1q84 by Haruki Murakami
After the morning rush, almost no one came in or out of the building. The children’s lively voices had disappeared. Ushikawa laid aside the remote control for the shutter, leaned against the wall, smoked a cigarette, and kept an eye on the entrance through a gap in the curtain. As always, just after ten a.m., the mailman came on his small red motorcycle and adeptly sorted the mail into all the boxes. From what Ushikawa could make out, half of it was junk mail, stuff that would be tossed away, unopened. As the sun rose higher, the temperature went up, and most of the people along the street took off their coats.
It was after eleven when Fuka-Eri appeared at the entrance to the building. She wore the same black turtleneck as before, a gray short coat, jeans, sneakers, and dark sunglasses. And an oversized green shoulder bag slung diagonally across her shoulder. The bag was bulging with, no doubt, all sorts of things. Ushikawa left the wall he was leaning against, went over to the camera on the tripod, and squinted through the viewfinder.
The girl was leaving there, that much he understood. She had stuffed all her belongings in that bag and was setting off for somewhere else. She would never be back there again. He could sense it. Maybe she decided to leave here, he thought, because she noticed I was staking out the place. The thought made his heart race.
As she stepped out of the entrance, she came to a halt and stared up at the sky like she had done before, searching for something among the tangle of electric lines and the transformers. Her sunglasses caught the light and glittered. Had she found what she was looking for? Or maybe not? He couldn’t read her expression through the sunglasses. She must have stood there, frozen, for a good thirty seconds, gazing up at the sky. Then, almost as an afterthought, she turned her head and looked straight at the window behind which Ushikawa was hiding. She took off her sunglasses and stuck them in a coat pocket. She frowned and focused her gaze right on the camouflaged telephoto lens. She knows, Ushikawa thought once again. The girl knows I’m hiding in here, that she’s being secretly watched. And she was looking at him in the opposite direction, watching Ushikawa through the lens and back through the viewfinder. Like water flowing backward though a curved pipe. Ushikawa felt the flesh crawl on both his arms.
Fuka-Eri blinked every few moments. Like independent, silent living creatures, her eyelids slowly went up and down in a studied way. Nothing else moved. She stood there like some lofty bird with neck twisted, staring straight at Ushikawa. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from her. It felt as if the entire world had come to a momentary halt. There was no wind, and sounds no longer made the air vibrate.
Finally Fuka-Eri stopped looking at him. She raised her head again and gazed up at the sky, as she had done a moment before. This time, though, she stopped after a couple of seconds. Her expression was unchanged. She took the dark sunglasses out of her pocket, put them on again, and headed toward the street. She walked with a smooth, unhesitant stride.
I should go out and follow her. Tengo isn’t back yet, and I have the time to find out where she’s going. It couldn’t hurt to find out where she’s moving to. But somehow Ushikawa couldn’t stand up from the floor. His body was numb. That sharp gaze she had sent through the viewfinder had robbed him of the strength he needed to take action.
It’s okay, Ushikawa told himself as he sat there on the floor. Aomame is the one I have to locate. Eriko Fukada is a fascinating girl, but she’s not my main priority here. She’s just a supporting actress. If she’s leaving, why not just let her go?
Once on the main street, Fuka-Eri hurried off toward the station. She didn’t look back. Through the gap in the sun-bleached curtains, Ushikawa watched as she went. Once the green shoulder bag, swinging back and forth, disappeared from view, he practically crawled away from the camera and leaned against the wall again, waiting for his strength to return. He took out a Seven Stars, lit it, and inhaled the smoke deeply. But the cigarette was tasteless.
His strength didn’t return. His arms and legs still felt numb. He suddenly realized a strange space had formed inside him, a kind of pure hollow. This space signified a simple lack, a nothingness. Ushikawa sat there in the midst of this unknown void, unable to rise. He felt a dull pain in his chest—not exactly pain, but more like the difference in air pressure at the point where the material and the immaterial meet.
