The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami
Some weeks later, the woman introduced Nutmeg to yet another woman. This one was in her mid-forties. She was small and had sharp, sunken eyes. The clothing she wore was of exceptionally high quality, but aside from a silver wedding band, she used no accessories. It was clear from the atmosphere she projected that she was no ordinary person. The department store owner’s wife had told Nutmeg, “She wants you to do for her the same thing you did for me. Now, please don’t refuse, and when she gives you money, don’t say anything, just take it. In the long run, it will be an important thing for you—and for me.”
Nutmeg went to an inner room with the woman and placed her palm on the woman’s temple as she had done before. There was a different “something” inside this woman. It was stronger than the one inside the department store owner’s wife, and its movements were more rapid. Nutmeg closed her eyes, held her breath, and tried to quell the movement. She concentrated more strongly and pursued her memories more vividly. Burrowing into the tiniest folds she found there, she sent the warmth of her memories into the “something.”
“And before I knew it, that had become my work,” said Nutmeg. She realized that she had been enfolded by a great flow. And when he grew up, Cinnamon became his mother’s assistant.
The Mystery of the Hanging House: 2
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SETAGAYA, TOKYO: THE PEOPLE OF THE HANGING HOUSE
Famous Politician’s Shadow:
Now You See It, Now You Don’t
Amazing, Ingenious Cloak of Invisibility—
What Secret Is It Hiding?
[From The ——— Weekly, November 21]
————
As first revealed in the October 7 issue of this magazine, there is a house in a quiet Setagaya residential neighborhood known to locals as the “hanging house.” All those who ever lived there have been visited by misfortune and ended their lives in suicide, the majority by hanging.
[Summary of earlier article omitted]
Our investigations have led us to only one solid fact: namely, that there is a brick wall standing at the end of every route we have taken in attempting to learn the identity of the new owner of the “hanging house.” We managed to find the construction company that built the house, but all attempts to get information from them were rejected. The dummy company through which the lot was purchased is legally 100% clean and offers no opening. The whole deal was set up with such clever attention to detail, we can only assume there was some reason for that.
One other thing that aroused our curiosity was the accounting firm that assisted in setting up the dummy company that bought the land. Our investigations have shown us that the firm was established five years ago as a kind of shadow “subcontractor” to an accounting firm well known in political circles. The prominent accounting firm has several of these “subcontractors,” each designed to handle a particular kind of job and to be dropped like a lizard’s tail in case of trouble. The accounting firm itself has never been investigated by the Prosecutor’s Office, but according to a political reporter for a certain major newspaper, “Its name has come up in any number of political scandals, so of course the authorities have their eye on it.” It’s not hard to guess, then, that there is some kind of connection between the new resident of the “hanging house” and some powerful politician. The high walls, the tight security using the latest electronic equipment, the leased black Mercedes, the cleverly set-up dummy company: this kind of know-how suggests to us the involvement of a major political figure.
————
Total Secrecy
Our news team did a survey of the movements into and out of the “hanging house” by the black Mercedes. In one ten-day period, the car made a total of twenty-one visits to the house, or approximately two visits per day. They observed a regular pattern to these visits. First, the car would show up at nine o’clock in the morning and leave at ten-thirty. The driver was very punctual, with no more than five minutes’ variation from day to day. In contrast to the predictability of these morning visits, however, the others were highly irregular. Most were recorded to have occurred between one and three in the afternoon, but the times in and out varied considerably. There was also considerable variation in the length of time the car would remain parked in the compound, from under twenty minutes to a full hour.
These facts have led us to the following suppositions:
1. The car’s regular a.m. visits: These suggest that someone is “commuting” to this house. The identity of the “commuter” is unclear, however, owing to the black tinted glass used all around the car.
2. The car’s irregular p.m. visits: These suggest the arrival of guests and are probably tailored to the guests’ convenience. Whether these “guests” arrive singly or with others is unclear.
3. There seems to be no activity in the house at night. It is also unclear whether or not anyone lives there. From outside the wall, it is impossible to tell if any lights are being used.
One more important point: The only thing to enter or leave the property during our ten-day survey was the black Mercedes: no other cars, no people on foot. Common sense tells us that something strange is going on here. The “someone” living in the house never goes out to shop or to take walks. People arrive and depart exclusively in the large Mercedes with dark-tinted windows. In other words, for some reason, they do not want their faces seen, under any circumstances. What could be the reason for this? Why must they go to so much trouble and expense in order to do what they do in total secrecy?
We might add here that the front gate is the only way in and out of the property. A narrow alley runs behind the lot, but this leads nowhere. The only way into or out of this alley is through someone’s private property. According to the neighbors, none of the residents is presently using the alley, which is no doubt why the house has no gate to the back alley. The only thing there is the towering wall, like huge castle ramparts.
