Men Without Women by Haruki Murakami
—
Most of Tokai’s friends were married, with children. He’d visited their homes any number of times, but never once envied them. When their children were little, he found them cute, but once they were in junior high or high school, every single one of them turned rude, hated adults, and caused all kinds of problems in their efforts to rebel against their parents, relentlessly trying their parents’ nerves and stomachs. The parents could only think of their children’s academic performances and how to get their kids into top schools, so their bad grades became a running battle between the parents. The kids hardly opened their mouths at home, instead choosing to hole up in their rooms to chat online with their friends or obsess over some less-than-wholesome online porn. Tokai couldn’t bring himself to want children like that. His friends all insisted that, when all was said and done, having children was a wonderful thing, but he never could buy this sales pitch. They probably just wanted Tokai to shoulder the same burden they dragged around. They selfishly were convinced that everyone else in the world should be obliged to suffer the way they did.
I myself married young and have stayed married ever since, but I happen not to have any children. So to a certain extent I can understand his view, though I do see it as a bit simplistic, a rhetorical exaggeration. I sometimes think that he might actually be right. Though, of course, not all cases are so miserable. In this huge world there are some beautiful, happy families where parents and children maintain a close, warm relationship—a situation about as frequent as hat tricks in soccer. I have no confidence at all that I could be one of these rare happy parents, and can’t see Tokai doing it either.
At the risk of being misunderstood, I would call Tokai an affable person. He wasn’t a poor loser, had no inferiority complex or jealousy, no excessive biases or pride, no particular obsessions, wasn’t overly sensitive, had no steadfast political views. On the surface, at least, he had none of the traits you would associate with an unstable personality. The people around him loved his straightforward, frank personality, his polished manners, and his cheerful, positive attitude. And Tokai aimed these qualities mainly at women—half of the world’s population—in a strategic, effective way. Kindness and consideration for women were, for someone in his profession, necessary skills, and Tokai possessed them naturally—they were innate, inborn qualities, like a lovely voice or long fingers. Because of this (and, of course, because he was a talented surgeon), his clinic did a booming business. He never advertised, yet his appointment schedule was always full.
As my readers are no doubt aware, affable people like this are most often shallow, mediocre, and boring. Tokai, though, exhibited none of these qualities. I always enjoyed kicking back for an hour on weekends with him, having a couple of beers. He was an excellent conversationalist, with a wealth of topics. His sense of humor was always straightforward, never especially complex. He told me many interesting behind-the-scenes plastic surgery tales (always, of course, protecting the clients’ privacy), and he disclosed a number of fascinating facts about women. Never once, though, did he let these descend into vulgarity. He always spoke of his women friends with great respect and affection, and took care to keep any personal information secret.
“A gentleman doesn’t talk much about the taxes he paid, or the women he sleeps with,” he told me once.
“Who said that?” I asked.
“I made it up,” he said, his expression unchanged. “Of course, sometimes I do have to talk about taxes with my accountant.”
—
Tokai never found it odd to have two or three girlfriends simultaneously. The women were either married or had other boyfriends, so their schedules took precedence, which cut into the time he could spend with them. He felt that having several girlfriends was only natural, and never saw it as an act of infidelity. Still, he never told any of them about the others, instead retaining a strict need-to-know policy.
At Tokai’s clinic he had an accomplished male secretary who had worked for him for years. This man coordinated Tokai’s complicated schedule like a veteran air traffic controller. Not only did he arrange Tokai’s work schedule but, over time, the secretary had inherited the task of managing Tokai’s personal dating schedule. He knew every colorful detail of Tokai’s private life but never spoke about it, never looked upset about being kept so busy, and went about his work efficiently. He was good at traffic control, so Tokai wasn’t involved in any near disasters. It’s a little hard to believe at first, but he even kept track of his girlfriends’ menstrual schedules. When Tokai traveled with a woman, his secretary secured train tickets and hotel reservations. Without this able secretary Tokai’s refined personal life would not have been the same. To thank him for all he did, Tokai made sure to give this handsome secretary (who was, of course, gay) gifts whenever the occasion warranted it.
Fortunately, the husbands and lovers of his girlfriends never once discovered Tokai’s relationship with them, so he’d never experienced any major problems, nor was he put in awkward situations. He was a cautious, careful person and he warned his girlfriends to be equally discrete. He issues three key pieces of advice: take your time and don’t force things; don’t fall into predictable patterns; and when you do have to lie, make sure to keep it simple. (This was, of course, like trying to teach a seagull how to fly, but he made sure of it, just the same.)