He sat for a long time at the bottom of that void, leaning against the wall, smoking tasteless cigarettes. When that girl left, she left behind this void. No, maybe not. Maybe she just showed me something that was already there, inside me.
Ushikawa knew that Eriko Fukada had literally shaken him to his core. Her unwavering, pointed gaze shook him not only physically, but to the center of his being, like someone who had fallen passionately in love. He had never felt this way before in his life.
No, that can’t be right, he thought. Why should I be in love with that girl? We have to be the most ill-matched pair one could possibly imagine. He didn’t need to check himself out in the mirror to confirm this. But it wasn’t just about looks. In every possible aspect, he decided, no one is further removed from her than me. Sexually, he wasn’t attracted to her. As far as sexual desire was concerned, a couple of times a month Ushikawa called a prostitute he knew, and that was enough. Call her up, have her over to a hotel room, and have sex—like going to the barber.
It had to be something on a more spiritual level, Ushikawa concluded. It was hard to accept, but Ushikawa and that lovely girl had—while staring at each other through opposite ends of the camouflaged telephoto lens—reached a kind of understanding that emanated from the deepest, darkest recesses of their beings. It had happened in an instant, yet they had laid bare their very souls. And then she had gone off, leaving Ushikawa behind, alone in this void.
The girl knew I was secretly observing her through this telephoto lens, and she must have known, too, that I followed her to the supermarket near the station. She never looked back even once then, but she definitely knew I was there. But he hadn’t seen any criticism in her eyes. Ushikawa felt that somehow, in some far-off, deep place, she had understood him.
The girl had shown up, then left. We came from different directions, our paths happened to cross, our eyes met for an instant, then we moved off in different directions once more. I probably won’t ever run across Eriko Fukada again.
Leaning against the wall, Ushikawa looked through the gap in the curtain and watched people coming and going. Maybe Fuka-Eri would come back. Maybe she would remember something important she had left back in the apartment. But she didn’t. She had made up her mind to move on to somewhere else, and she would never return.
Ushikawa spent the afternoon feeling deeply powerless. This sense of impotence was formless, weightless. His blood moved slowly, sluggishly, through his veins. It was as if his vision were covered by a fine mist, while the joints in his arms and legs felt creaky and dull. When he shut his eyes, the ache of her gaze stabbed at his ribs, the ache rolling in and out like gentle waves at the shore, rolling in again, then receding. Sometimes the pain was so great it made him wince. At the same time, though, Ushikawa realized it gave him a warm feeling, like nothing he had ever experienced.
His wife and two daughters, his snug little house with a lawn in Chuorinkan—they had never made him feel this warm. He had always had something like a clod of frozen dirt stuck in his heart—a hard, cold core he had always lived with. He had never even felt it as cold. For him this was the normal temperature. Even so, Fuka-Eri’s gaze had, if even for a moment, melted that icy core. And it brought on the dull ache. The warmth and the pain came as a pair, and unless he accepted the pain, he wouldn’t feel the warmth. It was a kind of trade-off.
In a little sunny spot, Ushikawa experienced the pain and the warmth simultaneously. Quietly, without moving a muscle. It was a calm, peaceful winter’s day. People on the street passed through the delicate sunshine as they strolled by, but the sun was steadily moving west, hidden in the shadow of the building, and the little pool of sunlight he was in soon disap
Ushikawa sighed deeply and reluctantly peeled himself away from the wall. His body still had a lingering numbness, but not enough to stop him from moving about the room. He finally rose to his feet, stretched his limbs, and moved his short, thick neck around to work out the kinks. He balled his fists, then stretched out his fingers, again and again. Then he got down on the tatami and did his usual stretching exercises. All his joints crackled dully, and his muscles slowly regained their normal suppleness.
It was now the time of day when people came back from work and school. I need to continue to keep a watch over them, he told himself. This isn’t a question of whether I want to or not, or whether it’s the right thing to do. Once I start something, I have to see it through.
