Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

  "The police said you were a troublemaker at school. There were some violent incidents involving you and your classmates. And you were suspended three times."

  "Twice, not three times. And I wasn't suspended, just officially grounded," I explain. I breathe in deeply, then slowly breathe out. "I have times like that, yeah."

  "You can't control yourself," Oshima says.

  I nod.

  "And you hurt other people?"

  "I don't mean to. But it's like there's somebody else living inside me. And when I come to, I find out I've hurt somebody."

  "Hurt them how much?" Oshima asks.

  I sigh. "Nothing major. No broken bones or missing teeth or anything."

  Oshima sits down on the bed, crosses his legs, and brushes his hair off his forehead. He's wearing navy blue chinos, a black polo shirt, and white Adidas. "Seems to me you have a lot of issues you've got to deal with."

  A lot of issues. I look up. "Don't you have any?"

  Oshima holds his hands in the air. "Not all that many. But there is one thing. For me, inside this physical body—this defective container—the most important job is surviving from one day to the next. It could be simple, or very hard. It all depends on how you look at it. Either way, even if things go well, that's not some great achievement. Nobody's going to give me a standing ovation or anything."

  I bite my lip for a while, then ask, "Don't you ever think about getting out of that container?"

  "You mean leaving my physical body?"

  I nod.

  "Symbolically? Or for real?"

  "Either one."

  Oshima flips his hair back with a hand. I can picture the gears going full speed just below the surface of his pale forehead. "Are you thinking you'd like to do that?"

  I take a breath. "Oshima, to tell you the unvarnished truth, I don't like the container I'm stuck in. Never have. I hate it, in fact. My face, my hands, my blood, my genes... I hate everything I inherited from my parents. I'd like nothing better than to escape it all, like running away from home."

  He gazes into my face and smiles. "You have a nice, muscular body. No matter who you inherited it from, you're quite handsome. Well, maybe a little too unique to be called handsome, exactly. But you're not bad looking. At least I like the way you look.

  You're smart, you're quick. You've got a nice cock, too. I envy you that. You're going to have tons of girls fall for you, guaranteed. So I can't see what you're dissatisfied with about your container."

  I blush.

  "Okay, I guess that's all beside the point," Oshima continues. "I'm not crazy about the container I'm in, that's for sure. How could I be—this crummy piece of work? It's pretty inconvenient, I can tell you. Still, inside here, this is what I think: If we reverse the outer shell and the essence—in other words, consider the outer shell the essence and the essence only the shell—our lives might be a whole lot easier to understand."

  I stare at my hands, thinking about all that blood on them, how sticky they felt. I think about my own essence, my own shell. The essence of me, surrounded by the shell that's me. But these thoughts are driven away by one indelible image: all that blood.

  "How about Miss Saeki?" I ask.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You think she has issues to overcome?"

  "You'd better ask her yourself," Oshima says.

  At two I take a cup of coffee on a tray up to Miss Saeki's room, where she's sitting at her desk. Like always there's writing paper and a fountain pen on the desk, but the pen is still capped. Both hands resting on the desk, she's staring off into space. Not like she's looking at anything, just gazing at a place that isn't there. She seems tired. The window behind her is open, the early summer breeze rustling the white lace curtain. The scene looks like some beautiful allegorical painting.

  "Thank you," she says when I put the coffee cup on her desk.

  "You look a little tired."

  She nods. "I imagine I look a lot older when I get tired."

  "Not at all. You look wonderful, like always."

  She smiles. "For someone so young, you certainly know how to flatter a woman."

  My face reddens.

  Miss Saeki points to a chair. The same chair as yesterday, in exactly the same position. I take a seat.

  "I'm used to being tired, but I don't imagine you are."

  "I guess not."

  "When I was fifteen I wasn't either, of course." She picks up the coffee cup and takes a sip. "Kafka, what can you see outside?"

  I look out the window behind her. "I see trees, the sky, and some clouds. Some birds on tree branches."

