Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

  "I see...," the girl said.

  "Not to worry. If nobody's heard about the stone, what're ya gonna do, huh? It's not your fault. But maybe they call it something else. Are there any other famous stones around here? You know, something with a legend behind it, maybe? Or some stone people pray to? Anything like that?"

  The girl looked timidly at Hoshino with her too-far-apart eyes, taking in his Chunichi Dragons cap, his hair and ponytail, his green-tinted sunglasses, pierced ear, and rayon aloha shirt. "I'd be happy to tell you how to get to the city public library. You could research the stone there. I don't know much about stones myself, I'm afraid."

  The library, however, yielded nothing. There wasn't a single book in the place devoted to stones in or around Takamatsu. The reference librarian, saying they might run across a reference somewhere, plunked down a stack of books in front of them: Legends of Kagawa Prefecture, Legends of Kobo Daishi in Shikoku, A History of Takamatsu, and the like. Sighing deeply, Hoshino started leafing through them. For his part, Nakata carefully turned one page after another in a photo collection entitled Famous Stones of Japan.

  "I can't read," he said, "so this is the first library I've ever been in."

  "I'm not proud of it," Hoshino said, "but this is a first for me, too. Even though I can."

  "It's kind of interesting now that we're here."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "There's a library in Nakano Ward. I think I'll stop by there every now and then.

  The best thing is they don't charge anything. Nakata had no idea they'd let you in if you can't read."

  "I've got a cousin who was born blind, but he goes to see movies," Hoshino said.

  "What fun could that be?"

  "I can see, but I've never been to a movie theater."

  "You're kidding! I'll have to take you sometime."

  The librarian came over and warned them to keep their voices down, so they stopped talking and went back to their books. When he finished with Famous Stones of Japan, Nakata put it back on the shelf and began flipping through Cats of the World.

  Grumbling all the while, Hoshino managed to look through all the books piled up next to him. Unfortunately, he couldn't find any matches in any of them. There were several references to the stone walls of Takamatsu Castle, but the stones in those walls were so massive that for Nakata to pick one up was out of the question. There was also a promising legend about Kobo Daishi, a famous scholarly monk of the Heian period. It was claimed that when he lifted up a stone in a wilderness, a spring gushed out and the place became a fertile rice field, but that was the end of the story. Hoshino also read about one shrine that had a stone called the Treasure of Children Stone, but it was more than a yard tall and shaped like a phallus. No way that could be the one Nakata was looking for.

  The two of them gave up, left the library, and went to a nearby diner for dinner.

  They both had noodles topped with tempura, Hoshino ordering an extra bowl of noodles and broth.

  "I enjoyed the library," Nakata said. "I had no idea there were so many kinds of cats in the world."

  "The stone thing didn't pan out, but that's all right," Hoshino told him. "We just got started. Let's get a good night's sleep and see what tomorrow brings."

  The next morning they went back to the library. Like the day before, Hoshino read through a huge stack of books, one after the other. He'd never read so many books in his life. By now he was fairly conversant with the history of Shikoku, and he'd learned that people had worshipped different kinds of stones for centuries. But what he really wanted—a description of this entrance stone—was nowhere to be found. By afternoon his head was starting to ache, so they left the library, laid down on the grass in a park for a long while, and gazed at the clouds drifting by. Hoshino smoked, Nakata sipped at hot tea from his thermos.

  "It's going to thunder again tomorrow," Nakata said.

  "Meaning you're going to make it thunder?"

  "No, Nakata can't do that. The thunder comes by itself."

  "Thank God for that," Hoshino said.

  They went back to their inn, took a bath, and then Nakata went to bed and was soon fast asleep. Hoshino watched a baseball game on TV with the sound down low, but since the Giants were soundly beating Hiroshima he got disgusted with the whole thing and turned it off. He wasn't sleepy yet and felt thirsty, so he went out and found a beer hall, and ordered a draft and a plate of onion rings. He was thinking of striking up a conversation with a young girl sitting nearby, but figured it wasn't the time or place to make a pass. Tomorrow morning, after all, it was back to searching for the elusive stone.