Ushikawa sat down again behind the camera. It was completely dark outside now, and the light at the entrance had come on. It must be on a timer, he thought. Like nameless birds returning to their shabby nests, people stepped into the entrance. Tengo Kawana wasn’t among them, but Ushikawa figured he would be back before long. He couldn’t take care of his sick father forever. Most likely he would be back in Tokyo before the new week started, so he could return to work. Within a few days—or maybe even today or tomorrow.
I may well be just a cheerless, grubby little creature, a bug on the damp underside of a rock. So be it—I’ll be the first to admit it. But I’m a relentlessly capable, patient, tenacious bug. I don’t give up easily. Once I get ahold of a clue, I pursue it to the bitter end. I’ll climb up the highest wall you’ve got. I have to get back that cold core inside me. Right now, that’s exactly what I need.
Ushikawa rubbed his hands together in front of the camera, and checked to make sure all ten fingers were working properly.
There are lots of things ordinary people can do that I can’t. That’s for sure. Playing tennis, skiing, for instance. Working in a company, having a happy family. On the other hand, there are a few things I can do that most other people can’t. And I do these few things very, very well. I’m not expecting applause or for people to shower me with coins. But I do need to show the world what I’m capable of.
At nine thirty Ushikawa ended his surveillance for the day. He heated a can of chicken soup over the portable stove and carefully sipped it with a spoon. He ate two cold rolls, then polished off an apple, peel and all. He peed, brushed his teeth, spread out his sleeping bag, stripped down to his underwear, and snuggled inside. He zipped the bag up to his neck and curled up like a bug.
And thus Ushikawa’s day was over. It hadn’t been a very productive day. All he had been able to do was watch Fuka-Eri exit the building with all her belongings. He didn’t know where she had gone. Somewhere, but where? Inside the sleeping bag he shook his head. Wherever she went, it didn’t concern him. After a time his frozen body warmed up, his mind faded, and he fell into a deep sleep. Once more, the tiny frozen core occupied a solid place in his soul.
Nothing much happened the next day. Two days later was Saturday, another warm, peaceful day. Most people slept in during the morning. Ushikawa, though, sat by the window, listening to a tiny radio—the news, traffic updates, the weather report.
Just before ten a large crow flew up and stood at the empty front steps of the building. The crow looked around meticulously, moving its head a few times like it was nodding. It bobbed its thick large beak up and down, its brilliant black feathers glistening in the sunlight. The mailman pulled up on his small red motorcycle and the crow reluctantly spread its wings wide and flew off. As it flew away it squawked once. After the mailman had sorted all the mail into the mailboxes and left, a flock of sparrows twittered over. They bustled around the entrance but found nothing worthwhile and flew away. Next it was a striped cat’s turn. He had on a flea collar and probably belonged to a neighbor. Ushikawa had never seen the cat before. The cat peed in the dried-up flower bed, sniffed the result, and—apparently displeased with what it found—twitched its whiskers, as if it were bored. Tail up, it disappeared behind the building.
In the morning several residents exited the building. From the way they were dressed, it looked like they were going out for a relaxed day, or going shopping in the neighborhood—one or the other. Ushikawa knew almost all their faces by now, but he had not a speck of interest in their personalities or private lives. He never even tried to imagine them.
Your own lives are surely very important to each one of you. Very precious to you. I get it. But to me they don’t matter one way or the other. To me, you’re just flimsy paper dolls walking across a stage. There’s only one thing I’m asking of all of you—remain paper dolls and don’t interfere with my job here.
“Isn’t that right, Mrs. Pear?” He had given the woman currently passing this nickname, because she was pear shaped with a huge rear end. “You’re just a cutout paper doll. You’re not real. Do you realize that? Though you are a bit on the chunky side for a paper doll.”
