Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

  That night I lie there in the darkness, breathing quietly with my eyes wide open, hoping to catch a figure appearing in the dark. Praying for it to appear, and not knowing if prayers have any effect. Concentrating for all I'm worth, wanting badly for it to happen. Hoping that wanting it so badly will make my wish come true.

  But my wish doesn't come true, my desires are shot down. Like the night before, Miss Saeki doesn't show up. Not the real Miss Saeki, not an illusion, not her as a fifteen-year-old girl. The darkness remains just that—darkness. Right before I fall asleep I have a massive erection, harder than any I've ever had, but I don't jack off. I've made up my mind to hold the memory of making love with Miss Saeki untouched, at least for now.

  Hands clenched tight, I fall asleep, hoping to dream of her.

  Instead, I dream of Sakura.

  Or is it a dream? It's all so vivid, clear, and consistent, but I don't know what else to call it, so dream seems the best label. I'm in her apartment and she's asleep in bed. I'm in my sleeping bag, just like that night I spent at her place. Time's been rewound, setting me down at a turning point.

  I wake up in the middle of the night dying of thirst, get out of my sleeping bag, and drink some water. Glass after glass—five or six. My skin's covered with a sheen of sweat, and the front of my boxers is tented in another huge erection. My cock's like some animal with a mind of its own, operating on a different wavelength from the rest of me. When I drink some water my cock automatically absorbs it. I can hear the faint sound of it soaking up the water.

  I put the glass next to the sink and lean back against the wall. I want to check the time but can't find the clock. In this, the deepest hour of the night, even the clock's been swallowed up in the depths. I'm standing beside Sakura's bed. Light from a streetlight filters in through the curtain. She's facing away from me, fast asleep, her small, shapely feet sticking out from under the thin covers. Behind me I hear a small, hard sound, like someone's turned on a switch. Thick branches cut off my field of vision. There is no season here. I make a decision and crawl in next to Sakura. The single bed creaks with the extra weight. I breathe in the smell of the faintly sweaty back of her neck. Gently I wrap my arms around her. She makes a small sound but continues to sleep. The crow squawks loudly. I glance up but can't spot the bird. I can't even see the sky.

  I pull up Sakura's T-shirt and fondle her soft breasts. I tweak her nipples like I'm adjusting a radio dial. My rock-hard cock slaps against the back of her thigh, but she doesn't make any noise and her breathing stays the same. She must be dreaming deeply, I figure. Again the crow cries out, sending me a message, but I can't figure out what it's trying to tell me.

  Sakura's body is warm, and as sweaty as mine. I decide to pull her around toward me, slowly pulling her closer so she's faceup. She exhales deeply but still doesn't show any signs of waking. I rest my ear against her paper-flat stomach, trying to catch the echoes of the dreams within that labyrinth.

  My erection's not letting up, so rigid it looks like it'll last forever. I slip off her small cotton panties, taking my time to get them down her legs and off. I rest my palm against her pubic hair, gently letting my finger go in deeper. It's wet, invitingly wet. I slowly move my finger. Still she doesn't wake up. Lost in her dream, she merely exhales deeply again.

  At the same time, in a hollow inside me, something struggles to break out of its shell. Before I realize what's happening, there's a pair of eyes turned in on me, and I can observe this whole scene. I don't yet know if this thing inside me is good or bad, but whichever it is, I can't hold it back or stop it. It's still a slimy, faceless being, but it will soon break free of its shell, show its face, and slough off its jelly-like coating. Then I'll know what it really is. Now, though, it's just a formless sign. It's reaching out its hands-that-won't-be-hands, breaking apart the shell at its softest point. And I can see each and every one of its movements.

  I make up my mind.

  No, actually I haven't made up my mind about anything. Making up your mind means you have a choice, and I don't. I strip off my boxers, releasing my cock. I hold Sakura, spread her legs, and slip inside her. It's easy—she's so soft and I'm so hard. My cock no longer hurts. In the past few days the tip's become even harder. Sakura's still dreaming, and I bury myself inside her dream.

