I get about a third of the way through the book and go check to see if Oshima's okay. I know he's exhausted, but he's so quiet it's like he's not even there, and I'm a little worried. But he's all right, wrapped in the covers, breathing quietly. I walk over next to him and notice his shoulders rising and falling slightly. Standing there, I suddenly remember that he's a woman. Most of the time I forget that, and think of him as a man.
Which is exactly what he wants, of course. But when he's sleeping, he looks like he's gone back to being a woman.
I go out on the porch again and pick up where I left off in the book. Back to a road outside Smolensk lined with frozen corpses.
Oshima sleeps for a couple of hours. After he wakes up he walks out on the porch and looks at his car. The dusty, unpaved road has turned the green Miata almost white.
He gives a big stretch and sits down next to me. "It's the rainy season," he says, rubbing his eyes, "but there's not much rain this year. If we don't get some soon, Takamatsu's going to run out of water."
I venture a question: "Does Miss Saeki know where I am?"
He shakes his head. "No, I didn't tell her anything. She doesn't even know I have a cabin up here. It's better to keep her in the dark, so she won't get mixed up in all this.
The less she knows, the less she needs to hide."
I nod. That's exactly what I wanted to hear.
"She's gotten mixed up in enough before," Oshima says. "She doesn't need this now."
"I told her about my father dying recently," I tell him. "How somebody murdered him. I left out the part about the police looking for me."
"She's pretty smart. Even if neither of us mentioned it, I get the feeling she's figured out most of what's going on. So if I tell her tomorrow that you had something you had to do and will be gone for a while, and tell her hi from you, I doubt she'll quiz me about the details. Even if that's all I tell her, I know she'll just let it pass."
I nod.
"But you want to see her, don't you?"
I don't reply. I'm not sure how to express it, but the answer isn't hard to guess.
"I feel kind of sorry for you," Oshima says, "but like I said, I think you two shouldn't see each other for a while."
"But I might never see her again."
"Perhaps," Oshima admits, after giving it some thought. "This is pretty obvious, but until things happen, they haven't happened. And often things aren't what they seem."
"But how does Miss Saeki feel?"
Oshima narrows his eyes and looks at me. "About what?"
"I mean—if she knows she'll never see me again, does she feel the same about me as I feel about her?"
Oshima grins. "Why are you asking me this?"
"I have no idea, which is probably why I'm asking you. Loving somebody, wanting them more than anything—it's all a new experience. The same with having somebody want me."
"I imagine you're confused and don't know what to do."
I nod. "Exactly."
"You don't know if she shares the same strong, pure feelings you have for her," Oshima comments.
I shake my head. "It hurts to think about it."
Oshima's silent for a time as he gazes out at the forest, eyes narrowed. Birds are flitting from one branch to the next. His hands are clasped behind his head. "I know how you feel," he finally says. "But this is something you have to figure out on your own. Nobody can help you. That's what love's all about, Kafka. You're the one having those wonderful feelings, but you have to go it alone as you wander through the dark. Your mind and body have to bear it all. All by yourself."
It's after two when he gets ready to leave.
"If you divide up the food," he tells me, "it should last you a week. I'll be back by then. If something comes up and I can't make it, I'll send my brother here with supplies. He only lives about an hour away. I've told him about you being here. So no worries, okay?"
"Okay."
"And like I told you before, be extra cautious if you go into the woods. If you get lost, you'll never find your way out."
"I'll be careful."
"Just before World War II started, a large unit of Imperial troops carried out some training exercises here, staging mock battles with the Soviet army in the Siberian forests. Did I tell you this already?"
"No."
"Seems like I forgot the most important thing," Oshima says sheepishly, tapping his temple.
"But this doesn't look like Siberian forests," I say.
"You're right. The trees here are all broadleaf types, the ones in those forests would have to be evergreens, but I guess the military didn't worry about details. The point was to march into the forest in full battle gear and conduct their war games."
He pours out a cup of the coffee I made from the thermos, spoons in a dollop of sugar, and seems pleased with the results. "The military asked my great-grandfather to let them use the mountain for their training, and he said sure, be my guest. Nobody else was using it, after all. The unit marched up the road we drove here on, then went into the forest. But when the exercises were finished and they took roll call, they discovered two soldiers were missing. They'd just disappeared, full battle gear and all, during the training, both brand-new draftees. The army conducted a huge search, but the two soldiers never turned up." Oshima takes another sip of coffee. "To this day nobody knows if they simply got lost or ran away. The forest around here is incredibly deep, and there's hardly anything you could forage for food."
I nod.
"There's another world that parallels our own, and to a certain degree you're able to step into that other world and come back safely. As long as you're careful. But go past a certain point and you'll lose the path out. It's a labyrinth. Do you know where the idea of a labyrinth first came from?"
I shake my head.
"It was the ancient Mesopotamians. They pulled out animal intestines—sometimes human intestines, I expect—and used the shape to predict the future. They admired the complex shape of intestines. So the prototype for labyrinths is, in a word, guts. Which means that the principle for the labyrinth is inside you. And that correlates to the labyrinth outside."
"Another metaphor," I comment.