  He finished his beer, pulled on his Chunichi Dragons cap, left, and just wandered around. Not the most appealing-looking city, he decided, but it felt pretty good to be walking around wherever he wanted in a place he'd never been before. He always enjoyed walking, anyway. A Marlboro between his lips, hands stuck in his pockets, he wandered from one main street to another and down various alleys. When he wasn't smoking he whistled. Some parts were lively and crowded, others deserted and deathly quiet. No matter where he found himself, he kept up the same pace. He was young, healthy, carefree, with nothing to fear.

  He was walking down a narrow alley full of karaoke bars and clubs that looked like they'd be operating under different names in six months, and had just come to a dark, deserted spot when somebody called out behind him, "Hoshino! Hoshino!" in a loud voice.

  At first he couldn't believe it. Nobody knew him in Takamatsu—it had to be some other Hoshino. It wasn't that common a name, but not that uncommon, either. He didn't turn around and kept walking. But whoever it was followed him, calling out his name.

  Hoshino finally stopped and turned around. Standing there was a short old man in a white suit. White hair, a serious pair of glasses, a white mustache and goatee, white shirt, and string tie. His face looked Japanese, but the whole outfit made him look more like some country gentleman from the American South. He wasn't much over five feet tall but looked less like a short person than a miniature, scaled-down version of a man.

  He held both hands out in front of him like he was carrying a tray.

  "Mr. Hoshino," the old man said, his voice clear and piercing, with a bit of an accent.

  Hoshino stared at the man in blank amazement.

  "Right you are! I'm Colonel Sanders."

  "You look just like him," Hoshino said, impressed.

  "I don't just look like Colonel Sanders. It's who I am."

  "The fried-chicken guy?"

  The old man nodded heavily. "One and the same."

  "Okay, but how do you know my name?"

  "Chunichi Dragons fans I always call Hoshino. Nagashima's your basic Giants name—likewise, for the Dragons it's got to be Hoshino, right?"

  "Yeah, but Hoshino happens to be my real name."

  "Pure coincidence," the old man boomed out. "Don't blame me."

  "So what do you want?"

  "Have I got a girl for you!"

  "Oh, I get it," Hoshino said. "You're a pimp. That's why you're dolled up like that."

  "Mr. Hoshino, I don't know how many times I have to say this, but I'm not dressed up as anybody. I am Colonel Sanders. Don't get mixed up here, all right?"

  "Okay.... But if you're the real Colonel Sanders, what the heck are you doing working as a pimp in a back alley in Takamatsu? You're famous, and must be raking in the dough from license fees alone. You should be kicking back at a poolside somewhere in the States, enjoying your retirement. So what's the story?"

  "There's a kind of a warp at work in the world."

  "A warp?"

  "You probably don't know this, but that's how we have three dimensions. Because of the warp. If you want everything to be nice and straight all the time, then go live in a world made with a triangular ruler."

  "You're pretty weird, you know that?" Hoshino said. "But hanging out with weird old guys seems to be my fate these days. Any more of this and I won't know up from down."

 
"That may be, Mr. Hoshino, but how about it? How about a nice girl?"

  "You mean like one of those massage parlor places?"

  "Massage parlor? What's that?"

  "You know, those places where they won't let you do the dirty deed but can manage a BJ or a hand job. Let you come that way, but no in-and-out."

  "No, no," Colonel Sanders said, shaking his head in irritation. "That's not it at all.

  My girls do it all—hand job, BJ, whatever you want, including the old in-and-out."

  "Ah hah—so you're talking a soapland."

  "What land?"

  "Quit kidding around, okay? I've got somebody with me, and we've got an early start in the morning. So I don't have time for any fooling around tonight."

  "So you don't want a girl?"

  "No girl. No fried chicken. I'm going back to get some sleep."

  "But maybe you won't get to sleep that easily?" Colonel Sanders said knowingly.

  "When a person's looking for something and can't find it, they usually can't sleep very well."

