Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

  I come up with an alternative. I sit down where nobody can spot me and take the cell phone from my backpack. I check to see it's still connected, then take Sakura's phone number from my wallet and punch in the numbers. My fingers still aren't working well, and it takes a few times before I get the whole number right. I don't get her voice mail, thank God. Twelve rings later she answers. I tell her my name.

  "Kafka Tamura," she repeats, not exactly thrilled. "Do you have any idea how late it is? I've got to get up early tomorrow."

  "I know, I'm sorry to call so late," I tell her. My voice sounds tense. "But I had no choice. I'm sort of in trouble, and you're the only one I could think of."

  No response on the other end. Seems like she's checking my tone of voice, weighing it in her mind.

  "Is it something... serious?" she finally asks.

  "I can't tell you right now, but I think so. You've got to help me. Just this once. I promise I won't be a bother."

  She gives it some thought. Not like she's confused or anything, just thinking it over. "So where are you?"

  I tell her the name of the shrine.

  "Is that in Takamatsu City?"

  "I'm not totally sure, but I think so."

  "You don't even know where you are?" she says, dumbfounded.

  "It's a long story."

  She lets out a sigh. "Grab a cab and come to the Lawson's convenience store on the corner near my apartment. They have a big sign and you can't miss it." She gives me the directions. "Do you have money for a cab?"

  "I'm good," I say.

  "All right," she says and hangs up.

  I go out the torii gate at the entrance to the shrine and head for the main road to flag down a cab. It doesn't take long. I ask the driver if he knows the Lawson's on that corner, and he says he does. When I ask if it's far, he says no, about a ten-dollar ride.

  The cab stops outside the Lawson's and I pay the driver, my hands still unsteady.

  I pick up my backpack and go inside the store. I got there so fast Sakura hasn't arrived yet. I buy a small carton of milk, heat it up in the microwave, and sip it slowly. The warm milk slips down my throat and calms my stomach a little. When I went inside the store the clerk glanced at my backpack, keeping an eye out for shoplifters, but after that nobody pays any attention to me. I stand at the magazine rack, pretending to be picking one out, and check out my reflection in the window. Though my hair's still a bit of a mess, you can barely see the blood on my dungaree shirt. If anybody noticed it they'd think it was just a stain. Now all I have to do is stop trembling.

  Ten minutes later Sakura strolls in. It's nearly one a. m. She has on a plain gray sweatshirt and faded jeans. Her hair's in a ponytail and she's wearing a navy blue New Balance cap. The moment I spot her, my teeth finally stop chattering. She sidles up beside me and looks me over carefully, like she's checking out the teeth of some dog she's about to buy. She lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and actual words, then lightly pats me twice on the shoulder. "Come on," she says.

  Her apartment's two blocks from the Lawson's. A tacky, two-story building. She walks upstairs, takes the keys out of her pocket, and opens the green paneled door. The apartment consists of two rooms plus a kitchen and a bathroom. The walls are thin, the floors creak, and probably the only natural light the place gets during the day is when the blinding sunset shines in. I hear a toilet flush in some other unit, the scrape of a cabinet being shut somewhere. Seedy, all right, but at least it has the feel of real people living real lives. Dishes piled up in the kitchen sink, empty plastic bottles, half-read magazines, past-their-prime potted tulips, a shopping list taped to the fridge, stockings hanging over the back of a chair, newspaper on the table opened to the TV schedule, an ashtray, a thin box of Virginia Slims. For some strange reason this scene relaxes me.

  "This is my friend's apartment," she explains. "She used to work with me at a salon in Tokyo, but last year she had to come back to Takamatsu, where she's from. But then she said she wanted to travel to India for a month and asked me to watch the place. I'm taking over her job while she's gone. She's a hairdresser too. I figured it's a good change of pace to get out of Tokyo for a while. She's one of those New Age types, so I doubt she'll be able to pull herself away from India in a month."

  She has me sit down at the dining table, and brings me a can of Pepsi from the fridge. No glass, though. Normally I don't drink colas—way too sweet and bad for your teeth. But I'm dying of thirst and down the whole can.

  "You want anything to eat? All I've got is Cup Noodle, if that'll do."