  "Nothing out of the ordinary. Right?"

  "That's right."

  "But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn't it?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Have you ever thought about that?"

  "I have."

  A surprised look comes over her. "When?"

  "When I'm in love," I tell her.

  She smiles faintly, and it continues to hover around her lips. This puts me in mind of how refreshing water looks after someone's sprinkled it in a tiny hollow outside on a summer day.

  "Are you in love?" she asks.

  "Yes."

  "And her face and whole being are special and precious to you, each time you see her?"

  "That's right. And I might lose those."

  Miss Saeki looks at me for a while, and the smile fades away. "Picture a bird perched on a thin branch," she says. "The branch sways in the wind, and each time this happens the bird's field of vision shifts. You know what I mean?"

  I nod.

  "When that happens, how do you think the bird adjusts?"

  I shake my head. "I don't know."

  "It bobs its head up and down, making up for the sway of the branch. Take a good look at birds the next time it's windy. I spend a lot of time looking out that window.

  Don't you think that kind of life would be tiring? Always shifting your head every time the branch you're on sways?"

  "I do."

  "Birds are used to it. It comes naturally to them. They don't have to think about it, they just do it. So it's not as tiring as we imagine. But I'm a human being, not a bird, so sometimes it does get tiring."

  "You're on a branch somewhere?"

  "In a manner of speaking," she says. "And sometimes the wind blows pretty hard." She places the cup back on the saucer and takes the cap off her fountain pen.

  This is my signal, so I stand up. "Miss Saeki, there's something I've got to ask you."

  "Something personal?"

  "Yes. And maybe out of line, too."

  "But it's important?"

  "For me it is."

  She puts the pen back on the desk, and her eyes fill with a kind of neutral glow.

  "All right. Go ahead."

  "Do you have any chidlren?"

  She takes in a breath and pauses. The expression on her face slowly retreats somewhere far away, then comes back. Kind of like a parade that disappears down a street, then marches back up the same street toward you again.

  "Why do you want to know that?"

  "It's personal. It's not just some spur-of-the-moment question."

  She lifts up her Mont Blanc like she's testing the thickness and heft of it, then sets it on the desk and looks up. "I'm sorry, but I can't give you a yes or no answer. At least right now. I'm tired, and there's a strong wind blowing."

  I nod. "Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

  "It's all right. I'm not blaming you," she says gently. "Thank you for the coffee. You make excellent coffee."

  I leave and go back down the stairs to my room. I sit on my bed and try to read, but nothing seems to filter into my head. I feel like I'm gazing at some table of random numbers, just following the words with my eyes. I put my book down, go over to the window, and look at the garden. There are birds on some of the branches, but no wind to speak of. Am I in love with Miss Sae
ki when she was fifteen? Or with the real, fifty-something Miss Saeki upstairs? I don't know anymore. The boundary line separating the two has started to waver, to fade, and I can't focus. And that confuses me. I close my eyes and try to find some center inside to hold on to.

  But you know, she's right. Every single day, each time I see her face, see her, it's utterly precious.

  Chapter 28

  For a man his age Colonel Sanders was light on his feet, and so fast that he resembled a veteran speed walker. And he seemed to know every nook and cranny of the city. He took short cuts up dark, narrow staircases, turning sideways to squeeze through the narrow passages between houses. He leaped over a ditch, hushing a barking dog behind a hedge with a short command. Like some restless spirit searching for its home, his small white-suited figure raced through the back alleys of the town. It was all Hoshino could do to keep up. He was soon out of breath, his armpits soaked. Colonel Sanders never once looked back to see if he was following.

  "Hey, are we almost there?" Hoshino finally called out impatiently.

  "What are you talking about, young fellow? I wouldn't even call this a walk,"

  Colonel Sanders replied, still not turning around.

  "Yeah, but I'm a customer, remember? What's going to happen to my sex drive if I'm all pooped out?"

  "What a disgrace! And you call yourself a man? If a little walk's going to kill your desire, you might as well not have any from the beginning."

