Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

  To his credit, he'd never cheated on any of them. But let them complain a little, try to win an argument, show a bit of jealousy, urge him to save some money, get a little overwrought, or express even a hint of worry about the future, and he was out of there.

  He always figured the most important thing about girls was to avoid any sticky situations, so all it took was one tiny wave to rock the boat and he was gone. He'd find a new girl and start over. He was sure most people did the same.

  "If I were a girl," he said to the stone, "and was going out with a self-centered bastard like me, I'd blow my stack. I'm sure of it, now that I look back on it. I don't know how they all put up with me for so long. It's amazing." He lit a Marlboro and, slowly exhaling smoke, rubbed the stone with one hand. "Am I right or what? I'm not so good-looking, no great shakes in bed. Don't have much money. Not such a great personality, not too bright. A lot of negatives here. Son of a poor farmer from the sticks, a no-good ex-soldier-turned-truck-driver. When I think back on it, though, I was really lucky when it came to girls. I wasn't very popular, but I always had a girlfriend. Someone who let me sleep with her, who fed me, lent me money. But you know something? Good things don't last forever. I feel that more and more as time goes by. It's like somebody's saying, Hey, Hoshino, someday you're gonna have to pay up."

  He rubbed the stone while relating his amorous adventures. He'd gotten so used to rubbing it that he didn't want to stop. At noon a school chime rang out, and he went to the kitchen to make a bowl of udon, adding some scallions along with a raw egg. After lunch he listened again to the Archduke Trio.

  "Hey, stone," he called out right after the first movement ended. "Pretty nice music, huh? Really makes you feel like your heart's opening up, don't you think?"

  The stone was silent.

  He had no idea if the stone was listening, to the music or to him, but he forged ahead anyway. "Like I was saying this morning, I've done some awful things in my life. I was pretty self-centered. And it's too late to erase it all now, you know? But when I listen to this music it's like Beethoven's right here talking to me, telling me something like, It's okay, Hoshino, don't worry about it. That's life. I've done some pretty awful things in my life too. Not much you can do about it. Things happen. You just got to hang in there. Beethoven being the guy he was, he's not about to say anything like that. But I'm still picking up that vibe from his music, like that's what it's saying to me. Can you feel it?"

  The stone was mute.

  "Whatever," Hoshino said. "That's just my opinion. I'll shut up so we can listen."

  When he looked outside at two, a fat black cat was sitting on the railing on the veranda, gazing in at the apartment. Bored, Hoshino opened the window and called out,

  "Hey there, kitty. Nice day, isn't it?"

  "Yes, indeed, it is a fine day, Mr. Hoshino," the cat replied.

  "Gimme a break," Hoshino said, shaking his head.

  The Boy Named Crow

  The boy named Crow flew in large, languid circles above the forest. After inscribing one, he'd fly off to another spot and carefully begin another, identical circle, each invisible circle following another in the air only to vanish. Like a reconnaissance plane, he scanned the forest below him, looking for someone he couldn't seem to locate. Like a huge ocean, the forest undulated beneath him and spread to the horizon in a thick, anonymous cloak of interlaced branches. The sky was covered with gray clouds, and there was neither wind nor sunlight. At this point the boy named Crow had to be the loneliest bird in the world, but he was too busy to think about that now.

  He finally spotted an opening in the sea of trees below and shot straight down through it to an open piece of ground. The light shone on a small patch of ground that was marked with grass. In one corner of the clearing was a large round rock and a man in a bright red sweat suit and a black silk hat was sitting on it. He wore thick-soled hiking boots, and a khaki-colored bag lay on the ground beside him. A strange getup, though the boy named Crow didn't mind. This was who he was after. What the man had on was of little consequence.

  The man looked up at the sudden flapping of wings and saw Crow land on a large branch. "Hey," he said cheerfully.

  The boy named Crow didn't make any reply. Resting on the branch, he gazed, unblinking, expressionless, at the man. Occasionally he'd incline his head to one side.