  Suddenly she snaps awake and realizes what's going on.

  "Kafka, what are you doing?!"

  "It would seem that I'm inside you," I reply.

  "But why?" she asks in a dry, raspy voice. "Didn't I tell you that's off limits?"

  "I can't help it."

  "Stop already. Get it out of me."

  "I can't," I say, shaking my head emphatically.

  "Listen to me. First of all, I've got a steady boyfriend, okay? And second, you've come into my dream without permission. That's not right."

  "I know."

  "It's still not too late. You're inside me, but you haven't started moving, you haven't come yet. It's just quietly inside me, like it's thinking about something. Am I right?"

  I nod.

  "Take it out," she admonishes me. "And let's pretend this never happened. I can forget it, and so should you. I'm your sister, and you're my brother. Even if we're not blood related, we're most definitely brother and sister. You understand what I'm saying? We're part of a family. We shouldn't be doing this."

  "It's too late," I tell her.

  "Why?"

  "Because I decided it is."

  "Because you decided it is," says the boy named Crow.

  You don't want to be at the mercy of things outside you anymore, or thrown into confusion by things you can't control. You've already murdered your father and violated your mother—and now here you are inside your sister. If there's a curse in all this, you mean to grab it by the horns and fulfill the program that's been laid out for you. Lift the burden from your shoulders and live—not caught up in someone else's schemes, but as you. That's what you want.

  She covers her face with her hands and cries a little. You feel sorry for her, but there's no way you're going to leave her body. Your cock swells up inside her, gets even harder, like it's set down roots.

  "I understand," she says. "I won't say any more. But I want you to remember something: You're raping me. I like you, but this isn't how I want it to be. We might never see each other again, no matter how much we want to meet later on. Are you okay with that?"

  You don't respond. Your mind's switched off. You draw her close to you and start to move your hips. Carefully, cautiously, in the end violently. You try to remember the shapes of the trees to help you get back, but they all look the same and are soon swallowed up in the anonymous sea. Sakura closes her eyes and gives herself up to the motion. She doesn't say a word or resist. Her face is expressionless, turned away from you. But you feel the pleasure rising up in her like an extension of yourself. Now you understand it. The entwined trees stand like a dark wall blocking your view. The bird no longer sends its message. And you come.

  I come.

  And I wake up. I'm in bed, alone. It's the middle of the night. The darkness is as deep as it can be, all clocks lost within. I get out of bed, strip off my underpants, go over to the kitchen, and rinse the semen off them. Gooey, white, and heavy, like some illegitimate child born of the darkness. I gulp down glass after glass of water, but nothing slakes my thirst. I feel so alone I can't stand it. In the darkness, in the middle of the night, surrounded by a deep forest, I couldn't be more alone. There are no seasons here, no light. I walk back to the bed, sit down, and breathe a huge sigh. The darkness wraps itself around me.

  The thing inside you has revealed itself. The shell is gone, completely shattered, nowhere to be seen, and it's there, a dark shadow, resting. Your hands are sticky with something—human blood, by the look of it. You hold them out in front of you, but there's not enough light to see. It's far too dark. Both inside, and out.

  Chapter 40

  Next to the sign that read Komura Memorial Library was an info
rmation placard informing them that the library's hours were eleven to five, except for Monday, when it was closed, that admission was free, and that tours were conducted every Tuesday at two p. m. Hoshino read all this aloud for Nakata.

  "Today's Monday, so it's closed," Hoshino said. He glanced at his watch. "Not that it matters much, since it's way past their closing time anyway. Same difference."

  "Mr. Hoshino?"

  "Yeah?"

  "This place doesn't look at all like the library we went to before," Nakata said.

  "That was a large public library and this one's private. So the scale's different."

  "When you say a private library, what does that mean?"

  "It means some man of property who likes books puts up a building and makes all the books he's collected available to the public. This guy must have really been something. You can tell from the gate he had to be pretty impressive."

  "What is a man of property?"

  "A rich person."