  Hoshino stood there, mouth agape, staring at him. "Looking for something? How'd you know I'm looking for something?"

  "It's written all over your face. By nature you're an honest person. Everything you're thinking is written all over your face. It's like one side of a split-open dried mackerel—everything inside your head's laid out for all to see."

  Instinctively, Hoshino reached up and rubbed his cheek. He spread his hand open and stared at it, but there was nothing there. Written all over my face?

  "So," Colonel Sanders said, one finger held up for emphasis. "Is what you're looking for by any chance round and hard?"

  Hoshino frowned and said, "Come on, old man, who are you? How could you know that?"

  "I told you—it's written all over your face. You don't get it, do you?" Colonel Sanders said, shaking his finger. "I haven't been in this business all these years for my health, you know. So you really don't want a girl?"

  "I'm looking for a kind of stone. It's called an entrance stone."

  "I know all about it."

  "You do?"

  "I don't lie. Or tell jokes. I'm a straight-ahead, no-nonsense type of guy."

  "Do you know where the stone is?"

  "I know exactly where it is."

  "So, could you—tell me where?"

  Colonel Sanders touched his black-framed glasses and cleared his throat. "Are you sure you don't want a girl?"

  "If you'll tell me where the stone is, I'll think about it," Hoshino said dubiously.

  "Great. Come with me." Without waiting for a reply, he walked briskly away down the alley.

  Hoshino scrambled to keep up. "Hey, old man. Colonel. I've only got about two hundred bucks on me."

  Colonel Sanders clicked his tongue as he trotted down the road. "That's plenty. That'll get you a fresh-faced, nineteen-year-old beauty. She'll give you the full menu—BJ, hand job, in-and-out, you name it. And afterward I'll throw this in for free—I'll tell you all about the stone."

  "Jeez Louise," Hoshino gasped.

  Chapter 27

  It's 2:47 when I notice the girl's here—a little earlier than last night. I glance at the clock by my bed to remember the time. This time I stay up, waiting for her to appear. Other than the occasional blink I don't close my eyes once. I thought I was paying attention, but somehow I miss the actual moment she appears.

  She has on her usual light blue dress and is sitting there the same as before, head in hands, silently gazing at the painting of Kafka on the Shore. And I'm gazing at her with bated breath. Painting, girl, and me—we form a still triangle in the room. She never tires of looking at the picture, and likewise I never tire of gazing at her. The triangle is fixed, unwavering. And then something totally unexpected happens.

  "Miss Saeki," I hear myself say. I hadn't planned on speaking her name, but the thought welled up in me and spilled out. In a very small voice, but she hears it. And one side of the triangle collapses. Maybe I was secretly hoping it would—I don't know.

  She looks in my direction, though not like she's straining to see. Her head's still in her hands as she quietly turns her face. Like something—she's not sure what—has made the air tremble ever so slightly.

  I don't know if she can see me, but I want her to. I pray she notices me and knows I exist. "Miss Saeki," I repeat. I can't keep myself from saying her name. Maybe she'll be frightened by my voice and leave the room, never to return. I'd feel terrible if that happened. No—not terrible, that's not what I mean. Devastated is more like it. If she never came back everything would be lost to me forever. All meaning, all direction.

  Everything. I know this, but I go ahead and risk it anyway, and call her name. Of their own accord, almost automatically, my tongue and lips form her name, over and over.

  She's not looking at the painting anymore, she's looking at me. Or at least I'm in her field of vision. From where I sit I can't see her expression. Clouds move outside and the moonlight flickers. It must be windy, but I can't hear it.

  "Miss Saeki," I say again, carried away by some urgent, compelling, overwhelming force.

  She takes her head out of her hands, holds up her right hand in front of her as if to tell me not to say anything more. But is that what she really wants to say? If only I could go up to her and gaze into her eyes, to see what she's thinking right now, what emotions are running through her. What is she trying to tell me? What is she hinting at? Damn, I wish I knew. But this heavy, just-before-three-a. m. darkness has snatched away all meaning. It's hard to breathe, and I close my eyes. There's a hard lump of air in my chest, like I've swallowed a raincloud whole. When I open my eyes a few seconds later, she's vanished. All that's left is an empty chair. A shadow of a cloud slides across the wall above the desk.

