Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

There's a kind of rough path trod down through the forest, mostly following the lay of the land, but improved here and there with a few flat rocks laid down like stepping stones. Places prone to erosion have been neatly buttressed with wooden planks, so that even if the weeds grow over it you can still follow the path. Maybe Oshima's brother worked on the path little by little each time he stayed here. I follow it into the woods, uphill at first, then it goes down and skirts around a high boulder before climbing up again. Overall it's mostly uphill, but not a very tough climb. Tall trees line both sides, with dull-colored trunks, thick branches growing out every which way, dense leaves overhead. The ground is covered with undergrowth and ferns that have managed to soak up as much of the faint light as they can. In places where the sun doesn't reach, moss has silently covered the rocks.

  Like someone excitedly relating a story only to find the words petering out, the path gets narrower the farther I go, the undergrowth taking over. Beyond a certain point it's hard to tell if it's really a path or something that just vaguely resembles one.

  Eventually it's completely swallowed up in a sea of ferns. Maybe the path does continue up ahead, but I decide to save that exploration for next time. I don't have on the right kind of clothes and haven't really prepared for that.

  I come to a halt and turn around. Suddenly nothing looks familiar, there's nothing I can cling to. A tangle of tree trunks ominously blocks the view. It's dim, the air filled with a stagnant green, and not a bird to be heard.

  I'm suddenly covered in goosebumps, but there's nothing to worry about, I tell myself. The path is right over there. As long as I don't lose sight of that I'll be able to return to the light. Eyes glued to the ground, I carefully retrace my steps and, after much longer than it took me to get here, finally arrive back in front of the cabin. The lot is filled with bright, early-summer sunlight, and the clear calls of birds echo as they search for food. Everything's exactly the same as I left it. Or at least I think it is. The chair I was sitting on is still on the porch. The book I was reading is facedown like I left it.

  Now I know exactly how dangerous the forest can be. And I hope I never forget it.

  Just like Crow said, the world's filled with things I don't know about. All the plants and trees there, for instance. I'd never imagined that trees could be so weird and unearthly. I mean, the only plants I've ever really seen or touched till now are the city kind—neatly trimmed and cared-for bushes and trees. But the ones here—the ones living here—are totally different. They have a physical power, their breath grazing any humans who might chance by, their gaze zeroing in on the intruder like they've spotted their prey.

  Like they have some dark, prehistoric, magical powers. Like deep-sea creatures rule the ocean depths, in the forest trees reign supreme. If it wanted to, the forest could reject me—or swallow me up whole. A healthy amount of fear and respect might be a good idea.

  I go back to the cabin, take my compass out of my backpack, and check that the needle's showing north. It might come in handy sometime, so I slip it in my pocket. I go sit on the porch, gaze at the woods, and listen to Cream and Duke Ellington on my Walkman, songs I recorded off a library's collection of CDs. I play "Crossroads" a couple of times. Music helps me calm down, but I can't listen for very long. There's no electricity here and no way to recharge the batteries, so once my extra batteries are dead the music's over for good.

  I work out a bit before dinner. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, handstands, different kinds of stretching exercises—a routine that keeps you in shape without any machines or equipment. Kind of boring, I'll admit, but you get a decent workout. A trainer at the gym taught me the routine. "Prisoners in solitary confinement like this best," he explained, calling it the "world's loneliest workout routine." I focus on what I'm doing and go through a couple of sets, my shirt getting sweaty in the process.

  After a simple dinner I go out on the porch and gaze up at the stars twinkling above, the random scattering of millions of stars. Even in a planetarium you wouldn't find this many. Some of them look really big and distinct, like if you reached your hand out intently you could touch them. The whole thing is breathtaking.

  Not just beautiful, though—the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they're watching me. What I've done up till now, what I'm going to do—they know it all. Nothing gets past their watchful eyes. As I sit there under the shining night sky, again a violent fear takes hold of me. My heart's pounding a mile a minute, and I can barely breathe. All these millions of stars looking down on me, and I've never given them more than a passing thought before. Not just stars—how many other things haven't I noticed in the world, things I know nothing about? I suddenly feel helpless, completely powerless. And I know I'll never outrun that awful feeling.