  I'm okay, I tell her.

  "You look awful. You know that?"

  I nod.

  "So what happened?"

  "I wish I knew."

  "You have no idea what happened. You didn't even know where you were. And it's a long story," she says, pinning down the facts. "But you're definitely in trouble?"

  "Definitely," I reply. I hope that, at least, gets through.

  Silence. All the while, she's bathing me in a deep frown. "You don't really have any relatives in Takamatsu, do you? You ran away from home."

  Again I nod.

  "Once, when I was your age, I ran away from home. I think I understand what you're going through. That's why I gave you my cell phone number. I figured it might come in handy."

  "I really appreciate it," I say.

  "I lived in Ichikawa, in Chiba. I never got along with my parents and hated school, so I stole some money from my folks and took off, trying to get as far away as I could. I was sixteen. I got as far as Abashiri, up in Hokkaido. I stopped by a farm I happened to see and asked them to let me work there. I'll do anything, I told them, and I'll work hard. I don't need any pay, as long as there's a roof over my head and you feed me. The lady there was nice to me, had me sit down and have some tea. Just wait here, she said. The next thing I knew a patrol car pulled up outside and the police were hauling me back home. This wasn't the first time the lady had gone through this sort of thing. The thought hit me hard then that I had to learn a trade, so no matter where I went I could always find work. So I quit high school, went to a trade school, and became a hairdresser." The edges of her lips rise a bit in a faint smile. "A pretty sound approach to things, don't you think?"

  I agree with her.

  "Hey, would you tell me the whole story, from the beginning?" she says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "I don't think I'm going to get much more sleep tonight, so I might as well hear it all."

  I explain everything to her, from the time I left home. I leave out the omen part, though. That, I know, I can't tell just anyone.

  Chapter 10

  Is it all right, then, if Nakata calls you Kawamura?" He repeated the question to the striped brown cat, enunciating his words slowly, making it as easy to understand as he could.

  This particular cat had said he thought he had run across Goma, the missing one-year-old tortoiseshell, in this vicinity. But from Nakata's viewpoint, he spoke very strangely. The feeling was mutual, for the cat seemed to be having its own problems following him. Their conversation was at cross purposes.

  "I don't mind at all, the tallest of heads."

  "Pardon me, but Nakata doesn't understand what you're saying. Forgive me, but I'm not so bright."

  "It's a tuna, to the very end."

  "Are you perhaps saying you'd like to eat a tuna?"

  "No. The hands tied up, before."

  Nakata never went into these conversations with cats expecting to be able to easily communicate everything. You have to anticipate a few problems when cats and humans try to speak to each other. And there was another factor to consider: Nakata's own basic problems with talking—not just with cats, but also with people. His easy conversation with Otsuka the previous week was more the exception than the rule, for invariably getting across even a simple message took a great deal of effort. On bad days it was more like two people on the opposite shores of a canal yelling to each other on a windy day. And today was one of those da
ys.

  He wasn't sure why, but striped brown cats were the hardest to get on the same wavelength with. With black cats things mostly went well. Communicating with Siamese cats was the easiest of all, but unfortunately there weren't too many stray Siamese wandering the streets, so the chance didn't present itself often. Siamese were mainly kept at home, well taken care of. And for some reason striped brown cats made up the bulk of the strays.

  Even knowing what to expect, Nakata found Kawamura impossible to decipher.

  He enunciated his words poorly, and Nakata couldn't catch what each one meant, or the connection between them. What the cat said came off sounding more like riddles than sentences. Still, Nakata was infinitely patient, and had plenty of time on his hands. He repeated the same question, over and over, having the cat repeat his responses. The two of them were seated on a boundary stone marking a little park for children in a residential area. They'd been talking for nearly an hour, going round and round in circles.

  "Kawamura is just a name I'll call you. It doesn't mean anything. Nakata gives names to each cat so it's easy to remember. It won't cause you any problems, I guarantee it. I'd just like to call you that, if you don't mind."

  In response Kawamura kept muttering something incomprehensible, and seeing as how this wasn't likely to stop anytime soon Nakata interrupted, trying to move their talk along by showing Kawamura the photo of Goma once more.

