The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami
I had sweated in my sleep, and now the sweat was beginning to grow cold and chill me. I shuddered several times. The sweat made me think of that pitch-dark hotel room and the telephone woman there. Still ringing in my ears were the words she had spoken—every one of them—and the sound of the knocking. My nostrils retained the strangely heavy smell of flowers. And Noboru Wataya was still talking from the other side of the television screen. The memory of these impressions remained, undimmed by the passage of time. And this was because it had not been a dream, my memory told me.
Even after I was fully awake, I continued to feel an intense warmth in my right cheek. Mixed in now with the warmth was a mild sensation of pain, as if the skin had been chafed with rough sandpaper. I pressed my palm against the spot through my one-day stubble, but this did nothing to reduce the heat or the pain. Down in the bottom of the dark well, without a mirror, it was impossible for me to examine what was happening to my cheek.
I reached out and touched the wall, tracing the surface with my fingertips and then pressing my palm against it for a time, but I found nothing unusual: it was just an ordinary concrete wall. I made a fist and gave it a few taps. The wall was hard, expressionless, and slightly damp. I still had a clear impression of the strange, slippery sensation it had given me when I passed through it—like tunneling through a mass of gelatin.
I groped in my knapsack for the canteen and took a drink of water. I had gone a full day now without eating. The thought itself gave me intense hunger pangs, but these began to fade soon enough as they were absorbed into a limbo-like numbness. I brought my hand to my face again and tried to gauge the growth of my beard. My jaw now wore a day’s worth of stubble. No doubt about it: a whole day had gone by. But my one-day absence was probably not having an effect on anybody. Not one human being had noticed that I was gone, likely. I could disappear from the face of the earth, and the world would go on moving without the slightest twinge. Things were tremendously complicated, to be sure, but one thing was clear: no one needed me.
I turned upward again and looked at the stars. The sight of them gradually calmed the beating of my heart. Then it occurred to me to grope along the wall for the ladder. Where it should have been, my hand encountered nothing. I felt over a broad area, checking with the utmost care, but there was no ladder. It no longer existed in the place where it belonged. I took a deep breath, pulled the flashlight from the knapsack, and switched it on. But there was no sign of the ladder. Standing, I shone the light on the floor and then the wall above me, as far as the beam could reach. The ladder was nowhere. Cold sweat crept down my sides like some kind of living creature. The flashlight slipped from my hand, fell to the ground, and switched off from the impact. It was a sign. In that instant, my mind snapped: it was a grain of sand, absorbed into the surrounding darkness. My body stopped functioning, as if its plug had been pulled. A perfect nothingness came over me.
This lasted perhaps a few seconds, until I retrieved myself. My physical functions returned bit by bit. I bent over and picked up the flashlight lying at my feet, gave it a few taps, and switched it on again. The light returned without a problem. I needed to calm myself and put my thoughts in order. Fear and panic would solve nothing. When had I last checked the ladder? Yesterday, late at night, just before I fell asleep. I had made certain it was there and only then let myself sleep. No mistake. The ladder had disappeared while I was sleeping. It had been pulled up. Taken away.
I cut the switch of the flashlight and leaned against the wall. Then I closed my eyes. The first thing I felt was hunger. It swept toward me out of the distance, like a wave, washed over me soundlessly, and glided away. Once it was gone, I stood there, hollow, empty as a gutted animal. After the initial panic had passed, I no longer felt either terror or despair. Strangely enough, all I felt at that moment was a kind of resignation.
•
Back from Sapporo, I held Kumiko and comforted her. She was feeling lost and confused. She had taken the day off from work. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night,” she said. “The clinic had an opening at just the right time, so I went ahead and decided by myself.” She cried a little after saying this.
“It’s finished now,” I said. “No point thinking about it anymore. We talked it over, and this was how it worked out. If there’s anything else you want to talk about, better do it here and now. Then let’s just put it out of our minds. Forget about it. You said on the phone you had something to tell me.”
Kumiko shook her head. “Never mind,” she said. “You’re right. Let’s forget about it.”
We went on with our lives for a while, avoiding all mention of Kumiko’s abortion. But this wasn’t easy to do. We could be talking about something entirely different, when suddenly both of us would fall silent. On weekends, we’d go to movies. In the dark, we might be concentrating on the movie, but we might just as well be thinking about things that had nothing to do with the movie, or we might be resting our brains by thinking about nothing at all. I knew that Kumiko, sitting next to me, was thinking about something else. I could sense it.
After the movie, we’d go somewhere for a beer or a snack. Sometimes we wouldn’t know what to talk about. This went on for six weeks—a very long six weeks, at the end of which Kumiko said to me, “What do you say we take a trip tomorrow, go away for a little vacation, just the two of us? Tomorrow’s Friday: we can take off till Sunday. People need that kind of thing once in a while.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, smiling, “but I wonder if anybody at my office even knows what a vacation is.”