Not that things were completely trouble free. Balancing so many simultaneous relationships over that length of time meant there were bound to be problems. Even a monkey misses the occasional branch and falls. One of his girlfriends gave her suspicious boyfriend reason to phone the clinic and demand to know about the doctor’s personal life, as well as his morals. (His adroit secretary used his powers of persuasion to deflect the man’s accusations.) And there was one married woman who got a little too wrapped up in their relationship, became unmoored, and caused some trouble for Tokai. The woman’s husband happened to be a famous wrestler. But here, too, trouble was averted. The doctor managed to avoid having his shoulder broken.
“Weren’t you just lucky?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said, and smiled. “I probably was just lucky. But I don’t think that’s all it was. By no stretch of the imagination am I all that bright, but sometimes I’m surprised by how smart I can be.”
“Smart,” I repeated.
“It’s like—how should I put it?—my brain suddenly turns on when things get delicate…,” Tokai stammered. He didn’t seem to be able to come up with a good example. Or perhaps he was just hesitant to discuss it.
“Speaking of being quick on the draw,” I said, “I remember a scene from an old François Truffaut film. A woman says to a man, ‘Some people are polite, and some are quick. Each one’s a good quality to have, but most of the time quickness trumps politeness.’ Have you ever seen that film?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Tokai said.
“The woman gave an example. A man opens a door to find a woman inside naked, changing her clothes. The polite person says, ‘Excuse me, madam,’ and swiftly shuts the door. The one who says ‘Excuse me, monsieur’ and shuts the door, now that’s somebody who’s quick.”
“I see,” Tokai said, sounding impressed. “That’s an interesting definition. I think I know what they’re getting at. I’ve been in that kind of situation a number of times.”
“And each time you were able to use your mental agility to extract yourself?”
Tokai gave me a sour look. “I don’t want to overestimate myself. Basically I’ve been lucky. I’m simply a polite, lucky man. That might be the best way to think of it.”
At any rate, Tokai’s so-called lucky life continued for some thirty years. A long time, when you think about it. But one day, quite unexpectedly, he fell deeply in love. Like a clever fox suddenly finds itself caught in a trap.
—
The woman he fell in love with was sixteen years his junior, and married. Her husband, two years her senior, worked for a foreign IT corporation, and they had one
“Mr. Tanimura,” he asked me one time, “have you ever tried really hard not to love somebody too much?” This was the beginning of summer, as I recall, over a year since we first got to know each other.
“I don’t think I have,” I told him.
“Neither have I. Until now,” Tokai said.
“Trying really hard not to love somebody too much?”
“Exactly. That’s what I’m doing right now.”
“Why?”
“It’s simple, really. If I love her too much, it’s painful. I can’t take it. I don’t think my heart can stand it, which is why I’m trying not to fall in love with her.”
He seemed totally serious. His expression lacked any trace of his usual humor.
“What are you doing, exactly, so that you don’t love her too much?”
“I’ve tried all kinds of things,” he said. “But it all boils down to intentionally thinking negative thoughts about her as much as I can. I mentally list as many of her defects as I can come up with—her imperfections, I should say. And I repeat these over and over in my head like a mantra, convincing myself not to love this woman more than I should.”
“Has it worked?”
“No, not so well.” Tokai shook his head. “First of all, I couldn’t come up with many negative things about her. And there’s the fact that I find even those negative qualities attractive. And another thing is I can’t tell myself what’s too much for me, and what isn’t. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever had these kind of senseless feelings.”
“You’ve gone out with so many women and you’ve never been this worked up before?” I asked.
“This is the first time,” the doctor said simply. Then he dragged out an old memory from deep within. “You know, there was a short period, actually, back in high school, when I felt something similar. A time when thinking about a certain person made my chest ache and I couldn’t think of anything else…But this was a one-sided feeling that didn’t go anywhere. Things are different now. I’m an adult, and we actually have a physical relationship. Even so, my mind’s a total mess. The more I think about her, the more it’s actually affecting me physically, my internal organs. Especially my digestive and respiratory systems.”
He was silent, as if checking both systems.
“From what you’re telling me,” I said, “it sounds like you’re trying your best not to fall too deeply for her, but also hoping not to lose her.”
“Exactly. It’s contradictory, I know. Schizophrenic. I’m hoping for two completely opposite things at the same time. That’s not going to work out, no matter how hard I try. But I can’t help it. I just can’t lose her. If that happened, I’d lose myself.”
“But she’s married, and has a child.”
“Correct.”
“How does she see your relationship?”
Tokai inclined his head and carefully chose his words. “I’m just guessing, and guessing makes me even more confused. But she’s told me quite clearly that she has no intention of divorcing her husband. There’s the child to consider, and she doesn’t want to break up their family.”
“Yet she keeps on seeing you.”
“We’re still trying to find opportunities to see each other. But who knows about the future. She’s afraid that her husband will find out about us, and she said she may stop seeing me someday. And maybe he will find out and we really will have to stop seeing each other. Or maybe she’ll simply get tired of our affair. I have no idea what tomorrow will bring.”
“And that’s what frightens you the most.”