"That's right. A reciprocal metaphor. Things outside you are projections of what's inside you, and what's inside you is a projection of what's outside. So when you step into the labyrinth outside you, at the same time you're stepping into the labyrinth inside. Most definitely a risky business."
"Sort of like Hansel and Gretel."
"Right—just like them. The forest has set a trap, and no matter what you do, no matter how careful you are, some sharp-eyed birds are going to eat up all your bread crumbs."
"I promise I'll be careful," I tell him.
Oshima lowers the top on the Miata and climbs in. He puts on his sunglasses and rests his hand on the gearshift. The forest echoes with the sound of that familiar roar. He brushes back his hair, gives an abbreviated wave, and is gone. Dust swirls around where he was, but the wind soon carries it away.
I go back inside the cabin. I lie down on the bed he'd been using and shut my eyes.
Come to think of it, I didn't get much sleep last night either. The pillow and covers still show signs of Oshima having been there. Not him, really—more like his sleep. I sink down in those signs. I've slept for half an hour when there's a loud thump outside the cabin, like a tree branch snapped and tumbled to the ground. The sound jolts me awake.
I get up and walk out to the porch to have a look, but everything looks the same. Maybe this is some mysterious sound the forest makes from time to time. Or maybe it was part of a dream. I can't tell one from the other.
Until the sun sinks down in the west, I sit out on the porch, reading my book.
I make a simple meal and eat it in silence. After clearing away the dishes I sink back in the old sofa and think about Miss Saeki.
"Like Oshima said, Miss Saeki's a smart person. Plus she has her own way of doing things," the boy named Crow says. H
e's sitting next to me on the sofa, just like when we were in my father's den. "She's very different from you," he tells me.
She's very different from you. She's overcome all kinds of obstacles—and not what you'd call normal obstacles, either. She knows all kinds of things you're clueless about, she's experienced a range of emotions you've never felt. The longer people live, the more they learn to distinguish what's important from what's not. She's had to make a lot of critical decisions, and has seen the results. Again, very different from you. You're only a child who's lived in a narrow world and experienced very little. You've worked hard to become stronger, and in some areas you actually have. That's a fact. But now you find yourself in a new world, in a situation you've never been in before. It's all new to you, so no wonder you feel confused.
No wonder you feel confused. One thing you don't understand very well is whether women have sexual desire. Theoretically, of course they do. That much even you know. But when it comes to how this desire comes about, what it's like—you're lost.
Your own sexual desire is a simple matter. But women's desire, especially Miss Saeki's, is a total mystery. When she held you did she feel the same physical ecstasy? Or is it something altogether different?
The more you think about it, the more you hate being fifteen. You feel hopeless.
If only you were twenty—no, even eighteen would be good, anything but fifteen—you could understand better what her words and actions mean. Then you could respond the right way. You're in the middle of something wonderful, something so tremendous you may never experience it again. But you can't really understand how wonderful it is. That makes you impatient. And that, in turn, leads to despair.
You try to picture what she's doing right now. It's Monday, and the library's closed. What does she do on her days off? You imagine her alone in her apartment. She does the laundry, cooks, cleans, goes out shopping—each scene flashes in your imagination. The more you imagine, the harder it gets to sit still here. You want to turn into a dauntless crow and fly out of this cabin, zoom out over these mountains, come to rest outside her apartment, and gaze at her forever.
Perhaps she stops by the library and goes into your room. She knocks but there's no answer. The door's unlocked. She discovers you're no longer there. The bed's made, and all your things are gone. She wonders where you disappeared to. Perhaps she waits a while for you to come back, sitting at the desk, head in hands, gazing at Kafka on the Shore. Thinking of the past that's enveloped in that painting. But no matter how long she waits, you don't return. She finally gives up and leaves. She walks over to her Golf in the parking lot and starts the engine. The last thing you want is to let her leave like this.
You want to hold her, and know what each and every movement of her body means. But you're not there. You're all alone, in a place cut off from everyone.
You climb into bed and turn off the light, hoping that she'll show up in this room.
It doesn't have to be the real Miss Saeki—that fifteen-year-old girl would be fine. It doesn't matter what form she takes—a living spirit, an illusion—but you have to see her, have to have her beside you. Your brain is so full of her it's ready to burst, your body about to explode into pieces. Still, no matter how much you want her to be here, no matter how long you wait, she never appears. All you hear is the faint rustle of wind outside, birds softly cooing in the night. You hold your breath, staring off into the gloom.
You listen to the wind, trying to read something into it, straining to catch a hint of what it might mean. But all that surrounds you are different shades of darkness. Finally, you give up, close your eyes, and fall asleep.
Chapter 38
Hoshino looked up rental car agencies in the Yellow Pages, picked one at random, and phoned them. "I just need a car for a couple of days," he explained, "so an ordinary sedan's fine. Nothing too big, nothing that stands out."
"Maybe I shouldn't say this," the rental clerk said, "but since we only rent Mazdas, we don't have a single car that stands out. So rest assured."
"Great."
"How about a Familia? A very reliable car, and I swear nobody will notice it at all."