“Call in sick, then. Say it’s flu or something. I’ll do the same.”
We took the train to Karuizawa. I picked that destination because Kumiko said she wanted a quiet place in the mountains where we could walk all we liked. It was off-season there in April; the hotel was hushed, most of the shops were closed, but that was exactly what we wanted. We did nothing but go out for walks every day, from morning to evening.
It took a full day and a half for Kumiko to release her feelings. And once she did, she sat in the hotel room, crying, for nearly two hours. I said nothing the whole time, just held her and let her cry.
Then, little by little, in fragments, she began to tell me things. About the abortion. About her feelings at the time. About her extreme sense of loss. About how alone she had felt while I was in Hokkaido—and how she could have done what she did only while feeling so alone.
“And don’t get me wrong,” she said finally. “I’m not regretting what I did. It was the only way. I’m perfectly clear on that. What really hurts, though, is that I want to tell you everything—absolutely everything—but I just can’t do it. I can’t tell you exactly how I feel.”
Kumiko pushed her hair up, revealing a small, shapely ear, and she gave her head a shake.
“I’m not hiding it from you. I’m planning to tell you sometime. You’re the only one I can tell. But I just can’t do it now. I can’t put it into words.”
“Something from the past?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Take all the time you need,” I said. “Until you’re ready. Time is the one thing we’ve got plenty of. I’ll be right here with you. There’s no rush. I just want you to keep one thing in mind: Anything of yours—anything at all, as long as it belongs to you—I will accept as my own. That is one thing you will never have to worry about.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m so glad I married you.”
But we did not have all the time I thought we had. Exactly what was it that Kumiko had been unable to put into words? Did it have something to do with her disappearance? Maybe, if I had tried dragging it out of her then, I could have avoided losing her now. But no, I concluded after mulling it over: I could never have forced her. She had said she couldn’t put it into words. Whatever it was, it was more than she had the strength for.
•
“Hey, down there! Mr. Wind-Up Bird!” shouted May Kasahara. In a shallow sleep at the time, I th
“I’m here,” I said.
“What on earth for? What are you doing down there?”
“Thinking,” I said.
“I don’t get it. Why do you have to go to the bottom of a well to think? It must be such a pain in the butt!”
“This way, you can really concentrate. It’s dark and cool and quiet.”
“Do you do this a lot?”
“No, not a lot. I’ve never done it before in my life—getting into a well like this.”
“Is it working? Is it helping you to think?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m still experimenting.”
She cleared her throat. The sound reverberated loudly to the bottom of the well.
“Anyway, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, did you notice the ladder’s gone?”
“Sure did,” I said. “A little while ago.”
“Did you know it was me who pulled it up?”
“No, that I didn’t know.”
“Well, who did you think did it?”
“I didn’t know,” I said honestly. “I don’t know how to put this, but that thought never really crossed my mind—that somebody took it. I thought it just disappeared, to tell you the truth.”
May Kasahara fell silent. Then, with a note of caution in her voice, as if she thought my words contained some kind of trap for her, she said, “Just disappeared. Hmm. What do you mean, ‘it just disappeared’? That, all by itself, it … just … disappeared?”
“Maybe so.”
“You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, it’s kinda funny for me to bring this up now, but you’re pretty weird. There aren’t too many people out there as weird as you are. Did you know that?”
“I’m not so weird to me,” I said.
“Then what makes you think that ladders can just disappear?”
I rubbed my face with both hands and tried to concentrate all my attention on this conversation with May Kasahara. “You pulled it up, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. It doesn’t take much brainwork to figure that one out. I did it. I sneaked out in the night and pulled the ladder up.”
“But why?”
“Why not? Do you know how many times I went to your house yesterday? I wanted you to go to work with me again. You weren’t there, of course. Then I found that note of yours in the kitchen. So I waited a really long time, but you never came back. So then I thought just maybe you might be at the empty house again. I found the well cover half open and the ladder hanging down. Still, it never occurred to me you might be down there. I just figured some workman or somebody had been there and left his ladder. I mean, how many people go to sit in the bottom of a well when they want to think?”
“You’ve got a point there,” I said.
“Anyhow, so then I sneaked out at night and went to your place, but you still weren’t there. That’s when it popped into my mind. That maybe you were down in the well. Not that I had any idea what you’d be doing down there, but you know, like I said, you’re kinda weird. I came to the well and pulled the ladder up. Bet that gotcha goin’.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Do you have anything to eat or drink down there?”
“A little water. I didn’t bring any food. I’ve got three lemon drops, though.”
“How long have you been down there?”
“Since late yesterday morning.”
“You must be hungry.”
“I guess so.”
“Don’t you have to pee or anything?”