  I get out of bed, go over to the window, and look at the night sky. And think about time that can never be regained. I think of rivers, of tides. Forests and water gushing out. Rain and lightning. Rocks and shadows. All of these are in me.

  The next day, in the afternoon, a detective stops by the library. I'm lying low in my room and don't know he's there. The detective questions Oshima for about twenty minutes and then leaves. Oshima comes to my room later to fill me in.

  "A detective from a local precinct was asking about you," Oshima says, then takes a bottle of Perrier from the fridge, uncaps it, pours the water into a glass, and takes a drink.

  "How did he know I was here?"

  "You used a cell phone. Your dad's phone."

  I check my memory and nod. That night I ended up all bloody in the woods behind that shrine, I called Sakura on the cell phone. "I did, but just once."

  "The police checked the calling record and traced you to Takamatsu. Usually police don't get into details, but while we were chatting I got him to explain how they traced the call. When I want to I can turn on the charm. He also let out that they couldn't trace the person you called, so it must've been a prepaid phone. Anyhow, they know you were in Takamatsu, and the local police have been checking all the hotels. They found out that a boy named Kafka Tamura matching your description stayed in a business hotel in town, through a special arrangment with the YMCA, until May 28th. The same day somebody murdered your father."

  At least the police didn't find out about Sakura. I'm thankful for that, having bothered her enough already.

  "The hotel manager remembered that you'd asked about our library. Remember how he called to see if you were really coming here?"

  I nod.

  "That's why the police stopped by." Oshima takes a sip of Perrier. "Naturally I lied. I told the detective I hadn't seen you since the 28th. That you'd been coming every day, but not once since."

  "You might get into trouble," I say.

  "If I didn't lie, you'd be in a whole lot more trouble."

  "But I don't want to get you involved."

  Oshima narrows his eyes and smiles. "You don't get it, do you? You already have gotten me involved."

  "Yeah,
I guess so—"

  "Let's not argue, okay? What's done is done. Talking about it now won't get us anywhere."

  I nod, not saying a word.

  "Anyway, the detective left his card and told me to call him right away if you ever showed up again."

  "Am I a suspect?"

  Oshima slowly shakes his head. "I doubt it. But they do think you might be able to help them out. I've been following all this in the newspaper. The investigation isn't getting anywhere, and the police are getting impatient. No fingerprints, no clues, no witnesses. You're the only lead they have. Which explains why they're trying so hard to track you down. Your dad's famous, too, so the murder's been covered in detail on TV and in magazines. The police aren't about to sit around and twiddle their thumbs."

  "But if they find out you lied to them, they won't accept you as a witness anymore—and there goes my alibi. They might think I did it."

  Oshima shook his head again. "Japanese police aren't that stupid, Kafka. Lacking in imagination, yes, but they're not incompetent. I'm sure they've already checked all the passenger lists for planes from Tokyo to Shikoku. I don't know if you're aware of this, but they have video cameras set up at all the gates at airports, to photograph all the boarding passengers. By now they know you didn't fly back to Tokyo around the time of the incident. Information in Japan is micromanaged, believe me. So the police don't consider you a suspect. If they did, they wouldn't send some local cop, but detectives from the National Police Agency. If that happened they would've grilled me pretty hard and there's no way I could've outsmarted them. They just want to hear from you whatever information you can provide about the incident."

  It makes perfect sense, what he says.

  "Anyhow, you'd better keep a low profile for a while," he says. "The police might be staking out the area, keeping an eye out for you. They had photos of you with them. Copies of your official junior high class picture. Can't say it looked much like you, though. You looked really mad in the photo."

  That was the only photograph I left behind. I always tried to avoid having my picture taken, but not having this one taken wasn't an option.