Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
He'd know what to do with the stone. Him you could always count on for some warmhearted, practical advice. But no matter how long he stared at the phone, it just sat there, a silent, unnecessarily introspective object. Nobody knocked on the door, not a single letter arrived. And nothing out of the ordinary happened. The weather stayed the same, and no flashes of inspiration struck him. One expressionless moment after another ticked by. Noon came and went, the afternoon quietly reeling into twilight. The hands of the electric clock on the wall skimmed smoothly over the surface of time like a whirligig beetle, and on the bed Mr. Nakata was still dead. Hoshino didn't feel hungry at all. He had a third can of Pepsi and dutifully munched on some crackers.
At six p. m. he sat down on the sofa, picked up the remote, and switched on the TV. He watched the NHK evening news, but nothing caught his attention. It had been an ordinary day, a slow news day. The announcer's voice started to grate on his nerves, and when the program was over he turned off the TV. It was getting darker outside, and finally night took over. An even greater stillness and quiet enveloped the room.
"Hey, Gramps," Hoshino said to Nakata. "Could you get up, just for a few minutes? I don't know what the hell to do. And I miss your voice."
Naturally Nakata didn't reply. He was still on the other side of the divide.
Wordlessly he continued as he was, dead. The silence grew deeper, so deep that if you listened carefully you might very well catch the sound of the earth revolving on its axis.
Hoshino went out to the living room and put on the Archduke Trio. As he listened to the first theme, tears came to his eyes, then the floodgates opened. Jeez, he thought, when was the last time I cried? He couldn't remember.
Chapter 45
As advertised, the path from the "entrance" on is hard to follow. Actually, it's pretty much given up on trying to be a path. The farther we go, the deeper and more enormous the forest gets. The slope gets a whole lot steeper, the ground more overgrown with bushes and undergrowth. The sky has just about disappeared, and it's so dim that it seems like twilight. Thick spiderwebs loom up all over the place, and the air's thick with the smell of plants. The silence gets even deeper, like the forest is trying to reject this invasion of its territory by human beings. The soldiers, rifles slung across their backs, seem oblivious as they easily cut through openings in the thick foliage. They're amazingly fast as they slip past the low-hanging branches, clamber up rocks, leap over hollows, neatly avoiding all the thorns.
I scramble to keep up and not lose sight of them as they forge on ahead. They never check to see if I'm still there. It's like they're testing me, to see how much I can handle. I don't know why, but it almost feels like they're angry with me. They don't say a word, not just to me but to each other. They're totally focused on walking. Without a word between them, they take turns in the lead. The black barrels of the rifles on their backs swing back and forth in front of me, as regular as a metronome. The whole thing starts to get hypnotic after a while. My mind starts to wander, like it's slipping on ice, to somewhere else. But I still have to focus on keeping up with their relentless pace, so I march on, the sweat pouring off me now.
"We going too fast for you?" the brawny soldier finally turns around and asks.
He's not out of breath at all.
"No, I'm fine," I tell him. "I'm hanging in there."
"You're young, and look like you're in good shape," the tall one comments without looking around.
"We know this path real well, so sometimes we speed up too much," the brawny one explains. "So tell me if we're going too fast. Don't be shy, okay? Just say the word and we'll slow down. But understand we don't want to go any slower than we have to. You know what I'm saying?"
"I'll let you know if I can't keep up," I tell him, forcing myself not to breathe too hard, so they won't have any idea how tired this is making me. "Do we have far to go?"
"No, not really," the tall one answers.
"We're almost there," the other one adds.
I'm not sure I really believe him. Like they said, time's not much of a factor here.
So we walk on for a while without talking, at a less blistering pace than before. It seems like they've finished testing me.
"Are there any poisonous snakes in this forest?" I ask, since it's been worrying me.
"Poisonous snakes, eh?" the tall one with the glasses says without turning around.
He never turns around when he talks, always facing forward like something absolutely critical's about to leap out in front of us at any moment. "I never thought about it."
"Could be," the brawny one says, turning to look at me. "I haven't seen any, but there might be some. Not that it matters even if there are."
"What we're trying to say," the tall one adds casually, "is that the forest isn't out to harm you."
"So you don't need to worry about snakes or anything," the brawny one says.
"Feel better now?"
"Yes," I reply.
"No other here—poisonous snakes or mushrooms, venomous spiders or insects—is going to do you any harm," the tall soldier says, as always without turning around.
"Other?" I ask. I can't get a mental picture of what he means. I must be tired.
"An other, no other thing," he says. "No thing's going to harm you here. We're in the deepest part of the forest, after all. And no one—not even yourself—is going to hurt you."
I try to figure out what he means. But what with the exhaustion, sweat, and hypnotic effect of this repetitive journey through the woods, my brain can't form a coherent thought.
"When we were soldiers they used to force us to practice ripping open the enemy's stomach with a bayonet," the brawny one says. "You know the best way to stab someone with a bayonet?"
"No," I reply.
