Akasaka. The person I was meeting was an editor of a travel magazine. She was a very attractive woman, around thirty or so, petite, with long hair, a lovely complexion, and large, fetching eyes. She was also quite an able editor. And still single. We’d worked together quite a few times, and got along well. After we’d taken care of work, we sat back and chatted over coffee for a while.

  Her cell phone rang, and she looked at me apologetically. I motioned to her to take the call. She checked the incoming number and answered it. It seemed to be about some reservation she’d made. At a restaurant, maybe, or hotel, or air flight. Something along those lines. She talked for a while, checking her pocket planner, and then shot me a troubled look.

  “I’m very sorry,” she said to me in a small voice, hand covering the speaker. �
��This is a weird question, I know, but what’s my name?”

  I gasped, but, as casually as I could, I told her her full name. She nodded and relayed this to the person on the other end of the phone. She hung up, and apologized to me.

  “I’m so sorry about that. All of a sudden I just couldn’t remember my name. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Does that happen sometimes?” I asked.

  She seemed to hesitate, but finally nodded. “Yes, it’s happening a lot these days. I just can’t recall my name. Like I’ve blacked out or something.”

  “Do you forget other things too? Like you can’t remember your birthday, or telephone number, or a PIN?”

  She shook her head decisively. “No, not at all. I’ve always had a good memory. I know all my friends’ birthdays by heart. I haven’t forgotten anyone else’s name, not even once. But still, sometimes I can’t remember my own name. I can’t figure it out. After a couple minutes my memory comes back, but that couple of minutes is totally inconvenient, and I panic, like I’m no longer myself anymore.”

  I nodded silently.

  “Do you think it’s a sign of early-onset Alzheimer’s?” she asked.

  I sighed. “Medically, I don’t know, but when did it start—those symptoms where you suddenly forget your name?”

  She squinted and thought about it. “About a half a year ago, I think. I remember it was when I went to enjoy the cherry blossoms, and I couldn’t recall my name. That was the first time.”

  “This might be an odd thing to ask, but did you lose anything at that time? Some sort of ID, like a driver’s license, a passport, an insurance card?”

  She pursed her lip, lost in thought for a while, then replied.

  “You know, now that you mention it, I did lose my driver’s license back then. It was lunchtime and I was sitting on a park bench, taking a break, and I put my handbag right next to me on the bench. I was redoing my lipstick with my compact, and when I looked over next, the handbag was gone. I couldn’t understand it. I’d only looked away from the handbag for a second, and didn’t sense anyone nearby, or hear any footsteps. I looked around, but I was alone. It was a quiet park, and I’m sure if somebody had come to steal my bag I would have noticed it.”

  I waited for her to go on.

  “But that’s not all that was strange. That same afternoon I got a call from the police saying my handbag had been found. It had been set outside a police box near the park. Nothing else was missing—the cash was still inside, as were my credit cards, ATM card, and cell phone. All there, untouched. Only my driver’s license was gone. That was the only thing taken from my purse. It seemed unthinkable, and the policeman was quite surprised. They don’t take the cash, only the license, and leave the bag right outside a police box?”

  I sighed quietly, but said nothing.

  “This was the end of March. Right away I went to the Motor Vehicles office in Samezu and had them issue a new license. The whole incident was pretty weird, but fortunately there wasn’t any real harm done. And Samezu’s near work, so it didn’t take much time.”

  “Samezu is in Shinagawa, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. It’s in Higashioi. My company’s in Takanawa, so it’s a quick taxi ride,” she said. She turned a doubtful look at me. “Do you think there’s a connection? Between me not remembering my name and losing my license?”

  I quickly shook my head. I couldn’t exactly bring up the story of the Shinagawa monkey here. If I did, she might wangle his whereabouts from me, and head off to that inn to confront him face-to-face. And grill him about what had happened.

  “No, I don’t think there’s a connection,” I said. “It just sort of popped into my head. Since it involves your name.”

  She still looked unconvinced. I knew it was risky, but there was one more vital question I had to ask.

  “By the way, have you seen any monkeys lately?”

  “Monkeys?” she asked. “You mean, like the animals?”

  “Yes, real live monkeys,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve seen a monkey for years. Not in a zoo, or anywhere else.”

  * * *

  —

  Was the Shinagawa monkey back to his old tricks? Or was another monkey using his MO to commit these crimes? (A copycat monkey!) Or was something else, other than a monkey, responsible?