  "I know who you are," the man said. He doffed his hat and put it back on. "I had a feeling you'd be coming here before long." He cleared his throat, frowned, and spat on the ground, then stamped the spit into the dirt with his boot.

  "I was just resting, and feeling a bit bored with no one to talk to. How about coming over here? We can have a nice little talk. What do you say? I've never seen you before, but that doesn't mean we're total strangers."

  The boy named Crow kept his mouth shut, holding his wings close in against himself.

  The man in the silk hat lightly shook his head. "Ah, I see. You can't speak, can you? No matter. I'll do the talking, if you don't mind. I know what you're going to do, even if you don't say a word. You don't want me to go any further, do you? It's so obvious I can predict what'll happen. You don't want me to go any further, but that's exactly what I want to do. Because it's a golden opportunity I can't let slip through my fingers—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

  He gave the ankle of his hiking boots a good slap. "To leap to the conclusion here, you won't be able to stop me. You aren't qualified. Let's say I play my flute, what's going to happen? You won't be able to come any closer to me. That's the power of my flute. You might not know this, but it's a unique kind of flute, not just some ordinary, everyday instrument. And actually I've got quite a few here in my bag."

  The man reached out and carefully patted the bag, then looked up again at the boy named Crow perched on his branch. "I made this flute out of the souls of cats I've collected. Cut out the souls of cats while they were still alive and made them into this flute. I felt sorry for the cats, of course, cutting them up like that, but I couldn't help it. This flute is beyond any world's standards of good and evil, love or hatred. Making these flutes has been my longtime calling, and I've always done a decent job of fulfilling my role and doing my bit. Nothing to be ashamed of. I got married, had children, and made more than enough flutes. So I'm not going to make any more. Just between you and me, I'm thinking of taking all the flutes I've made and creating a much larger, far more powerful flute out of them—a super-size flute that becomes a system unto itself. Right now I'm heading to a place where I can construct that kind of flute. I'm not the one who decides whether that flute turns out to be good or evil, and neither are you. It all depends on when and where I am. In that sense I'm a man totally without prejudices, like history or the weather—completely unbiased. And since I am, I can transform into a kind of system."

  He removed his silk hat, rubbed the thinning hair on top of his head, put the hat back on, and quickly adjusted the brim. "Once I play this flute, getting rid of you will be a snap. The thing is, I don't feel like playing it right now. It takes a lot out of me, and I don't want to waste any strength. I'll need all of it later on. But whether I play the flute or not, you can't stop me. That should be obvious."

  The man cleared his throat once more, and rubbed the slight swell of his belly.

  "Do you know what limbo is? It's the neutral point between life and death. A kind of sad, gloomy place. Where I am now, in other words—this forest. I died, at my own bidding, but haven't gone on to the next world. I'm a soul in transition, and a soul in transition is formless. I've merely adopted this form for the time being. That's why you can't hurt me. You follow me? Even if I were to bleed all over the place, it's not real blood. Even if I were to suffer horribly, it's not real suffering. The only one who could wipe me out right now is someone who's qualified to do so. And—sad to say—you don't fit the bill. You're nothing more than an immature, mediocre illusion. No matter how determined you may be, eliminating me's impossible for the likes of you." The man looked at
the boy named Crow and beamed. "How 'bout it? Want to give it a try?"

  As if that was the signal he'd been waiting for, the boy named Crow spread his wings wide, leaped off the branch, and darted straight at him. He seized the man's chest with both talons, drew his head back, and brought his beak down on the man's right eye, pecking away fiendishly like he was hacking away with a pickax, his jet black wings flapping noisily all the while. The man put up no resistance, didn't lift a finger to protect himself. He didn't cry out, either. Instead, he laughed out loud. His hat fell to the ground, and his eyeball was soon shredded and hanging from its socket. The boy named Crow tenaciously attacked the other eye now. Once both eyes were replaced by vacant cavities, he turned immediately to the man's face, pecking away, slashing it all over. His face was soon cut to ribbons, pieces of skin flying off, blood spurting out, nothing more than a lump of reddish flesh. Crow next attacked the top of his head, where the hair was thinnest, and still the man kept on laughing. The more vicious the attack became, the louder he laughed, as if the whole situation was so hilarious he couldn't control himself.

