Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
"That's right," Johnnie Walker said. "Truthfully, I'm sick and tired of this life. I've lived a long, long time. I don't even remember how old I am. And I don't feel like living any longer. I'm sick and tired of killing cats, but as long as I live that's what I have to do—murder one cat after another and harvest their souls. Following things in the correct order, step one to step ten, then back to one again. An endless repetition. And I've had it!
Nobody respects what I'm doing, it doesn't make anybody happy. But the whole thing's all fixed already. I can't just suddenly say I quit and stop what I'm doing. And taking my own life isn't an option. That's already been decided too. There're all sorts of rules involved. If I want to die, I have to get somebody else to kill me. That's where you come in. I want you to fear me, to hate me with a passion—and then terminate me. First you fear me. Then you hate me. And finally you kill me."
"But why—why ask me? Nakata's never ever killed anyone before. It's not the kind of thing I'm suited for."
"I know. You've never killed anyone, and don't want to. But listen to me—there are times in life when those kinds of excuses don't cut it anymore. Situations when nobody cares whether you're suited for the task at hand or not. I need you to understand that. For instance, it happens in war. Do you know what war is?"
"Yes, I do. There was a big war going on when Nakata was born. I heard about it."
"When a war starts people are forced to become soldiers. They carry guns and go to the front lines and have to kill soldiers on the other side. As many as they possibly can. Nobody cares whether you like killing other people or not. It's just something you have to do. Otherwise you're the one who gets killed." Johnnie Walker pointed his index finger at Nakata's chest. "Bang!" he said. "Human history in a nutshell."
"Is the Governor going to make Nakata a soldier and order me to kill people?"
"Yes, that's what the Governor will do. Tell you to kill somebody."
Nakata thought about this but couldn't quite figure it out. Why in the world would the Governor do that?
"You've got to look at it this way: this is war. You're a soldier, and you have to make a decision. Either I kill the cats or you kill me. One or the other. You need to make a choice right here and now. This might seem an outrageous choice, but consider this: most choices we make in life are equally outrageous." Johnnie Walker lightly touched his silk hat, as if making sure it was still in place.
"The one saving grace for you here—if indeed you need such a thing—is the fact that I want to die. I've asked you to kill me, so you don't need to suffer any pangs of conscience. You're doing exactly what I'm hoping for. It's not like you're killing somebody who doesn't want to die. In fact, you're doing a good deed."
Nakata wiped away the beads of sweat that had formed on his hairline. "But there's no way Nakata could do something like that. Even if you tell me to kill you, I don't know how to go about it."
"I hear you," Johnnie Walker said admiringly. "You've never killed anybody before, so you don't know how to go about it. All right then, let me explain. The knack to killing someone, Mr. Nakata, is not to hesitate. Focus your prejudice and execute it swiftly—that's the ticket when it comes to killing. I have an excellent example right here. It's not a person, but it might help you get the picture."
Johnnie Walker stood up and picked up a large leather case from the shadows below the desk. He placed it on the chair where he'd been sitting and opened it, whistling a cheery tune. As if performing a magic trick, he extracted a cat from out of the case. Nakata had never seen this cat before, a gray-striped male that had just reached adulthood. The cat was limp, but its eyes were open. It looked conscious, though only barely. Still whistling his merry tune—"Heigh-Ho" from Disney's Snow White, the one the Seven Dwarves sang—Johnnie Walker held up the cat like he was showing off a fish he'd just caught.
"I've got five cats inside this case, all from that vacant lot. A fresh batch. Just picked, fresh from the grove, so to speak. I've given them all injections to paralyze them. It's not an anesthetic—they're not asleep and they can feel pain, but they can't move their arms or legs. Or even their heads. I do this to keep them from thrashing about. What I'm going to do is slice open their chests with a knife, extract their still-beating hearts, and cut their heads off. Right in front of your eyes. There'll be lots of blood, and unimaginable pain. Imagine how much it'd hurt if somebody cut open your chest and pulled out your heart! Same thing holds true for cats—it's got to hurt. I feel sorry for the poor little things. I'm not some cold, cruel sadist, but there's nothing I can do about it. There has to be pain. That's the rule. Rules everywhere you look here." He winked at Nakata. "A job's a job. Got to accomplish your mission. I'm going to dispose of one cat after another, and finish off Goma last. So you still have some time to decide what you should do. Remember, now—it's either I kill the cats or you kill me. There's no other choice."