"Well, first you stab your bayonet deep into his belly, then you twist it sideways. That rips the guts to ribbons. Then the guy dies a horrible, slow, painful death. But if you just stab without twisting, then your enemy can jump up and rip your guts to shreds. That's the kind of world we were in."
Guts. Oshima told me once that intestines are a metaphor for a labyrinth. My head's full of all kinds of thoughts, all intertwined and tangled. I can't tell the difference between one thing and another.
"Do you know why people have to do such cruel things like that to other people?" the tall soldier asks.
"I have no idea," I reply.
"Neither do I," he says. "I don't care who the enemy is—Chinese soldiers, Russians, Americans. I never wanted to rip open their guts. But that's the kind of world we lived in, and that's why we ran away. Don't get me wrong, the two of us weren't cowards. We were actually pretty good soldiers. We just couldn't put up with that rush to violence. I don't imagine you're a coward, either."
"I really don't know," I answer honestly. "But I've always tried to get stronger."
"That's very important," the brawny one says, turning in my direction again.
"Very important—to do your best to get stronger."
"I can tell you're pretty strong," the tall one says. "Most kids your age wouldn't make it this far."
"Yeah, it is pretty impressive," the brawny one pipes in.
The two of them come to a halt at this point. The tall soldier takes off his glasses, rubs the sides of his nose a couple of times, then puts his glasses on again. Neither one's out of breath or has even worked up a sweat.
"Thirsty?" the tall one asks me.
"A little," I reply. Actually, my canteen gone along with my daypack, I'm dying of thirst. He unhooks the canteen from his waist and hands it to me. I take a few gulps of the lukewarm water. The liquid quenches every pore of my body. I wipe the mouth of the canteen off and hand it back. "Thanks," I say. The tall soldier nods silently.
"We've reached the ridge," the brawny soldier says.
"We're going to go straight to the bottom without stopping, so watch your footing," the tall one says.
I follow them carefully down the tricky, slipper
The whole place is a basin neatly carved out of the natural contours of the land.
How many people might be living there I have no idea, but there can't be many—the place isn't big enough. There're a couple of roads, with buildings here and there along either side. Small roads, and equally small buildings. Nobody's out on the roads. The buildings are all expressionless, built less for beauty than to withstand the elements. The place is too small to be called a town. There aren't any shops as far as I can tell. No signs or bulletin boards. It's like a bunch of buildings, all the same size and shape, just happened to come together to make up a little community. None of the buildings have gardens, and not a single tree lines the roads. Like with the forest all around there's no need for any extra plants or trees.
A faint breeze is cutting through the woods, making the leaves of the trees around me tremble. That anonymous rustling forms ripples on the folds of my mind. I rest a hand against a tree trunk and close my eyes. Those ripples seem to be a sign, a signal of some sort, but it's like a foreign language I can't decipher. I give up, open my eyes, and gaze out again at this brand-new world before me. Standing there halfway down the slope, staring down at this place with two soldiers, I feel those ripples shifting inside me.
These signs reconfigure themselves, the metaphors transform, and I'm drifting away, away from myself. I'm a butterfly, flitting along the edges of creation. Beyond the edge of the world there's a space where emptiness and substance neatly overlap, where past and future form a continuous, endless loop. And hovering about there are signs no one has ever read, chords no one has ever heard.
I try to calm my ragged breathing. My heart still isn't back in one piece, but at least I'm not afraid.
Without a word the soldiers start walking again, and silently I follow along. As we go farther down the slope, the town draws closer. I see a small stream running alongside a road, with a stone wall as an embankment. The beautiful clear water gurgles pleasantly. Everything here is simple, and cozy. Slim poles with wires strung between them dot the area, which means they must have electricity. Electricity? Out here?
The place is surrounded by a high, green ridge. The sky's still a mass of gray clouds. The soldiers and I walk down the road but don't pass a single person.
Everything's completely still, not a sound to be heard. Maybe they're all shut up inside their homes, holding their breath, waiting for us to go.
My companions take me to one of the dwellings. Strange thing is, it's the same size and shape as Oshima's cabin. Like one was the model for the other. There's a porch out front, and a chair. The building has a flat roof with a stovepipe sticking out the top.
There's a plain single bed in the bedroom, all neatly made up. The only differences are that the bedroom and living room are separate from each other, and there's a toilet inside and the place has electricity. There's even a fridge in the kitchen, a small, old-fashioned model. A light hangs down from the ceiling. And there's a TV. A TV?
"For the time being, you're supposed to stay here till you get settled," the brawny soldier says. "It won't be for that long. For the time being."
"Like I said before, time isn't much of a factor here," the tall one says.
The other one nods in agreement. "Not a factor at all."
"Where could the electricity be coming from?"
They look at each other.
"There's a small wind-power station farther on in the forest," the tall one explains.
"The wind's always blowing there. Gotta have electricity, right?"
"No electricity and you can't use the fridge," the brawny one says. "No fridge and you can't keep food for long."
"You'd manage somehow without it," the tall one says. "Though it sure is a nice thing to have."
"If you get hungry," the brawny one adds, "help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. There isn't much, I'm afraid."