  The man never took his eyes—now vacant sockets—off Crow, and in between laughs managed to choke out a few words. "See, what'd I tell you? Don't make me laugh. You can try all you want, but it's not going to hurt me. You're not qualified to do that. You're just a flimsy illusion, a cheap echo. It's useless, no matter what you do. Don't you get it?"

  The boy named Crow stabbed at the mouth these words had come from. His huge wings ceaselessly beat at the air, a few shiny black feathers coming loose, swirling in the air like fragments of a soul. Crow tore at the man's tongue, grabbed it with his beak, and yanked with all his might. It was long and hugely thick, and once it was pulled out from deep within the man's throat, it squirmed like a gigantic mollusk, forming dark words. Without a tongue, however, not even this man could laugh anymore. He looked like he couldn't breathe, either, but still he held his sides and shook with soundless laughter. The boy named Crow listened, and this unheard laughter—as vacant and ominous as wind blowing over a far-off desert—never ceased. It sounded, in fact, very much like an otherworldly flute.

  Chapter 47

  I wake up just after dawn, boil water on the electric hot plate, and make some tea. I sit down beside the window to see what, if anything, is going on outside. Everything is dead quiet, with no sign of anybody on the street. Even the birds seem reluctant to launch into their usual morning chorus. The hills to the east are barely edged in a faint light. The place is surrounded by high hills, which explains why dawn comes so late and twilight so early. I go over to the nightstand where my watch is to check the time, but the digital screen's a complete blank. When I push a few buttons at random, nothing happens. The batteries should still be good, but for some unfathomable reason the thing stopped while I was sleeping. I put the watch back on top of my pillow and rub my left wrist, where I normally wear it, with my right. Not that time's much of a factor here.

  As I gaze at the vacant, birdless scene outside, I suddenly want to read a book—any book. As long as it's shaped like a book and has printing, it's fine by me. I just want to hold a book in my hands, turn the pages, scan the words with my eyes. Only one problem—there isn't a book in sight. In fact, it's like printing hasn't been invented here. I quickly look around the room, and sure enough, there's nothing at all with any writing on it.

  I open the chest of drawers in the bedroom to see what kind of clothes are inside.

  Everything's neatly folded. None of the clothes are new. The colors are faded, the material soft from countless washings. Still, they look clean. There's round-neck shirts, underwear, socks, cotton shirts with collars, and cotton trousers. Not a perfect fit, but pretty much my size. All the clothes are perfectly plain and design-free, like the whole idea of clothes with patterns never existed. None of them have any makers' labels—so much for any writing there. I exchange my smelly T-shirt for a gray one from the drawer that smells like sunlight and soap.

  A while later—how much later I couldn't say—the girl arrives. She taps lightly on the door and, without waiting for an answer, opens it. The door doesn't have any kind of lock. Her canvas bag is slung over her shoulder. The sky behind her is already light.

  She goes straight to the kitchen and cooks some eggs in a small black frying pan.

  There's a pleasant sizzle as the eggs hit the hot oil, and the fresh cooking smells waft through the room. Meanwhile, she toasts some bread in a squat little toaster that looks like a prop from an old movie. Her clothes and hair are the same as the night before—a light blue dress, hair pinned back. Her skin is so smooth and beautiful, and her slim, porcelain-like arms glisten in the morning sun. Through the open window a tiny bee buzzes in, as if to make the world a little more complete. The girl carries the food over to the table, sits in a chair, and watches me eat the vegetable omelette and buttered toast and drink some herb tea. She doesn't eat or drink anything. The whole thing's a repeat of last night.