“Yes, when I think about those possibilities, I can’t think of anything else. I can barely even eat.”
—
Dr. Tokai and I got to know each other at a gym near my house. He always went to the gym on weekend mornings to play squash and we ended up playing a few games together. He was a good opponent—polite, in good shape, and not overly worried about winning, and I enjoyed playing against him. I was slightly older, but we were basically the same generation (this all took place a while ago) and had roughly the same level of ability when it came to squash. We’d get all sweaty chasing the ball around, then head out to a nearby beer hall to have a few pints together. As with most people who are well raised, well educated, and financially secure, Dr. Tokai only thought of himself. But in spite of all this, as previously mentioned, he was a wonderful conversationalist and I really enjoyed talking with him.
When he found out I was a writer he gradually began to reveal more personal details. He may have felt that, like therapists and religious leaders, writers had a legitimate right (or duty) to hear people’s confessions. I’ve had the same experience with many other people. Nevertheless, I’ve always enjoyed listening, and I never lost interest in what he had to tell me. He was open and honest and self-reflective. And he wasn’t all that afraid of revealing his weaknesses to others—an unusual quality.
—
This is what he told me. “I’ve been out with lots of woman who are much prettier than her, better built, with better taste, and more intelligent. But those comparisons are meaningless. Because to me she is someone special. A ‘complete presence,’ I guess you could call it. All of her qualities are tightly bound into one core. You can’t separate each individual quality to measure and analyze it, to say it’s better or worse than the same quality in someone else. It’s what’s in her core that attracts me so strongly. Like a powerful magnet. It’s beyond logic.”
We were drinking some large Black and Tans while munching on fried potatoes and pickles.
“ ‘Having seen my love now / and said farewell / I know how very shallow my heart was of old / as if I had never before known love,’ ” Tokai intoned.
“Gonchunagon Atsutada’s poem,” I said. I had no idea why I remembered this.
“In college,” he said, “they taught us that ‘seen’ meant a lover’s tryst, including a physical relationship. At the time it didn’t mean much, but now, at this age, I’ve finally experienced what the poet felt. The deep sense of loss after you’ve met the woman you love, have made love, then said goodbye. Like you’re suffocating. The same emotion hasn’t changed at all in a thousand years. I’ve never had this feeling up till now, and it makes me realize how incomplete I’ve been, as a person. I was a little late in noticing this, though.”
With something like that there’s no such thing as too soon or too late, I told him. Your understanding may have come a little late in life, but that’s better than never realizing it at all.
“But maybe it would have been better if I’d experienced this while I was still young,” Tokai said. “Then I would have developed love antibodies.”
I didn’t think things were that simple. I knew a few people who, far from developing love antibodies, carried around a dormant but vicious disease. But I didn’t bring this up. It would have taken too long to get into.
“I’ve been seeing her for a year and a half,” he said. “Her husband often goes on business trips abroad, and when he’s away we get together, have dinner, go to my place, and sleep together. She started the relationship with me when she found out her husband was having an affair. Her husband apologized to her, left the other woman, and promised he’d never do it again. But that didn’t satisfy her, and she started sleeping with me to regain her emotional balance. Revenge is a strong word, but she had some mental adjustment she had to do. It happens a lot.”
I wasn’t sure whether this kind of thing happened a lot or not. So I kept quiet and heard him out.
“We really enjoyed ourselves. Sparkling conversation, intimate secrets only the two of us knew, and leisurely, sensitive sex. I think we shared some beautiful times together. She laughed a lot. She has an infectious laugh. But as our relationship progressed, I fell deeply in love with her, and I couldn’t turn back. And recently I’ve often started to wonder: Who in the world am I?”
“Who in the world am I? I’ve really been wondering about this,” he repeated.
“That’s a difficult question,” I said.
“It is. A very difficult question,” Tokai said. He nodded a couple of times, as if confirming this. He seemed to have missed the hint of sarcasm in my words.
“Who am I?” he went on. “Up until now I’ve worked as a cosmetic plastic surgeon and never had any doubts about it. Graduated from the plastic surgery department of med school, worked first with my father as his assistant, then took over the clinic when his eyes started to go and he retired. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I’m a pretty skilled surgeon. The world of plastic surgery can be pretty seedy, and there are some clinics that put out splashy advertising but do mediocre work. I’ve always been conscientious about my work, and I’ve never had any major problems with my clients. I’m proud of this, as a professional. I’m happy with my private life, too. I have a lot of friends, and have stayed healthy up till now. I’m enjoying life. But still these days I’ve often wondered, Who in the world am I? And very seriously at that. If you took away my career as a plastic surgeon, and the happy environment I’m living in, and threw me out into the world, with no explanation, and with everything stripped away—what in the world would I be?”
Tokai looked me right in the eye, as if seeking some sort of response.
“Why have you suddenly started to think that way?” I asked.