  "Mr. Kawamura, this is Goma. The cat that Nakata is looking for. A one-year-old tortoiseshell cat. She's owned by the Koizumis of the 3-chome neighborhood in Nogata, who lost track of her a while back. Mrs. Koizumi opened a window and the cat leaped out and ran away. So once more I'd like to ask you, have you seen this cat?"

  Kawamura gazed at the photograph again and nodded.

  "If it's tuna, Kwa'mura tied. Tied up, try to find."

  "I'm sorry, but as I said a moment ago, Nakata is not very bright, and can't understand very well what you're getting at. Would you mind repeating that?"

  "If it's tuna, Kwa'mura tries. Try to find and tied it up."

  "By tuna, you mean the fish?"

  "Tries the tuna, tie it, Kwa'mura."

  Nakata rubbed his closely cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and puzzled this over.

  What could he possibly do to solve this tuna riddle and escape from the maze the conversation had become? No matter how much he put his mind to it, however, he was clueless. Puzzling things out logically, after all, wasn't exactly his forte. Totally blithe to it all, Kawamura lifted a rear leg and gave the spot just below his chin a good scratch.

  Just then Nakata thought he heard a small laugh behind him. He turned and saw, seated on a low concrete wall next to a house, a lovely, slim Siamese looking at him with narrowed eyes.

  "Excuse me, but would you by chance be Mr. Nakata?" the Siamese purred.

  "Yes, that's correct. My name's Nakata. It's very nice to meet you."

  "Likewise, I'm sure," the Siamese replied.

  "It's been cloudy since this morning, but I don't expect we'll be seeing any rain soon," Nakata said.

  "I do hope the rain holds off."

  The Siamese was a female, just approaching middle age. She proudly held her tail up straight, and had a collar with a name tag. She had pleasant features and was slim, with not an ounce of extra fat.

  "Please call me Mimi. The Mimi from La Bohème. There's a song about it, too:

  'Si, Mi Chiamano Mimi.'"

  "I see," Nakata said, not really following.

  "An opera by Puccini, you know. My owner happens to be a great fan of opera,"

  Mimi said, and smiled amiably. "I'd sing it for you, but unfortunately I'm not much of a singer."

  "Nakata's very happy to meet you, Mimi-san."

  "Same for me, Mr. Nakata."

  "Do you live near here?"

  "Yes, in that two-story house over there. The Tanabes' house. You see it, right?

  The one with the cream-colored BMW 530 parked in front?"

  "I see," Nakata repeated. He had no idea what a BMW was, but he did spot a cream-colored car. That must be what she meant.

  "Mr. Nakata," Mimi said, "I'm known as self-reliant, or perhaps you'd say a very private sort of cat, and I don't normally interfere in others' affairs. But that youngster—the one I believe you're referring to as Kawamura?—is not what I would call the brightest kitty in the litter. When he was still young a child hit him with his bicycle, the poor thing, and he struck his head against some concrete. Ever since then he hasn't made much sense. So even if you are patient with him, as I see you've been, you won't get anywhere. I've been watching for a while, and I'm afraid I couldn't just sit idly by. I know it's forward of me to do so, but I had to say something."

  "No, please don't think that. I'm very happy you told me. Nakata's as dumb as Kawamura, I'm afraid, and can't get by without other people's help. That's why I get a sub city from the Governor every month. So I'm very happy to hear your opinion, Mimi."

  "I take it you're looking for a cat," Mimi said. "I wasn't eavesdropping, mind you, but just happened to overhear you as I was taking a nap here. Goma, I believe you said the name was?"

  "Yes, that's correct."

  "And Kawamura has seen Goma?"

  "That's what he told me. But Nakata can't figure out what he said after that."

  "If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Nakata, why don't I step in and try to talk with him? It's easier for two cats to communicate, and I'm fairly used to the way he talks. So why don't I sound him out, then summarize it for you?"

  "That would be very helpful, I'm sure."

  The Siamese nodded lightly, and like a ballet dancer nimbly leaped down from the concrete wall. Black tail held up high like a flagstaff, she leisurely walked over and sat down beside Kawamura. He immediately began to sniff Mimi's rump, but the Siamese gave him a swift blow to the cheek and the younger cat shrank back. With barely a pause Mimi dealt him another blow to the nose.