Several times during the ten days, the button on the intercom at the front gate was pushed by people who appeared to be newspaper canvassers or salesmen, but with no response whatever. If there was anyone inside, it is conceivable that a closed-circuit video camera was being used to screen visitors. There were no deliveries of mail or by any of the express services.
For these reasons, the only investigative route left open to us was to tail the Mercedes and determine its destination. Following the shiny, slow-moving car through city traffic was not difficult, but we could get only as far as the entrance to the underground parking lot of a first-class Akasaka hotel. A uniformed guard was stationed there, and the only way in was with a special pass card, so our car was unable to follow the Mercedes inside. This particular hotel is the site of numerous international conferences, which means that many VIPs stay there, as do many famous entertainers from abroad. To ensure their security and privacy, the VIP parking lot is separate from that for ordinary guests, and several elevators have been reserved for VIPs’ exclusive use, with no external indicators of their movements. This makes it possible for these special guests to check in and out unobtrusively. The Mercedes is apparently parked in one of the VIP spaces. According to the hotel management’s brief, carefully measured response to this magazine’s inquiries, these special spaces are “ordinarily” leased at a special rate only to uniquely qualified corporate entities after a “thoroughgoing background check,” but we were unable to obtain any detailed information on either the conditions of use or the users themselves.
The hotel has a shopping arcade, several cafés and restaurants, four wedding halls, and three conference halls, which means that it is in use day and night by a wide variety of people in large numbers. To determine the identities of the passengers in the Mercedes in a place like that would be impossible without special authority. People could alight from the car, take one of the nearby exclusive elevators, get off at any floor they liked, and blend in with the crowd. It should be clear from all this that a system for maintaining absolute secrecy is solidly in place. We can glimpse
[Omitted here: conjectures that the property is being used by a religious organization with the backing of a powerful politician]
Jellyfish from All Around the World
•
Things Metamorphosed
I sit down in front of Cinnamon’s computer at the appointed time and use the password to access the communications program. Then I input the numbers I’ve been given by Ushikawa. It will take five minutes for the circuits to connect. I start sipping the coffee I have prepared and work to steady my breathing. The coffee is tasteless, though, and the air I inhale has a harsh edge to it.
Finally, the computer beeps and a message appears on the screen, informing me that the connection has been made and the computer is ready for two-way communication. I specify that this is to be a collect call. If I am careful to prevent a record of this transaction from being made, I should be able to keep Cinnamon from finding out that I used the computer (though of this I am anything but confident: this is his labyrinth; I am nothing but a powerless stranger here).
A far longer time goes by than I had anticipated, but finally the message appears that the other party has accepted the charges. Beyond this screen, at the far end of the cable that creeps through Tokyo’s underground darkness, may be Kumiko. She, too, should be sitting before a monitor, with her hands on a keyboard. In reality, all I can see is my monitor, which sits there making a faint electronic squeal. I click on the box to choose Send mode and type the words that I have been rehearsing over and over in my brain.
>I have one question for you. It’s not much of a question, but I need proof that it’s really you out there. Here it is: The first time we went out together, long before we were married, we went to the aquarium. I want you to tell me what you were most fascinated to see there.
I click on the symbol for sending the text (I want you to tell me what you were most fascinated to see there. ). Then I switch to Receive mode.
The answer comes back after a short, silent interval. It is a short answer.
>Jellyfish. Jellyfish from all around the world.
My question and the answer to it are lined up on the upper and lower halves of the screen. I stare at them for a while. Jellyfish from all around the world. It has to be Kumiko. The real Kumiko. That very fact, though, serves only to fill me with pain. I feel as if my insides are being ripped out. Why is this the only way that the two of us can talk to each other? I have no choice now but to accept it, though. And so I begin typing.
>Let me start with the good news. The cat came back this spring. All of a sudden. He was kind of emaciated, but he was healthy and unharmed. He’s stayed home ever since. I know I should have consulted with you before I did this, but I gave him a new name. Mackerel. Like the fish. We’re getting along together just fine. This is good news, I guess.
A delay follows. I can’t tell whether it is due to the time lag inherent in this form of communication or a silence on Kumiko’s part.
>I’m so happy to hear the cat is still alive! I was worried about him.
I take a sip of coffee to moisten my now dry mouth. Then I start typing again.
>Now for the bad news. Actually, aside from the fact that the cat is back, it seems that everything else is going to be bad news. First of all, I still haven’t been able to solve any riddles.
I reread what I have written, then continue to type.
First riddle: Where are you now? What are you doing there? Why do you continue to stay away from me? Why don’t you want to see me? Is there some reason for that? I mean, there are so many things that you and I have to talk about face-to-face. Don’t you think so?
It takes her some time to reply to this. I imagine her sitting in front of the keyboard, biting her lip and thinking. Finally, the cursor begins to dart across the screen in response to the movement of her fingers.