As he thought this, though, everything in the scene before him began to seem meaningless, to not matter one way or the other. Maybe the scene in front of him didn’t exist in the first place. Maybe he was the one being deceived, by cutout people who didn’t really exist. Ushikawa grew uneasy. Being locked up in this empty apartment, day after day, spying on people, must be getting to him—something that would definitely get on a person’s nerves. He decided to verbalize his thoughts, to pull himself out of this funk.
“G’morning, there, Long Ears,” he said, looking through the viewfinder and addressing a tall, thin old man. The tips of the old man’s ears stuck out like horns from beneath his white hair. “Out for a walk? Walking’s good for you. It’s nice out today, so have a good time. I would love to take a walk and stretch my limbs a bit, but I’m stuck here keeping watch over this crummy entrance day after day.”
The old man had on a cardigan and wool trousers, and had excellent posture. He would look perfect taking a faithful white dog out for a walk, but pets weren’t allowed in the building. Once the old man was gone, Ushikawa was suddenly struck by a sense of impotence. This surveillance is going to end up being a waste of time, he decided. My intuition is worthless, and all the hours I’ve spent in this vacant room are leading me exactly nowhere. All I have to show for it is a set of frayed nerves, worn away like the bald head of a Jizo statue that passing children rub for good luck.
After twelve Ushikawa ate an apple and some cheese and crackers, and a rice ball with pickled plum inside. He then leaned back against the wall and fell asleep. It was a short, dreamless sleep, yet when he awoke he couldn’t remember where he was. His memory was a perfectly square, perfectly empty box. The only thing in the box was empty space. Ushikawa gazed around the space. He found it wasn’t just a void, but a dim room—empty, cold, without a stick of furniture. He didn’t recognize the place. There was an apple core on an unfolded newspaper next to him. Ushikawa felt confused. Why am I in such a weird place?
Finally it came to him, and he remembered what he had been doing: staking out the entrance to Tengo’s apartment. That’s right. That’s why I have this single-lens reflex Minolta with a telephoto lens. He remembered the old man with white hair and long ears out for a walk alone. Like birds flying home to their nests at twilight, memories gradually returned to the empty box. And two solid facts emerged:
1 Eriko Fukada has left.
2 Tengo Kawana hasn’t come back yet.
No one was in Tengo Kawana’s third-floor apartment. The curtains were drawn, and silence enveloped the deserted space. Other than the compressor of the fridge switching on from time to time, nothing disturbed the silence. Ushikawa let his imagination wander over the scene. Imagining a deserted room was a lot like imagining the world after death. Suddenly he remembered the NHK fee collector and his obsessive knocking. He had kept constant watch but never saw any trace that this mysterious man had left the building. Could he be a resident here? Or was it someone who lived here who liked
Tengo Kawana showed up at the entrance to the apartment building just before four that afternoon. He wore an old windbreaker with the collar turned up, a navy-blue baseball cap, and a travel bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t pause at the entrance, didn’t glance around, and went straight inside. Ushikawa’s mind was still a bit foggy, but he couldn’t miss that large figure.
“Welcome back, Mr. Kawana,” Ushikawa muttered aloud, and snapped three photos with the motor-drive camera. “How’s your father doing? You must be exhausted. Please rest up. Nice to come home, isn’t it, even to a miserable place like this. By the way, Eriko Fukada moved out, with all her belongings, while you were gone.”
But his voice didn’t reach Tengo. He was just muttering to himself. Ushikawa glanced at his watch and wrote a memo in his notebook. 3:56 p.m., Tengo Kawana back home from trip.
At the same moment that Tengo appeared at the entrance, a door somewhere opened wide and Ushikawa felt reality returning. Like air rushing into a vacuum, his nerves were instantly sharp, his body filled with a fresh vitality. He was again a useful part of the outside world. There was a satisfying click as things fell into place. His circulation sped up, and just the right amount of adrenaline surged through his body. Good, this is how it should be. This is the way I’m supposed to be, the way the world is supposed to be.