  Back inside the cabin, I carefully arrange some firewood in the stove, ball up a few sheets of an old newspaper, light it, and make sure the wood catches fire. In grade school I was sent to camp, and learned how to build a fire. I hated camp, but at least one good thing came out of it, I suppose. I open the damper to let the smoke out. It doesn't go well at first, but when a piece of kindling catches the fire spreads to the other sticks. I shut the door on the stove and scrape a chair over in front of it, set a lamp nearby, and pick up where I'd left off in the book. Once the fire's built up a bit I set a kettle of water on top to boil, and after a while the kettle burbles pleasantly.

  Back to Eichmann. Of course his project didn't always go according to plan.

  Conditions at various sites slowed things down. When this happened he acted like a human being—at least a little. He got angry, is what I'm saying. He grew incensed at these uncertain elements that threw his elegant solution into disarray. Trains ran late.

  Bureaucratic red tape held things up. People in charge were replaced, and relations with their successors didn't go well. After the collapse of the Russian front, concentration camp guards were sent there to fight. There were heavy snowfalls. Power outages. Not enough poison gas to go around. Rail lines were bombed. Eichmann hated the war itself—that element of uncertainty that screwed up his plans.

  At his trial he described all this, no emotion showing on his face. His recall was amazing. His life was entirely made up of these details.

  At ten I put the book down, brush my teeth, and wash my face. The fire bathes the room in an orange glow, and the pleasant warmth calms my tension and fear. I snuggle into my sleeping bag dressed only in a T-shirt and boxers. Compared to last night I'm able to shut my eyes easily. Thoughts of Sakura cross my mind.

  "I was thinking how nice it'd be if I was your real sister," she'd said.

  None of that tonight. I've got to get some sleep. A log topples over in the stove, an owl hoots outside. And I topple down into an indistinct dream.

  The next day's the same. Birds wake me up a little after six. I boil some water, make a cup of tea, and have breakfast. Read on the porch, listen to music, go fill up the water pail at the stream. And I walk down the path into the woods, this time carrying my compass, glancing at it every once in a while to get a general idea of where the cabin is.

  I found a hatchet in the shed and use it to chop simple hatch marks on trees. I clear out some of the underbrush to make the path easier to follow.

  Just like yesterday the forest is dark and deep, the towering trees forming a thick wall on both sides. Something of the forest is hiding there, in the darkness between the trees, like some 3-D painting of an animal, watching my every move. But the fear that made me shudder isn't there anymore. I've made my own rules, and by following them I won't get lost. At least I hope not.

  I come to the place where I stopped yesterday and forge on, stepping into the sea of ferns. After a while the path reemerges, and again I'm surrounded by a wall of trees, on whose trunks I hack out some markings as I go. Somewhere in the branches above me a huge bird flaps its wings, but looking up I can't spot it. My mouth is dry.

  I walk on for a while and reach a round sort of clearing.
Surrounded by tall trees, it looks like the bottom of a gigantic well. Sunlight shoots down through the branches like a spotlight illuminating the ground at my feet. The place feels special, somehow. I sit down in the sunlight and let the faint warmth wash over me, taking out a chocolate bar from my pocket and enjoying the sweet taste. Realizing all over again how important sunlight is to human beings, I appreciate each second of that precious light.

  The intense loneliness and helplessness I felt under those millions of stars has vanished.

  But as time passes, the sun's angle shifts and the light disappears. I stand up and retrace the path back to the cabin.

  In the afternoon dark clouds suddenly color the sky a mysterious shade and it starts raining hard, pounding the roof and windows of the cabin. I strip naked and run outside, washing my face with soap and scrubbing myself all over. It feels wonderful. In my joy I shut my eyes and shout out meaningless words as the large raindrops strike me on the cheeks, the eyelids, chest, side, penis, legs, and butt—the stinging pain like a religious initiation or something. Along with the pain there's a feeling of closeness, like for once in my life the world's treating me fairly. I feel elated, as if all of a sudden I've been set free. I face the sky, hands held wide apart, open my mouth wide, and gulp down the falling rain.