Johnnie Walker placed the limp cat on top of the desk, opened a drawer, and with both hands extracted a large black package. He carefully unwrapped it and spread out the contents on the desk. These included a small electric saw, scalpels of various sizes, and a very large knife, all of them gleaming like they'd just been sharpened. Johnnie Walker lovingly checked each and every blade as he lined them up on the desk. Next he got several metal trays from another drawer and arranged them, too, on the desk. Then he took a large black plastic bag from a drawer. All the while whistling "Heigh-Ho."
"As I mentioned, Mr. Nakata, in everything there's a proper order," Johnnie Walker said. "You can't look too far ahead. Do that and you'll lose sight of what you're doing and stumble. I'm not saying you should focus solely on details right in front of you, mind you. You've got to look ahead a bit or else you'll bump into something. You've got to follow the proper order and at the same time keep an eye out for what's ahead. That's critical, no matter what you're doing."
Johnnie Walker narrowed his eyes and gently stroked the cat's head. He ran the tip of his index finger up and down the cat's belly, then picked up a scalpel in his right hand and without any warning made an incision straight down the stomach. It all happened in an instant. The belly split wide open and reddish guts spilled out. The cat tried to scream but barely made any sound at all. His tongue, after all, was numb, and he could hardly open his mouth. But his eyes were contorted in terrible pain. And Nakata could well imagine how awful this pain was. A moment later blood gushed out, wetting Johnnie Walker's hands and running down his vest. But he didn't pay attention. Still to the accompaniment of "Heigh-Ho," he thrust his hand inside the cat's body and with a small scalpel skillfully cut loose the tiny heart.
He placed the gory lump on his palm and held it out for Nakata to see. "Take a peek. It's still beating."
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he popped the heart into his mouth and began chewing silently, leisurely savoring the taste. His eyes glistened like a child enjoying a pastry hot from the oven.
He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and carefully licked his lips clean. "Fresh and warm. And still beating in my mouth."
Nakata stared at the scene before him without a word. He couldn't look away. The smell of fresh blood filled the room.
Still whistling his jolly tune, Johnnie Walker sawed the cat's head off. The teeth of the saw crunched through the bone and severed it. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. The neck bone wasn't very thick, so the whole operation was quickly finished. But the sound had a strange weight to it. Johnnie Walker lovingly placed the severed head on the metal tray. As if relishing a work of art, he narrowed his eyes and gazed at it intently. He stopped whistling for a second, extracted something stuck between his teeth with a fingernail, popped it in his mouth and carefully tasted it, then smacked his lips, satisfied, and gulped it down. Next he opened the black plastic bag and casually tossed in the dead cat's body like some useless shell.
"One down," Johnnie Walker said, spreading his bloody hands in front of Nakata.
"A bit of work, don't you think? You can enjoy a nice fresh heart, but look how bloody you get. No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red. A line from Macbeth. This isn't as bad as Macbeth, but you wouldn't believe the dry-cleaning bills. This is a special outfit, after all. I should wear a surgical gown and gloves, but I can't. Another rule, I'm afraid."
Nakata didn't say a word, though something was beginning to stir in his mind.
The room smelled of blood, and strains of "Heigh-Ho" rang in his ears.
Johnnie Walker pulled out the next cat from his bag, a white female, not so young, with the tip of her tail bent a little. As before, he stroked the cat's head for a while, then leisurely traced an invisible line down her stomach. He picked up a scalpel and again made a quick cut to open up the chest. The rest was the same as before. The silent scream, the convulsing body, guts spilling out. Pulling out the bloody heart, showing it to Nakata, popping it in his mouth, chewing it slowly. The satisfied smile. Wiping the blood away with the back of his hand. All with "Heigh-Ho" as background music.