  I really didn’t want to think the Shinagawa monkey was back to stealing names. He’d told me, quite matter-of-factly, that holding seven women’s names tucked inside him was plenty, and that he was happy simply living out his remaining years quietly in that little hot springs town. And he seemed to mean it. But maybe that monkey had a chronic psychological condition, one that reason alone couldn’t hold in check. And maybe his illness, and his dopamine, was urging him to just do it! And perhaps all that brought him back to his old haunts in Shinagawa, back to his former, pernicious habits.

  Maybe I’ll try it myself sometime. On sleepless nights, that random, fanciful thought comes to me sometimes. I’ll filch the ID or name tag of a woman I love, set a laser-like focus on it, gather her name inside me, and possess a part of her all to myself. What would that feel like? No. That’ll never happen. I’ve never been deft with my hands, and would never be able to swipe something that belonged to someone else. Even if that something had no physical form, and stealing it wasn’t against the law.

  Extreme love, extreme loneliness. Ever since then, whenever I listen to a Bruckner symphony, I ponder that Shinagawa monkey’s personal life. I picture the elderly monkey in that tiny hot springs town, in the attic of a rundown inn, wrapped up in a thin quilt, asleep. And I think of the snacks—the Kakipi and dried squid—we enjoyed as we drank beer together, propped up against the wall.

  I haven’t seen the beautiful travel magazine editor since then, so I have no idea what happened with her name. I hope it didn’t cause her any real hardship. She was blameless, after all. Nothing about it was her fault. I do feel bad about it, but I still can’t bring myself to tell her about the Shinagawa monkey.

  CARNAVAL

  Of all the women I’ve known until now, she was the ugliest. But this might not be a fair way of putting it. I’ve known lots of women whose looks were uglier. I think I’m on safe ground, though, in saying that among the women I’ve been close with in my life—those who have put down roots in the soil of my memory—she was indeed the ugliest. I could use a euphemism, of course, and say least beautiful in place of ugly, which should be easier for readers, especially women readers, to accept. But I’ve decided to go with the more straightforward (and somewhat brutal) term instead here, for this captures more the essence of who she really was.

  I’m going to call her F*. There are a couple of reasons it wouldn’t be appropriate to reveal her real name. Incidentally, her real name has nothing to do with either F or with *.

  Perhaps F* might read this story somewhere. She often told me she was only interested in works by living women writers, but it’s not impossible that she might run across these words. And if she did, she’d surely recognize herself here. Even if that happened, I seriously doubt that my saying “Of all the women I’ve known until now, she was the ugliest” would bother her much. For all I know, she might even find it amusing. She was more aware than anyone that her looks were far from appealing, or ugly, as I put it, and even enjoyed using this to her advantage.

  I don’t imagine there are many cases like this. First of all, there aren’t that many ugly women who realize they’re ugly, and those who do go on to take some pleasure in their ugliness are certainly a minuscule fraction. In that sense, I think she was unique. And it was that very uniqueness that drew people to her. Like a magnet attracts all sorts of metal to itself—some useful, some worthless.

  * * *

  —

  Talking about ugliness also means talking about beauty.

&
nbsp; I know a few beautiful women, the kind that anyone would find lovely and charming. But to me those beautiful women, the majority of them at least, never seem able to truly, unconditionally, derive pleasure in being gorgeous. Kind of strange, I think. Women who are born beautiful are always the center of men’s attention. Other women are jealous of them and they get coddled no end. People give them expensive presents, and they have their pick of men. So why don’t they seem happier? Why do they sometimes even seem depressed?

  What I’ve observed is that most of the beautiful women I know are dissatisfied, and irritated by tiny, inconsequential flaws—the kind inevitably found somewhere in any person’s physical makeup. They obsess over these little details. Their big toes are too big, or their nails are weirdly off center, or their nipples aren’t the same size. One gorgeous woman I know is convinced that her earlobes are too long, and always wears her hair long to hide them. I couldn’t care less about the length of someone’s earlobes (she showed me hers once and they struck me as perfectly normal). Maybe, though, all this stuff about earlobes was just a substitute, a way of expressing something else.

  Compared to these women, isn’t a woman who is not beautiful—who is even considered to be ugly—and yet enjoys that fact, a far happier person? No matter how beautiful a woman might be, she always has imperfections, and likewise no matter how ugly a woman might be, there’s always a part of her that is beautiful. And they seem to freely revel in that part of themselves, unlike beautiful women. It’s not a substitute for anything, or a metaphor.

  This might sound like a banal opinion, but the world can turn upside down, depending on the way we look at it. The way a ray of sunshine falls on something can change shadow to light, or light to shadow. A positive becomes a negative, a negative a positive. I don’t know if this is an essential part of the way the world works, or simply an optical illusion. But it’s in that way that F* was a sort of trickster with light.