  Back inside the hut, I dry off with a towel, sit down on the bed, and look at my penis—a light-colored, healthy, youthful penis. The head still stings a little from the rain.

  For a long while I stare at this strange organ that, most of the time, has a mind of its own and contemplates thoughts not shared by my brain.

  I wonder if Oshima, when he was my age and stayed here, struggled with sexual desire. He must have, but I can't picture him taking care of business on his own. He's too detached, too cool for that.

  "I was different from everybody else," he'd said. I don't know what that means, but I'm sure he wasn't just spouting something off the top of his head. He didn't say it to be mysterious and coy, either.

  I consider jerking off but think better of it. Being pummeled by the rain so hard made me feel strangely purified, and I want to hold on to that sensation a while longer. I pull on some boxers, take a few deep breaths, and start doing squats. A hundred squats later I do a hundred sit-ups. I focus on one muscle group at a time. Once my routine's done, my mind's clear. The rain's stopped, the sun's starting to shine through breaks in the clouds, and the birds have started chirping again.

  But that calm won't last long, you know. It's like beasts that never tire, tracking you everywhere you go. They come out at you deep in the forest. They're tough, relentless, merciless, untiring, and they never give up. You might control yourself now, and not masturbate, but they'll get you in the end, as a wet dream. You might dream about raping your sister, your mother. It's not something you can control. It's a power beyond you—and all you can do is accept it.

  You're afraid of imagination. And even more afraid of dreams. Afraid of the responsibility that begins in dreams. But you have to sleep, and dreams are a part of sleep. When you're awake you can suppress imagination. But you can't suppress dreams.

  I lie down in bed and listen to Prince on my headphones, concentrating on this strangely unceasing music. The batteries run out in the middle of "Little Red Corvette," the music disappearing like it's been swallowed up by quicksand. I yank off my headphones and listen. Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.

  Chapter 16

  The black dog stood up and led Nakata out of the study and down the dark corridor to the kitchen, which had only a couple of windows and was dark. Though it was neat and clean, it had an inert feel, like a science lab in school. The dog stopped in front of the doors of a large refrigerator, turned around, and drilled Nakata with a cold look Open the left door, he said in a low voice. Nakata knew it wasn't the dog talking but Johnnie Walker, speaking to Nakata through him. Looking at Nakata through the dog's eyes.

  Nakata did as he was told. The avocado green refrigerator was taller than he was, and when he opened the left door the thermostat came on with a thump, the motor groaning to life. White vapor, like fog, wafted out. This side of the refrigerator was a freezer, at a very low setting.

  Inside was a row of about twenty round, fruit-like objects, neatly arranged.

  Nothing else. Nakata bent over and looked at them fixedly. When the vapor cleared he saw it wasn't fruit at all but the severed heads of cats. Cut-off heads of all colors and sizes, arranged on three shelves like oranges at a fruit stand. The cats' faces were frozen, facing forward. Nakata gulped.

  Take a good look, the dog commanded. Check with your own eyes whether Goma's in there or not.

  Nakata did this, examining the cats' heads one by one. He didn't feel afraid—his mind focused on finding the missing little cat. Nakata carefully checked each head, confirming that Goma's wasn't among them. No doubt about it—not a single tortoiseshell.

  The faces of the bodyless cats had a strangely vacant expression, not one of them appearing to have suffered. That, at least, brought Nakata a sigh of relief. A few of the cats had their eyes closed, but most were staring out blankly at a point in space.

  "I don't see Goma here," Nakata said in a flat tone. He cleared his throat and shut the refrigerator door.

  Are you absolutely sure?

  "Yes, I'm sure."

  The dog stood up and led Nakata back to the study. Johnnie Walker was still seated in the swivel chair, waiting for him. As Nakata entered, he touched the brim of his silk hat in greeting and smiled pleasantly. Then he clapped his hands loudly, twice, and the dog left the room.