Now that she had mentioned it, I realized I hadn’t peed once since coming down here. “Not really,” I said. “I’m not eating or drinking much.”
“Say, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you know what? You might die down there, depending on my mood. I’m the only one who knows you’re in there, and I’m the one who hid the rope ladder. Do you realize that? If I just walked away from here, you’d end up dead. You could yell, but no one would hear you. No one would think you were at the bottom of a well. I bet no one would even notice that you were gone. You don’t work for any company, and your wife ran away. I suppose someone would notice eventually that you were missing and report it to the police, but you’d be dead by then, and they’d never find your body.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I could die down here, depending on your mood.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Scared,” I said.
“You don’t sound scared.”
I was still rubbing my cheeks. These were my hands and my cheeks. I couldn’t see them in the dark, but they were still here: my body still existed. “That’s because it hasn’t really hit home with me,” I said.
“Well, it has with me,” said May Kasahara. “I bet it’s a lot easier to kill somebody than people think.”
“Probably depends on the method.”
“It’d be so easy! I’d just have to leave you there. I wouldn’t have to do a thing. Think about it, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. Just imagine how much you’d suffer, dying little by little, of hunger and thirst, down in the darkness. It wouldn’t be easy.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
“You don’t really believe me, do you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? You think I couldn’t do anything so cruel.”
“I don’t really know,” I said. “It’s not that I believe you could do it, or that I believe you couldn’t do it. Anything could happen. The possibility is there. That’s what I think.”
“I’m not talking about possibility,” she said in the coldest tone imaginable. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. It just occurred to me. You went to all the trouble of climbing down there so you could think. Why don’t I fix it so you can concentrate on your thoughts even better?”
“How can you do that?” I asked.
“How? Like this,” she said, closing the open half of the well cover. Now the darkness was total.
May Kasahara on Death and Evolution
•
The Thing Made Elsewhere
I was crouching down in the total darkness. All I could see was nothingness. And I was part of this nothingness. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of my heart, to the sound of the blood circulating through my body, to the bellows-like contractions of my lungs, to the slippery undulations of my food-starved gut. In the deep darkness, every movement, every throb, was magnified enormously. This was my body: my flesh. But in the darkness, it was all too raw and physical.
Soon my conscious mind began to slip away from my physical body.
I saw myself as the wind-up bird, flying through the summer sky, lighting on the branch of a huge tree somewhere, winding the world’s spring. If there really was no more wind-up bird, someone would have to take on its duties. Someone would have to wind the world’s spring in its place. Otherwise, the spring would run down and the delicately functioning system would grind to a halt. The only one who seemed to have noticed that the wind-up bird was gone, however, was me.
I tried my best to imitate the cry of the wind-up bird in the back of my throat. It didn’t work. All I could produce was a meaningless, ugly sound like the rubbing together of two meaningless, ugly things. Only the real wind-up bird could make the sound. Only the wind-up bird could wind the world’s spring the way it was supposed to be wound.
Still, as a voiceless wind-up bird unable to wind the world’s spring, I decided to go flying through the summer sky—which turned out to be fairly easy. Once you were up, all you had to do was flap your wings at the right angle to adjust direction and altitude. My body mastered the art in a moment and sent me flying effortlessly wherever I wanted to go. I looked at the world from the wind-up bird’s vantage point. Whenever I had had enough flying, I would light on a tree branch and peer through the green leaves at rooftops and roadways. I watched people moving over the ground, carrying on the functions of life. Unfortunately, th
For a long time—how long could it have been?—I remained the wind-up bird. But being the wind-up bird never got me anywhere. The flying part was fun, of course, but I couldn’t go on having fun forever. There was something I had to accomplish down here in the darkness at the bottom of the well. I stopped being the wind-up bird and returned to being myself.
•
May Kasahara paid her second visit a little after three. Three in the afternoon. When she opened half the well, light flooded in overhead—the blinding glare of a summer day. To protect my eyes, so accustomed now to total darkness, I closed them and kept my head down for a while. The mere thought of light up there caused a thin film of tears to ooze.
“Hi there, Mr. Wind-Up Bird,” said May Kasahara. “Are you still alive? Mr. Wind-Up Bird? Answer if you’re still alive.”
“I’m alive,” I said.
“You must be hungry.”
“I think so.”
“Still just ‘I think so’? It’ll be a while before you starve to death, then. Starving people don’t die so easily, as long as they’ve got water.”
“That’s probably true,” I said, the uncertainty in my voice echoing in the well. The echo probably amplified any hint of anything contained in the voice.
“I know it’s true,” said May Kasahara. “I did a little research in the library this morning. All about hunger and thirst. Did you know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, somebody once lived underground for twenty-one days? During the Russian Revolution.”
“No kidding,” I said.
“He must have suffered a lot.”