  "Now pay attention, you brainless dingbat! You stinky good-for-nothing!" Mimi hissed, then turned to Nakata. "You've got to show him who's in charge up front or you'll never get anywhere. Otherwise he'll go all spacey on you, and all you get is drivel. It's not his fault he's this way, and I do feel sorry for him, but what are you going to do?"

  "I see," Nakata said, not at all sure what he was agreeing to.

  The two cats began conversing, but they spoke so quickly and softly that Nakata wasn't able to catch any of it. Mimi grilled Kawamura in a sharp tone, the younger cat replying timidly. Any hesitation got him another merciless slap to the face. This Siamese cat was clever, and educated too. Nakata had met many cats up till this point, but never before one who listened to opera and knew models of cars. Impressed, he watched as Mimi went about her business with a brisk efficiency.

  Once Mimi had heard everything she wanted to, she chased the younger cat off.

  "Be on your way!" she said sharply, and he dejectedly slunk away.

  Mimi affably nestled up into Nakata's lap. "I think I've got the gist of it."

  "Much obliged," Nakata said.

  "That cat—Kawamura, that is—said he's seen Goma several times in a grassy spot just down the road. It's an empty lot they were planning to build on. A real estate firm bought up a car company's parts warehouse and tore it down, planning to put up a high-class condo. A citizens' movement's opposed the development, there was a legal battle, and the construction's been put on hold. The sort of thing that happens all the time these days. The lot's overgrown with grass and people hardly ever come there, so it's the perfect hangout for all the strays in the neighborhood. I don't keep company with many cats, and I don't want to get fleas, so I hardly ever go over there. As you're no doubt aware, fleas are like a bad habit—awfully hard to get rid of once you get them."

  "I see," Nakata said.

  "He told me the cat's just like the one in the photograph—a timid, pretty young tortoiseshell with a flea collar. Can't seem to speak that well, either. It's clear to anyone that it's a naive
house cat that can't find its way back home."

  "When was this, I wonder?"

  "The last time he saw the cat seems to be three or four days ago. He's not very bright, so he's not even sure about days. But he did say it was the day after it rained, so I'm thinking it must have been Monday. I seem to recall it rained pretty hard on Sunday."

  "Nakata doesn't know about the days of the week, but I think it did rain around then. He hasn't seen her since?"

  "That was the last time. The other cats haven't seen her either, he says. He's a spacey, good-for-nothing cat, but I pressed him closely and believe most of what he says."

  "I really want to thank you."

  "No need—it was my pleasure. Most of the time I have only this worthless bunch of cats around here to talk to, and we never seem to agree on anything. I find it incredibly irritating. So it's a breath of fresh air to be able to talk with a sensible human such as yourself."

  "I see," Nakata said. "There's one thing Nakata still doesn't understand. Mr.

  Kawamura kept going on about tuna, and I was wondering if he meant the fish?"

  Mimi lithely lifted her left front leg, inspecting the pink flesh of the pad, and chuckled. "The youngster's terminology isn't very extensive, I'm afraid."

  "Termanolgy?"

  "The number of words he's familiar with is limited, is what I'm saying. So for him everything that's good to eat is tuna. For him tuna's the crème de la crème, as far as food goes. He doesn't know there are such things as sea bream, halibut, or yellowtail."

  Nakata cleared his throat. "Actually, Nakata's very fond of tuna. Of course I like eel as well."

  "I'm fond of eel myself. Though it's not the sort of thing you can eat all the time."

  "That's true. You couldn't eat it all the time."

  The two of them were silent for a time, eel musings filling the passing moments.

  "Anyway, what that cat was getting at is this," Mimi said, as if suddenly remembering. "Not long after the neighborhood cats began hanging out at that vacant lot, a bad person showed up who catches cats. The other cats believe this man may have taken Goma away. The man lures them with something good to eat, then throws them inside a large sack. The man's quite skilled at catching cats, and a hungry, innocent cat like Goma would easily fall into his trap. Even the stray cats who live around here, normally a wary bunch, have lost a couple of their number to this man. It's simply hideous, because nothing could be worse for a cat than to be stuffed inside a bag."