  "Don't people here cook their own meals?" I ask her. "I was wondering because you're making meals for me."

  "Some people make their own, others have somebody make meals for them," she replies. "Mostly, though, people here don't eat very much."

  "Really?"

  She nods. "Sometimes they eat. When they want to."

  "You mean no one else eats as much as I do?"

  "Can you get by without eating for one whole day?"

  I shake my head.

  "Folks here often go a whole day without eating, no problem. They actually forget to eat, sometimes for days at a time."

  "I'm not used to things here yet, so I have to eat."

  "I suppose so," she says. "That's why I'm cooking for you."

  I look in her face. "How long will it take for me to get used to this place?"

  "How long?" she parrots, and slowly shakes her head. "I have no idea. It's not a question of time. When that time comes, you'll already be used to it."

  We're sitting across from each other, her hands neatly lined up on the table, palms down. Her ten little resolute fingers are there, real objects before me. Directly across from her, I catch each tiny flutter of her eyelashes, count each blink of her eyes, watch the strands of hair swaying over her forehead. I can't take my eyes off her.

  "That time?" I say.

  "It isn't like you'll cut something out of yourself and throw it away," she says.

  "We don't throw it away—we accept it, inside us."

  "And I'll accept this inside of me?"

  "That's right."

  "And then?" I ask. "After I accept it, then what happens?"

  She inclines her head slightly as she thinks, an utterly natural gesture. The strands of hair sway again. "Then you'll become completely yourself," she says.

  "So you mean up till now I haven't been completely me?"

  "You are totally yourself even now," she says, then thinks it over. "What I mean is a little different. But I can't explain it well."

  "You can't understand until it actually happens?"

  She nods.

  When it gets too painful to watch her anymore, I close my eyes. Then I open them right away, to make sure she's still there. "Is it sort of a communal lifestyle here?"

  She considers this. "Everyone does live together, and share certain things. Like the shower rooms, the electrical station, the market. There are certain simple, unspoken agreements in place, but nothing complicated. Nothing you need to think about, or even put into words. So there isn't anything I need to teach you about how things are done. The most important thing about life here is that people let themselves be absorbed into things. As long as you do that, there won't be any problems."

  "What do you mean by absorbed?"

  "It's like when you're in the forest, you become a seamless part of it. When you're in the rain, you're a part of the rain. When you're in the morning, you're a seamless part of the morning. When you're with me, you become a part of me."

  "When you're wit
h me, then, you're a seamless part of me?"

  "That's true."

  "What does it feel like? To be yourself and part of me at the same time?"

  She looks straight at me and touches her hairpin. "It's very natural. Once you're used to it, it's quite simple. Like flying."

  "You can fly?"

  "Just an example," she says, and smiles. It's a smile without any deep or hidden meaning, a smile for the sake of smiling. "You can't know what flying feels like until you actually do it. It's the same."

  "So it's a natural thing you don't even have to think about?"

  She nods. "Yes, it's quite natural, calm, quiet, something you don't have to think about. It's seamless."

  "Am I asking too many questions?"

  "Not at all," she replies. "I only wish I could explain things better."

  "Do you have memories?"

  Again she shakes her head and rests her hands on the table, this time with the palms faceup. She glances at them expressionlessly.

  "No, I don't. In a place where time isn't important, neither is memory. Of course I remember last night, coming here and making vegetable stew. And you ate it all, didn't you? The day before that I remember a bit of. But anything before that, I don't know. Time has been absorbed inside me, and I can't distinguish between one object and whatever's beside it."

  "So memory isn't so important here?"

  She beams. "That's right. Memory isn't so important here. The library handles memories."

  After the girl leaves, I sit by the window holding my hand out in the morning sun, its shadow falling on the windowsill, a distinct five-finger outline. The bee stops buzzing around and quietly lands above the windowpane. It seems to have some serious thinking to do. And so do I.