>Everything I wanted to say to you I wrote in the letter I sent. What I most want you to understand is that, in many ways, I am no longer the Kumiko you knew. People change for all sorts of reasons, and in some cases the transformation makes them go bad. That is why I don’t want to see you. And that is why I don’t want to come back to you.
The cursor halts and remains blinking in one spot, searching for words. I keep my eyes fixed on it for ten seconds, twenty seconds, waiting for it to form new words on the screen. The transformation makes them go bad?
If possible, I would like you to forget about me as soon as you can. The best thing for both of us would be if you were to complete the formalities for divorce and begin a whole new life. It doesn’t matter where I am now or what I am doing. The most important thing is that, for whatever reason, you and I have already been separated into two entirely different worlds. And there is no way we can ever go back to being what we were. Please try to understand how painful it is for me to be communicating with you like this. You probably can’t imagine how it tears me apart.
I reread Kumiko’s words several times. I find in them no sign of hesitation, no suggestion they come from anything but the deepest, most painful conviction. She has probably rehearsed them in her mind any number of times. But still, I have to find a way to shake this impenetrable wall of hers, if only to make it tremble. I go back to the keyboard.
>What you say is somewhat vague and difficult for me to grasp. You say you’ve gone bad, but what does that mean in concrete terms? I just don’t understand. Tomatoes go bad. Umbrellas go bad. That I can understand. Tomatoes rot and umbrellas get bent out of shape. But what does it mean to say that you have “gone bad”? It doesn’t give me any concrete image. You said in your letter that you had sex with somebody other than me, but could that make you “go bad”? Yes, of course it was a shock to me. But that is a little different from making a human being “go bad,” I would think.
A long pause follows. I begin to worry that Kumiko has disappeared somewhere. But then her letters begin to line up on the screen.
>You may be right, but there is more to it than that.
Another deep silence follows. She is choosing her words carefully, pulling them out of a drawer.
That is just one manifestation. “Going bad” is something that happens over a longer period of time. It was something decided in advance, without me, in a pitch-dark room somewhere, by someone else’s hand. When I met and married you, it seemed to me that I had a whole new set of possibilities. I hoped that I might be able to escape through an opening somewhere. But I guess that was just an illusion. There are signs for everything, which is why I tried so hard to find our cat when he disappeared that time.
I keep staring at the message on the screen, but still no Send mark appears. My own machine is still set to Receive. Kumiko is thinking about what to write next. “Going bad” is something that happens over a longer period of time. What is she trying to tell me? I concentrate my attention on the screen, but all I find there is a kind of invisible wall. Once more the letters begin to line up on the screen.
I want you to think about me this way if you can: that I am slowly dying of an incurable disease—one that causes my face and body gradually to disintegrate. This is just a metaphor, of course. My face and body are not actually disintegrating. But this is something very close to the truth. And that is why I don’t want to show myself to you. I know that a vague metaphor like this is not going to help you understand everything about the situation in which I find myself. I don’t expect it to convince you of the truth of what I am saying. I feel terrible about this, but there is simply nothing more I can sa
An incurable disease.
I check to be sure that I am in the Send mode and start typing.
>If you say you want me to accept your metaphor, I don’t mind accepting it. But there is one thing that I simply cannot understand. Even supposing that you have, as you say, “gone bad” and that you have “an incurable disease,” why of all people did you have to go to Noboru Wataya with it? Why didn’t you stay here with me? Why aren’t we together? Isn’t that what we got married for?
Silence. I can almost feel its weight and hardness in my hands. I fold my hands on the desk and take several deep breaths. Then the answer comes.
>The reason I am here, like it or not, is because this is the proper place for me. This is where I have to be. I have no right to choose otherwise. Even if I wanted to see you, I couldn’t do it. Do you think I DON’T want to see you?
There is a blank moment in which she seems to be holding her breath. Then her fingers start to move again.
So please, don’t torture me about this any longer. If there is any one thing that you can do for me, it would be to forget about my existence as quickly as possible. Take those years that we lived together and push them outside your memory as if they never existed. That, finally, is the best thing you can do for both of us. This is what I truly believe.
To this I reply:
>You say you want me to forget everything. You say you want me to leave you alone. But still, at the same time, from somewhere in this world, you are begging for my help. That voice is faint and distant, but I can hear it distinctly on quiet nights. It IS your voice: I’m sure of that. I can accept the fact that one Kumiko is trying hard to get away from me, and she probably has her reasons for doing so. But there is another Kumiko, who is trying just as hard to get close to me. That is what I truly believe. No matter what you may say to me here, I have to believe in the Kumiko who wants my help and is trying to get close to me. No matter what you tell me, no matter how legitimate your reasons, I can never just forget about you, I can never push the years we spent together out of my mind. I can’t do it because they really happened, they are part of my life, and there is no way I can just erase them. That would be the same as erasing my own self. I have to know what legitimate reason there could be for doing such a thing.