Nakata sank back in his chair and closed his eyes. He held his head in his hands, the fingertips digging into his temples. Something was definitely rising up within him, a horrible confusion transforming his very being. He was breathing rapidly, and a sharp pain throbbed in his neck. His vision was changing drastically.
"Mr. Nakata," Johnnie Walker said brightly, "don't poop out on me yet. We're just getting to the main event. That was just the opening act, a mere warm-up. Now we're getting to the lineup you know. So open your eyes wide and take a good long look. This is the best part! I hope you'll appreciate how hard I've tried to make this entertaining for you."
Whistling his tune, he took out the next cat. Sunk in his chair, Nakata opened his eyes and looked at the next victim. His mind was a complete blank, and he couldn't even stand up.
"I believe you already know each other," Johnnie Walker said, "but I'll do the honors anyway. Mr. Nakata, this is Mr. Kawamura. Mr. Kawamura, Mr. Nakata."
Johnnie Walker tipped his hat in a theatrical gesture, greeting first Nakata, then the paralyzed cat.
"Now that you've said hello, I'm afraid we move right into farewells. Hello, good-bye. Like flowers scattered in a storm, man's life is one long farewell, as they say." He gave Kawamura's soft stomach a gentle caress. "Now's the time to stop me if you're going to, Mr. Nakata. Time's ticking away, and I won't hesitate. In the dictionary of the infamous cat-killer Johnnie Walker, hesitate is one word you won't find."
And indeed without any hesitation at all he slit open Kawamura's belly. This time the scream was audible. Maybe the cat's tongue hadn't been fully paralyzed, or perhaps it was a special kind of scream that only Nakata could hear. An awful, bloodcurdling scream. Nakata closed his eyes and held his trembling head in his hands.
"You have to look!" Johnnie Walker commanded. "That's another one of our rules. Closing your eyes isn't going to change anything. Nothing's going to disappear just because you can't see what's going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes. That's the kind of world we live in, Mr. Nakata. Keep your eyes wide open. Only a coward closes his eyes. Closing your eyes and plugging up your ears won't make time stand still."
Nakata did as he was told and opened his eyes.
Once he was sure they were open, Johnnie Walker made a show of devouring Kawamura's heart, taking more time than before to savor it. "It's soft and warm. Just like fresh eel liver," Johnnie Walker commented. He then lifted a bloody index finger to his mouth and sucked it. "Once you've acquired a taste for this, you get hooked. Especially the sticky blood."
He wiped the blood off the scalpel, whistling cheerily as always, and sawed off Kawamura's head. The fine teeth of the blade cut through the bone and blood spurted out everywhere.
"Please, Mr. Walker, Nakata can't stand it anymore!"
Johnnie Walker stopped whistling. He halted his work and scratched an earlobe.
"That won't fly, Mr. Nakata. I'm sorry you feel bad, I really am, but I can't just say, Okay, will do, and call this off. I told you. This is war. It's hard to stop a war once it starts. Once the sword is drawn, blood's going to be spilled. This doesn't have anything to do with theory or logic, or even my ego. It's just a rule, pure and simple. If you don't want any more cats to be killed, you've got to kill me. Stand up, focus your hatred, and strike me down. And you've got to do it now. Do that and it's all over. End of story."
Johnnie Walker started whistling again. He finished cutting off Kawamura's head and tossed the headless body into the garbage bag. Now there were three heads lined up on the metal tray. They'd suffered such agony, yet their faces were as strangely vacant as those of the cats lined up in the freezer.
"Next comes the Siamese." Johnnie Walker said this and then extracted a limp Siamese from his bag—which of course turned out to be Mimi. "So now we come to little 'Mi Chiamano Mimi.' The Puccini opera. This little cat really does have that elegant coquetry, doesn't she? I'm a big Puccini fan, myself. Puccini's music is kind of—what should I call it?—eternally antagonistic to the times. Mere popular entertainment, you might argue, but it never gets old. Quite an artistic accomplishment."
He whistled a bar from "Mi Chiamano Mimi."