"Sounds good. The Familia it is." The rental agency was near the station, and Hoshino told them he'd be over in an hour to pick up the car.
He took a taxi over, showed them his credit card and license, then rented the car for two days. The white Familia parked in the lot was, as advertised, totally unobtrusive.
Turn away from it for a moment and every memory of what it looked like vanished. A notable achievement in the field of anonymity.
Driving back to the apartment, Hoshino stopped at a bookstore and picked up maps of Takamatsu city and the Shikoku highway system. He popped into a CD shop nearby to see if they had a copy of Beethoven's Archduke Trio, but the little shop had only a small classical section and one cheap, discount-bin version of the piece. Not the Million-Dollar Trio, unfortunately, but Hoshino went ahead and paid his eight dollars.
Back in the apartment, a soothing fragrance filled the place. Nakata was bustling around the kitchen preparing some steamed daikon and deep-fried flat tofu. "I had nothing to do, so I made a few dishes," he explained.
"That's great," Hoshino said. "I've been eating out too much these days, and it'll be nice to have a home-cooked meal for a change. Oh, hey—I got the car. It's parked outside. Do you need it right away?"
"No, tomorrow would be fine. Nakata has to talk more with the stone today."
"Good idea. Talking things over is important. Whether you're talking with people, or things, or whatever, it's always better to discuss things. You know, when I'm driving trucks I often talk to the engine. You can hear all kinds of things if you listen closely."
"Nakata can't talk with engines, but it is important to discuss things."
"So how's it going with the stone? You able to communicate?"
"We're starting to."
"That's good. I was wondering—is the stone upset we brought it here?"
"No, not at all. As far as I can make out, the stone doesn't much care where it is."
"Whew—that's a relief," Hoshino sighed. "After all we've been through, if the stone turns on us we're up a creek."
Hoshino spent the afternoon listening to his new CD. The performance wasn't as spontaneous and memorable as the one he'd heard in the coffee shop. It was more restrained and steady, but overall not so bad. As he lay back on the couch and listened, the lovely melody got to him, the subtle convolutions of the fugue stirring up something deep inside.
If I'd listened to this music a week ago, he told himself, I wouldn't have understood the first thing about it—or even wanted to. But chance brought him to that little coffee shop, where he sank back in that comfortable chair, enjoyed the coffee, and listened to the music. And now look at me, he thought, I'm into Beethoven—can you believe it? A pretty amazing development.
He played the piece over and over, testing out his newfound appreciation for music. The CD contained a second Beethoven trio, the Ghost. Not such a bad piece, he thought, though the Archduke was definitely his favorite. More depth, he concluded. All the while, Nakata was off in a corner, facing the white stone and muttering.
Occasionally he'd nod or scratch his head. Two men off in their own little worlds.
"Does the music bother you?" Hoshino asked him.
"No, it's fine. Music doesn't bother me. To me it's like the wind."
"The wind, huh?"
At six Nakata made dinner—grilled salmon and a salad, plus a number of little side dishes he'd concocted. Hoshino switched on the TV and watched the news to see if there were any developments in the murder case. But there wasn't a word about it. Just other news—a kidnapping of an infant girl, the usual Israeli and Palestinian reprisals, a massive traffic accident on a highway in western Japan, a carjacking ring headed by foreigners, some cabinet minister's stupid discriminatory remark, layoffs at companies in the communication industry. Not a single upbeat story.
&nbs
p; The two of them sat at the table and ate their dinner.
"This is really good," Hoshino said. "You're quite a cook."
"Much obliged. But you're the first person I've ever cooked for."
"You're telling me you never eat with friends or relatives or anybody?"
"Nakata knew many cats, but what we eat is very different."
"Well, yeah," Hoshino said. "But, anyway, this is delicious. Especially the vegetables."
"I'm happy you like it. Nakata can't read, so sometimes I make some terrible mistakes in the kitchen. So I always use the same ingredients and cook things the same way. If I could read, I could make all kinds of different dishes."
"These are just fine."
"Mr. Hoshino?" Nakata said in a serious tone, sitting up straight.
"Yeah?"
"Not being able to read makes life tough."
"I imagine so," Hoshino said. "The commentary with this CD says Beethoven was deaf. He was a famous composer, the top pianist in Europe when he was young. But then one day, maybe because of illness, he started to go deaf. In the end he couldn't hear a thing. Pretty rough to be a composer who can't hear. You know what I mean?"
"I think so."
"A deaf composer's like a cook who's lost his sense of taste. A frog that's lost its webbed feet. A truck driver with his license revoked. That would throw anybody for a loop, don't you think? But Beethoven didn't let it get to him. Sure, he must have been a little depressed at first, but he didn't let misfortune get him down. It was like, Problem? What problem? He composed more than ever and came up with better music than anything he'd ever written. I really admire the guy. Like this Archduke Trio—he was nearly deaf when he wrote it, can you believe it? What I'm trying to say is, it must be tough on you not being able to read, but it's not the end of the world. You might not be able to read, but there are things only you can do. That's what you gotta focus on—your strengths. Like being able to talk with the stone."
Kafka on the Shore Page 40