  "Jeez," Hoshino muttered.

  Colonel Sanders cut across another side street, crossed a main road, oblivious to the traffic light, and continued walking. He strode over a bridge and ducked into a shrine.

  A fairly big shrine, by the looks of it, but it was late and no one else was around.

  Colonel Sanders pointed to a bench in front of the shrine office, indicating that Hoshino should take a seat. A mercury lamp was next to the bench, and everything was as bright as day. Hoshino did as he was told, and Colonel Sanders sat down next to him.

  "You're not going to make me do it here, are you?" Hoshino asked worriedly.

  "Don't be an idiot. We're not like those deer that hang around the famous shrines and go at it. I'm not about to have you do it in a shrine. Who do you think I am, anyway?" Then he extracted a silver cell phone from his pocket and punched in a three-digit number. "Yeah, it's me," he said when the other person answered. "The usual place.

  The shrine. I've got a young man named Hoshino here with me. That's right... the same as usual. Yes, I got it. Just get here as soon as you can." He switched off the phone and slipped it back into the pocket of his white suit.

  "Do you always call up the girls from this shrine?" Hoshino asked.

  "Anything wrong with that?"

  "No, not really. I was just thinking there's got to be a better place. Someplace more... normal? A coffee shop, or maybe have me wait in a hotel room?"

  "A shrine's quiet. And the air's crisp and clean."

  "True, but waiting for a girl on a bench in front of a shrine office—it's hard to relax. I feel like I'm going to fall under the spell of one of those fox spirits or something."

  "What are you talking about? You're not making fun of Shikoku now, are you? Takamatsu's a proper city—the prefectural capital, in fact. Not some hick town. We don't have any foxes here."

  "Okay, okay, just kidding.... But you're in the service industry, so I was just thinking you'd better worry more about creating an atmosphere, you know what I'm saying? Something luxurious, to get you in the mood. I don't know, maybe it's none of my business."

  "You're right. It isn't," Colonel Sanders intoned. "Now about that stone..."

  "Right! The stone... Tell me about it."

  "After you do the deed. Then we talk."

  "Doing the deed's important, huh?"

  Colonel Sanders nodded gravely a couple of times, and tugged at his goatee.

  "That's right. It's a formality you have to go through. Then we'll talk about the stone. I know you're going to like this girl. She's our top girl. Luscious breasts, skin like silk. A nice, curvy waist, hot and wet right where you like it, a regular sex machine. To use a car metaphor, she's four-wheel drive in bed, turbocharged desire, step on the gas, the surging gearshift in her hands, you round the corner, she shifts gears ecstatically, you race out in the passing lane, and bang! You're there—Hoshino's dead and gone to heaven."

  "You're quite a character, you know that?" Hoshino said admiringly.

  "Like I said, I'm not in this business for my health."

  Fifteen minutes later the girl arrived, and Colonel Sanders was right—she was a knockout. Tight miniskirt, black high heels, a small black-enamel shoulder bag. She could easily have been a model. Generous breasts, too, spilling out of her low-cut top.

  "Will she do?" Colonel Sanders asked.

  Hoshino was too stunned to reply, and just nodded.

  "A veritable sex machine, Hoshino. Have yourself a ball," Colonel Sanders said, smiling for the first time. He gave Hoshino a pinch on the rump.

  The girl took Hoshino to a nearby love hotel, where she filled up the bathtub, quickly slipped out of her clothes, and then undressed him. She washed him carefully all over, then commenced to lick him, sliding into a totally artistic act of fellatio, doing things to him he'd never seen or heard of in his life. He couldn't think of anything else but coming, and come he did.

  "Man alive, that was fantastic. I've never felt like that," Hoshino said, languidly sinking back in the hot tub.

  "That's just the beginning," the girl said. "Wait till you see what's next."

  "Yeah, but man that was good."

  "How good?"

  "Like there's no past or future anymore."