  "What's the difference between the two?"

  Hoshino tilted his head in thought. "I don't know. Seems to me a man of property's more cultured than just a regular rich guy."

  "Cultured?"

  "Anybody who has money is rich. You or me, as long as we had money, we'd be rich. But becoming a man of property isn't so easy. It takes time."

  "It's difficult to become one?"

  "Yeah, it is. Not that we need to worry about it. I don't see either of us becoming rich, let alone cultured."

  "Mr. Hoshino?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Since they're closed on Monday, if we come here tomorrow morning at eleven they should be open, right?" Nakata asked.

  "I suppose so. Tomorrow's Tuesday."

  "Will Nakata be able to go inside the library?"

  "The sign says it's open to everybody. Of course you can."

  "Even if I can't read?"

  "No problem," Hoshino said. "They don't quiz people at the entrance about whether they can read or not."

  "I want to go inside, then."

  "We'll come back tomorrow, first thing, and go in together," Hoshino said. "I got a question for you first, though. This is the place you were looking for, right? And the thing you're looking for's inside?"

  Nakata removed his cap and rubbed his close-cropped hair vigorously. "Yes. I think it's here."

  "So we can give up our search?"

  "That's right. The search is over."

  "Thank God," Hoshino said. "I was starting to wonder if we'd really be driving around till fall."

  The two of them drove back to Colonel Sanders's apartment, slept soundly, and set off at eleven the next morning for the library. It was only a twenty-minute walk from the apartment, so they decided to stroll over. Hoshino had already returned the rental car.

  The gate of the library was open wide when they arrived. It looked like it was going to be a hot, humid day, and someone had splashed water on the pavement to keep the dust down. Past the gate was a neat, well-kept garden.

  "Mr. Nakata?" Hoshino said in front of the gate.

  "Yes, how can I help you?"

  "What do we do after we go inside the library? I'm always afraid you're all of a sudden gonna come up with some off-the-wall idea, so I'd like to know about it ahead of time. I have to prepare myself."

  Nakata gave it some thought. "Nakata has no idea what to do once we get in. This is a library, though, so I thought we might start by reading books. I'll find a photo collection or book of paintings, and you can pick whatever you'd like to read."

  "Gotcha. Starting off by reading—that makes sense."

  "Then after a while we can think about what to do next."

  "Okay," Hoshino said. "We'll think about what comes later—later. Sounds like a plan."

  They walked through the beautiful garden and into the antique-looking entrance.

  There was a reception area right inside, with a handsome, slim young man seated behind the counter. He had on a white button-down shirt and small glasses. Long, fine hair hung over his forehead. Someone you might expect to see in a black-and-white Truffaut film, Hoshino thought.

  The young man looked up at them and beamed.

  "Good morning," Hoshino said cheerfully.

  "Good morning," the young man replied. "Welcome to the library."

  "We'd, uh—like to read some books."

  "Of course," Oshima nodded. "Feel free to read whatever you like. We're open to the public. The stacks are completely open, so take any books you'd like to read. You can look books up in our card catalog or online. And if you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. I'd be more than happy to help."

  "That's very kind of you."

  "Is there a particular field or book you're looking for?"

  Hoshino shook his head. "Not really. Actually we're more interested in the library itself than books. We happened to pass by and thought the place looked interesting. It's a beautiful building."

  Oshima gave a graceful smile and picked up a neatly sharpened pencil. "A lot of people just stop by like that."

  "Glad to hear it," Hoshino said.

  "If you have the time, you might consider the short tour of the place that takes place at two. We have one every Tuesday, as long as there are people who'd like to join in. The head of the library explains the background of the library. And today just happens to be Tuesday."

  "That sounds like fun. Hey, what d'ya say, Mr. Nakata?"

  All the time Hoshino and Oshima had been talking at the counter, Nakata stood off to one side, cap in hand, gazing vacantly at his surroundings. At the sound of his name, he came out of his daze. "Yes, how can I help you?"

  "They have a tour of the library at two. You want to go on it?"