  "I'm the one who cut off all those cats' heads," he said. He lifted his glass of whisky and took a drink. "I'm collecting them."

  "So you're the one who's been catching cats in that vacant lot and killing them."

  "That's right. The infamous cat-killer Johnnie Walker, at your service."

  "Nakata doesn't understand this so well, so do you mind if I ask a question?"

  "Be my guest," Johnnie Walker said, lifting his glass. "Feel free to ask anything. To save time, though, if you don't mind, I can guess that the first thing you want to know is why I have to kill all these cats. Why I'm collecting their heads. Am I right?"

  "Yes, that's right. That's what Nakata wants to know."

  Johnnie Walker set his glass down on the desk and looked straight at Nakata.

  "This is an important secret I wouldn't tell just anybody. For you, Mr. Nakata, I'll make an exception, but I don't want you telling other people. Not that they'd believe you even if you did." He chuckled.

  "Listen—I'm not killing cats just for the fun of it. I'm not so disturbed I find it amusing," he went on. "I'm not just some dilettante with time on his hands. It takes a lot of time and effort to gather and kill this many cats. I'm killing them to collect their souls, which I use to create a special kind of flute. And when I blow that flute it'll let me collect even larger souls. Then I collect larger souls and make an even bigger flute.

  Perhaps in the end I'll be able to make a flute so large it'll rival the universe. But first come the cats. Gathering their souls is the starting point of the whole project. There's an essential order you have to follow in everything. It's a way of showing respect, following everything in the correct order. It's what you need to do when you're dealing with other souls. It's not pineapples and melons I'm working with here, agreed?"

  "Yes," Nakata replied. But actually he had no idea. A flute? Was he talking about a flute you held sideways? Or maybe a recorder? What sort of sound would it make?

  And what did he mean by cats' souls? All of this exceeded his limited powers of comprehension. But Nakata did understand one thing: he had to locate Goma and get her out of here.

  "What you want to do is take Goma home," Johnnie Walker said, as though reading Nakata's mind.

  "That's right. Nakata wants to take Goma back to her home."

  "That's your mission," Johnnie Walker said. "We all follow our mission in
life. That's natural. Now I imagine you've never heard a flute made out of cats' souls, have you?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Of course you haven't. You can't hear it with your ears."

  "It's a flute you can't hear?"

  "Correct. I can hear it, of course," Johnnie Walker said. "If I don't hear it none of this would work. Ordinary people, though, can't detect it. Even if they do hear it, they don't realize it. They may have heard it in the past but don't remember. A very strange flute, for sure. But maybe—just maybe—you might be able to hear it, Mr. Nakata. If I had a flute on me right now we could try it, but I'm afraid I don't." Then, as if recalling something, he pointed one finger straight up. "Actually, I was about to cut off the heads of the cats I've rounded up. Harvest time. I've got all the cats that can be caught in that vacant lot, and it's time to move on. The cat you're looking for, Goma, is among them.

  Of course if I cut her head off, you wouldn't be able to take her home to the Koizumis, now would you?"

  "That's right," Nakata said. He couldn't take back Goma's cut-off head to the Koizumis. If those two little girls saw that they might give up eating forever.

  "I want to cut off Goma's head, but you don't want that to happen. Our two missions, our two interests, conflict. That happens a lot in the world. So I'll tell you what—we'll negotiate. What I mean is, if you do something for me, I'll return the favor and give you Goma safe and sound."

  Nakata lifted a hand above his head and vigorously rubbed his salt-and-pepper hair, his habitual pose when puzzling over something. "Is it something I can do?"

  "I thought we'd already settled that," Johnnie Walker said with a wry smile.

  "Yes, we did," Nakata said, remembering. "That's correct. We did settle that already. Pardon me."

  "We don't have a lot of time, so let me jump to the conclusion, if you don't mind. What you can do for me is kill me. Take my life, in other words."

  Hand resting on the top of his head, Nakata stared at Johnnie Walker for a long time. "You want Nakata to kill you?"