"There's no meat here, no fish, coffee, or liquor," the tall one says. "It's hard at first, but you'll get used to it."
"But you do have eggs and cheese and milk," the brawny soldier says. "Gotta have your protein, right?"
"They don't make those other things here," the tall one explains, "so you have to go somewhere else to get them. And swap something for them."
"Somewhere else?"
The tall one nods. "That's right. We're not cut off from the world here. There is a somewhere else. It might take a while, but you'll understand."
"Someone will be along in the evening to make dinner for you," the brawny soldier says. "If you get bored before then, you can watch TV."
"They have shows on the TV?"
"Well, I don't know what's on," the tall one replies, a bit flustered. He tilts his head and looks at his companion.
His brawny friend tilts his head too, a doubtful look on his face. "To be honest with you, I don't know much about TV. I've never watched it."
"They put the TV there for people who've just come here," the tall one says.
"But you should be able to watch something," the brawny one says.
"Just rest up for a while," the tall one says. "We have to get back to our post."
"Thanks for bringing me here."
"No problem," the brawny one says. "You have much stronger legs than the others we've brought here. Lots of people can't keep up. Some we even have to carry on our backs. So you were one of the easy ones."
"If memory serves," the tall soldier says, "you said there's somebody you want to see here."
"That's right."
"I'm sure you'll meet whoever that is before long," he says, nodding a couple of times for emphasis. "It's a small world here."
"I hope you get used to it soon," the brawny soldier says.
"Once you get used to it, the rest is easy," the tall soldier adds.
"I really appreciate it."
The two of them stand at attention and salute, then shoulder their rifles and leave, walking quickly down the road back toward their post. They must guard the entrance there day and night.
I go to the kitchen and check out what's in the fridge. There are some tomatoes, a chunk of cheese, eggs, carrots, turnips even, and a large porcelain jug of milk. Butter, too. A loaf of bread's on a shelf, and I tear off a piece and taste it. A little hard, but not bad.
The kitchen has a sink and a faucet. I turn the faucet and water comes out, clear and cold. Since they have electricity, they must pump water up from a well. I fill up a cup and drink it.
I go over to the window and look outside. The sky's still covered with gray clouds, though it doesn't look like it's going to rain anytime soon. I stare out the window a long time but still don't see any sign of other people. It's like the town's dead. Or else for some reason everybody's trying to avoid me.
I walk away from the window and sit down in a hard, straight-backed wooden chair. There're three chairs altogether, and a square dining table that's been varnished a number of times. Nothing at all's hanging on the plaster walls, no paintings, no photos, not even a calendar. Just pure white walls. A single bulb dangles from the ceiling, with a simple glass shade that's discolored by heat.
The room has been nicely cleaned. I run my finger over the tabletop and the window frame and there's no dust at all. The windows, too, are sparkling clean. The pots, plates, and various utensils in the kitchen aren't new, but it's clear they've been well cared for and are all clean. Next to the work space in the kitchen are two old electric hot plates. I switch one of them on, and right away the coil turns red.
There's an old color TV in a heavy wooden cabinet that I'm guessing is fifteen or twenty years old. There's no remote control. It looks like something that was thrown away and then
I turn on the switch on the TV, and an old movie's playing, The Sound of Music.
My teacher took us all to see it on a widescreen movie theater when I was in grade school. No adults were around to take me to the theater, so it's one of the few movies I saw when I was a kid. On TV they're at the part where the difficult, uptight father, Captain von Trapp, has gone to Vienna on business, and Maria, the children's tutor, takes them on an outing in the mountains. They all sit together on the grass and she plays guitar and they sing a couple of harmless songs. It's a famous scene. I plant myself in front of the TV, glued to the movie. Just like when I first saw it, I wonder how things would've turned out if I'd had someone like Maria with me. Needless to say, nobody like that ever showed up in my life.
I flash back to reality. Why in the world do I have to watch The Sound of Music right now? Why that movie? Maybe the people here have hooked up some sort of satellite dish and can get the signal from a station. Or is it a videotape being played somewhere and shown on this set? I'd guess it's a tape, because when I change channels the other ones show only sandstorms. A vicious sandstorm's exactly what it reminds me of, the gravelly white, inorganic static.
They're singing "Edelweiss" when I turn off the set. Quiet returns to the room. I'm thirsty, so I go to the kitchen and drink some milk from the jug. The milk's thick and fresh, and tastes a hundred times better than those packs of milk you buy in convenience stores. As I down glass after glass, I suddenly remember the scene in François Truffaut's film 400 Blows where Antoine runs away from home and, early one morning, gets hungry and steals a bottle of milk that's been delivered to somebody's front door, then drinks it as he makes his getaway. It's a large bottle, so it takes him a while to drink it all down. A sad, distressing scene—though it's hard to believe that just drinking milk could be so sad. That's another one of the few movies from my childhood. I was in fifth grade, and the title caught my attention, so I took the train to Ikebukuro alone, saw the film, then rode the train back. As soon as I got out of the theater, I bought some milk and drank it. I couldn't help it.