  "Yes, Mr. Hoshino, thank you. Nakata would like to."

  Oshima watched this exchange with great interest. Messrs. Hoshino and Nakata—what sort of relationship did they have to each other? They didn't seem like relatives. A strange combo, these two—with a vast difference in age and appearance. What could they possibly have in common? And this Mr. Nakata, the older one, had an odd way of speaking. There was something about him Oshima couldn't quite pin down. Not anything bad, though. "Have you traveled far to get here?" he asked.

  "We came from Nagoya," Hoshino said hurriedly before Nakata could open his mouth. If he started in about being from Nakano, things could get a little sticky. The TV news had already put out the word that an old man like Nakata was connected with the murder there. Fortunately, though, as far as Hoshino knew, Nakata's photograph hadn't been made public.

  "That's quite a journey," Oshima commented.

  "Yes, we crossed a bridge to get here," Nakata said. "A long, wonderful bridge."

  "It is pretty long, isn't it?" Oshima said. "Though I've never been over it myself."

  "Nakata had never seen such a long bridge in all his life."

  "It took a lot of time and a tremendous amount of money to build it," Oshima went on. "According to the newspaper, each year the public corporation that operates the bridge and the highway over it is a billion dollars in the red. Our taxes make up the shortfall."

  "Nakata has no idea how much a billion is."

  "I don't either, to tell you the truth," Oshima said. "After a certain point amounts like that aren't real anymore. Anyway, it's a huge amount of money."

  "Thanks so much," Hoshino butted in. There was no telling what Nakata might say next, and he had to nip that possibility in the bud. "We should be here at two for the tour, right?"

  "Yes, two would be fine," Oshima said. "The head librarian will be happy to show you around then."

  "We'll be reading until then," Hoshino said.

  Twirling his pencil in his hand, Oshima watched the retreating figures and then went back to work.

  They picked some books from the stacks, Hoshino going for Beethoven and His Generation. Nakata picked out some photo collections and placed them on the table.

  Next, much like a dog might, he circled the room, carefully c
hecking out everything, touching things, sniffing their odor, stopping at select spots to stare fixedly. They had the reading room to themselves until past twelve, so no one else noticed the old man's eccentric behavior.

  "Hey, Gramps?" Hoshino whispered.

  "Yes, how may I help you?"

  "This is kind of sudden, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention to anyone that you're from Nakano."

  "Why is that?"

  "It's a long story, just take my word for it. If people find out that's where you're from, it might cause them some trouble."

  "I understand," Nakata said, nodding deeply. "It's not good to trouble others. Nakata won't say a word about being from Nakano."

  "That'd be great," Hoshino said. "Oh—did you find whatever it is you're looking for?"

  "No, nothing so far."

  "But this is definitely the place?"

  Nakata nodded. "It is. Last night I had a good talk with the stone before I went to bed. I'm sure this is the place."

  "Thank God."

  Hoshino nodded and returned to his biography. Beethoven, he learned, was a proud man who believed absolutely in his own abilities and never bothered to flatter the nobility. Believing that art itself, and the proper expression of emotions, was the most sublime thing in the world, he thought political power and wealth served only one purpose: to make art possible. When Haydn boarded with a noble family, as he did most of his professional life, he had to eat with the servants. Musicians of Haydn's generation were considered employees. (The unaffected and good-natured Haydn, though, much preferred this arrangement to the stiff and formal meals put on by the nobility.) Beethoven, in contrast, was enraged by any such contemptuous treatment, on occasion smashing things against the wall in anger. He insisted that as far as meals went he be treated with no less respect than the nobility he ostensibly served. He often flew off the handle, and once angry was hard to calm down. On top of this were radical political ideas that he made no attempt to hide. As his hearing deteriorated, these tendencies became even more pronounced. As he aged his music also became both more expansive and more densely inward looking. Only Beethoven could have balanced these two contrasting tendencies. But the extraordinary effort this required had a progressively deleterious effect on his life, for all humans have physical and emotional limits, and by this time the composer had more than reached his.