"But I have to tell you, Mr. Nakata, it took some doing to catch Mimi. She's clever and cautious, very quick on the draw. Not the type to get suckered into anything. One tough customer. But the cat that can elude Johnnie Walker, the matchless cat-killer, has yet to be born. Not that I'm bragging or anything, I'm just trying to convey how hard it was to nab her.... At any rate, voilà! Your friend Mimi! Siamese are my absolute favorites. You're not aware of this, but a Siamese cat's heart is a real gem. Sort of like truffles. It's okay, Mimi. Never fear—Johnnie Walker's here! Ready to enjoy your warm, cute little heart. Ah—you're trembling!"
"Johnnie Walker." From deep inside himself Nakata managed to force out the words in a low voice. "Please, stop it. If you don't, Nakata's going to go crazy. I don't feel like myself anymore."
Johnnie Walker laid Mimi down on the desk and as always let his fingers slowly crawl along her belly. "So you're no longer yourself," he said carefully and quietly.
"That's very important, Mr. Nakata. A person not being himself anymore." He picked up a scapel he hadn't used yet and tested its sharpness with the tip of his finger. Then, as if doing a trial cut, he ran the blade along the back of his hand. A moment later blood oozed up, dripping onto the desk and Mimi's body. Johnnie Walker chuckled. "A person's not being himself anymore," he repeated. "You're no longer yourself. That's the ticket, Mr. Nakata. Wonderful! The most important thing of all. O, full of scorpions is my mind! Macbeth again."
Without a word, Nakata stood up. No one, not even Nakata himself, could stop him. With long strides he walked over to the desk and grabbed what looked like a steak knife. Grasping the wooden handle firmly, he plunged the blade into Johnnie Walker's stomach, piercing the black vest, then stabbed again in another spot. He could hear something, a loud sound, and at first didn't know what it was. But then he understood.
Johnnie Walker was laughing. Stabbed in the stomach and chest, his blood spouting out, he continued to laugh.
"That's the stuff!" he yelled. "You didn't hesitate. Well done!" Laughing like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. Soon though, his laughter turned into a sob. The blood gurgling in his throat sounded like a drain coming unplugged. A terrible convulsion wracked his body, and blood gushed out of his mouth along with dark, slimy lumps—the hearts of the cats he'd eaten. The blood spewed over the desk, onto Nakata's golf shirt. Both men were drenched in blood. Mimi, too, lying on the desk, was soaked with it.
Johnnie Walker collapsed at Nakata's feet. He was on his side, curled up like a child on a cold night, and was unmistakably dead. His left hand was pressed against his throat, his right thrust straight out as though reaching for something. The convulsions had ceased and, of course, the
Nakata dropped the knife and it clattered on the floor as loudly as the gear of some large machine clanking away in the distance. Nakata stood next to the body for a long time. Everything in the room had come to a standstill. Only the blood continued, silently, to flow, the puddle slowly spreading across the floor.
Finally, Nakata pulled himself together and gathered Mimi up from the desk.
Warm and limp in his hands, she was covered in blood but apparently unharmed. Mimi looked up as if trying to tell him something, but the drug kept her mouth from moving.
Nakata then found Goma inside the case and lifted her out. He'd only seen photos of her, but felt a wave of nostalgia like he was meeting a long-lost friend. "Goma...," he murmured. Holding the two cats, Nakata sat down on the sofa. "Let's go home," he told them, but he couldn't stand up.
The black dog had appeared from somewhere and sat down next to his dead master. He might have lapped at the pool of blood, but Nakata couldn't remember for sure. His head felt heavy and dim, and he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His mind began to fade and, before he knew it, sank down into the darkness.
Chapter 17
It's my third night in the cabin. With each passing day I've gotten more used to the silence and how incredibly dark it is. The night doesn't scare me anymore—or at least not as much. I fill the stove with firewood, settle down in front of it, and read. When I get tired, I just space out and stare at the flames. I never grow tired of looking at them. They come in all shapes and colors, and move around like living things—they are born, connect up, part company, and die.