  "The pure present is an ungraspable advance of the past devouring the future. In truth, all sensation is already memory."

  Hoshino looked up, mouth half open, and gazed at her face. "What's that?"

  "Henri Bergson," she replied, licking the semen from the tip of his penis. "Mame mo memelay."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Matter and Memory. You ever read it?"

  "I don't think so," Hoshino replied after a moment's thought. Except for the special SDF driver's manual he was forced to study—and the books on Shikoku history he'd just gone through at the library—he couldn't remember reading anything except manga.

  "Have you read it?"

  The girl nodded. "I had to. I'm majoring in philosophy in college, and we have exams coming up."

  "You don't say," Hoshino said. "So this is a part-time job?"

  "To help pay tuition."

  She took him over to the bed, stroked him all over with her fingertips and tongue, getting another erection out of him. A firm hard-on, a Tower of Pisa at carnival time.

  "See, you're ready to go again," the girl remarked, slowly segueing into her next set of motions. "Any special requests? Something you'd like me to do? Mr. Sanders asked me to make sure you got everything you want."

  "I can't think of anything special, but could you quote some more of that philosophy stuff? I don't know why, but it might keep me from coming so quick. Otherwise I'll lose it pretty fast."

  "Let's see.... This is pretty old, but how about some Hegel?"

  "Whatever."

  "I recommend Hegel. He's sort of out of date, but definitely an oldie but goodie."

  "Sounds good to me."

  "At the same time that 'I' am the content of a relation, 'I' am also that which does the relating."

  "Hmm..."

  "Hegel believed that a person is not merely conscious of self and object as separate entities, but through the projection of the self via the mediation of the object is volitionally able to gain a deeper understanding of the self. All of which constitutes self-consciousness."

  "I don't know what the heck you're talking about."

  "Well, think of what I'm doing to you right now. For me I'm the self, and you're the object. For you, of course, it's the exact opposite—you're the self to you and I'm the o
bject. And by exchanging self and object, we can project ourselves onto the other and gain self-consciousness. Volitionally."

  "I still don't get it, but it sure feels good."

  "That's the whole idea," the girl said.

  Afterward he said good-bye to the girl and returned to the shrine, where Colonel Sanders was sitting on the bench just as he'd left him.

  "You been waiting here the whole time?" Hoshino asked.

  Colonel Sanders shook his head irritably. "Don't be a moron. Do I really look like I have that much time on my hands? While you were sailing off to heaven, I was working the back alleys again. She called me when you finished, and I rushed over. So, how was our little sex machine? Pretty good, I'll bet."

  "She was great. No complaints by me. I got off three times. Volitionally speaking. I must've lost five pounds."

  "Glad to hear it. Now, about the stone..."

  "Right, that's what I came here for."

  "Actually, the stone's in the woods right here in this shrine."

  "We're talking about the entrance stone?"

  "That's right. The entrance stone."

  "Are you sure you're not just making this up?"

  Colonel Sanders's head shot up. "What are you talking about, you dingbat? Have I ever lied to you? Do I just make up things? I told you I'd get you a supple young sex machine, and I kept my end of the bargain. At a bargain-basement price, too—only $120, and you were brazen enough to shoot off three times, no less. All that and you still doubt me?"

  "Don't blow a fuse! Of course I believe you. It's just that when things are going along a little too smoothly, I get a bit suspicious, that's all. I mean, think about it—I'm walking along and a guy in a funny getup calls out to me, tells me he knows where to find the stone, then I go with him and get off with this drop-dead-gorgeous babe."

  "Three times, you mean."

  "Whatever. So I get off three times, and then you tell me the stone I'm looking for is right over there? That would confuse anybody."

  "You still don't get it, do you? We're talking about a revelation here," Colonel Sanders said, clicking his tongue. "A revelation leaps over the borders of the everyday. A life without revelation is no life at all. What you need to do is move from reason that observes to reason that acts. That's what's critical. Do you have any idea what I'm talking about, you gold-plated whale of a dunce?"