The Elephant Vanishes: Stories by Haruki Murakami
Not me. If an issue of Home Ideas gets put under an An-An, or a ballpoint pen finds its way into the pencil stand, you don’t see me go to pieces. I don’t even notice. This is her problem; I’d wear myself out living like her. Sometimes she flies into a rage. She tells me she can’t abide my carelessness. Yes, I say, and sometimes I can’t stand carelessness about universal gravitation and π and E = mc2, either. I mean it. But when I say things like this, she clams up, taking them as a personal insult. I never mean it that way; I just say what I feel.
That night, when she comes home, first thing she does is look around the apartment. I’ve readied a full explanation—how the TV People came and mixed everything up. It’ll be difficult to convince her, but I intend to tell her the whole truth.
She doesn’t say a thing, just gives the place the once-over. There’s a TV on the sideboard, the magazines are out of order on the table, the mantel clock is on the floor, and the wife doesn’t even comment. There’s nothing for me to explain.
“You get your own supper okay?” she asks me, undressing.
“No, I didn’t eat,” I tell her.
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t really hungry,” I say.
The wife pauses, half-undressed, and thinks this over. She gives me a long look. Should she press the subject or not? The clock breaks up the protracted, ponderous silence. TRPP Q SCHAOUS TRPP Q SCHAOUS. I pretend not to hear; I won’t let it in my ears. But the sound is simply too heavy, too loud to shut out. She, too, seems to be listening to it. Then she shakes her head and says, “Shall I whip up something quick?”
“Well, maybe,” I say. I don’t really feel much like eating, but I won’t turn down the offer.
The wife changes into around-the-house wear and goes to the kitchen to fix zosui and tamago-yaki while filling me in on her friends. Who’d done what, who’d said what, who’d changed her hairstyle and looked so much younger, who’d broken up with her boyfriend. I know most of her friends, so I pour myself a beer and follow along, inserting attentive uh-huhs at proper intervals. Though, in fact, I hardly hear a thing she says. I’m thinking about the TV People. That, and why she didn’t remark on the sudden appearance of the television. No way she couldn’t have noticed. Very odd. Weird, even. Something is wrong here. But what to do about it?
The food is ready, so I sit at the dining-room table and eat. Rice, egg, salt plum. When I’ve finished, the wife clears away the dishes. I have another beer, and she has a beer, too. I glance at the sideboard, and there’s the TV set, with the power off, the remote-control unit sitting on the table. I get up from the table, reach for the remote control, and switch it on. The screen glows and I hear it tinkling. Still no picture. Only the same blank tube. I press the button to raise the volume, but all that does is increase the white-noise roar. I watch the snowstorm for twenty, thirty seconds, then switch it off. Light and sound vanish in an instant. Meanwhile, the wife has seated herself on the carpet and is flipping through Elle, oblivious of the fact that the TV has just been turned on and off.
I replace the remote control on the table and sit down on the sofa again, thinking I’ll go on reading that long García Márquez novel. I always read after dinner. I might set the book down after thirty minutes, or I might read for two hours, but the thing is to read every day. Today, though, I can’t get myself to read more than a page and a half. I can’t concentrate; my thoughts keep returning to the TV set. I look up and see it, right in front of me.
I WAKE AT HALF PAST TWO in the morning to find the TV still there. I get out of bed half hoping the thing has disappeared. No such luck. I go to the toilet, then plop down on the sofa and put my feet up on the table. I take the remote control in hand and try turning on the TV. No new developments in that department, either; only a rerun of the same glow and noise. Nothing else. I look at it awhile, then switch it off.
I go back to bed and try to sleep. I’m dead tired, but sleep isn’t coming. I shut my eyes and I see them. The TV People carrying the TV set, the TV People moving the clock out of the way, the TV People transferring magazines to the table, the TV People plugging the power cable into the wall socket, the TV People checking the screen, the TV People opening the door and silently exiting. They’ve stayed on in my head. They’re in there walking around. I get back out of bed, go to the kitchen, and pour a double brandy into a coffee cup. I down the brandy and head over to the sofa for another session with Márquez. I open the pages, yet somehow the words won’t sink in. The writing is opaque.
Very well, then, I throw García Márquez aside and pick up Elle. Reading Elle from time to time can’t hurt anyone. But there isn’t anything in Elle that catches my fancy. New hairstyles and elegant white silk blouses and eateries that serve good beef stew and what to wear to the opera, articles like that. Do I care? I throw Elle aside. Which leaves me the television on the sideboard to look at.
I end up staying awake until dawn, not doing a thing. At six o’clock, I make myself some coffee. I don’t have anything else to do, so I go ahead and fix ham sandwiches before the wife gets up.
“You’re up awful early,” she says drowsily.
“Mmm,” I mumble.
After a nearly wordless breakfast, we leave home together and go our separate ways to our respective offices. The wife works at a small publishing house. Edits a natural-food and lifestyle magazine. “Shiitake Mushrooms Prevent Gout,” “The Future of Organic Farming,” you know the kind of magazine. Never sells very well, but hardly costs anything to produce; kept afloat by a handful of zealots. Me, I work in the advertising department of an electrical-appliance manufacturer. I dream up ads for toasters and washing machines and microwave ovens.
• • •
IN MY OFFICE BUILDING, I pass one of the TV People on the stairs. If I’m not mistaken, it’s one of the three who brought the TV the day before—probably the one who first opened the door, who didn’t actually carry the set. Their singular lack of distinguishing features makes it next to impossible to tell them apart, so I can’t swear to it, but I’d say I’m eight to nine out of ten on the mark. He’s wearing the same blue jacket he had on the previous day, and he’s not carrying anything in his hands. He’s merely walking down the stairs. I’m walking up. I dislike elevators, so I generally take the stairs. My office is on the ninth floor, so this is no mean feat. When I’m in a rush, I get all sweaty by the time I reach the top. Even so, getting sweaty has got to be better than taking the elevator, as far as I’m concerned. Everyone jokes about it: doesn’t own a TV or a VCR, doesn’t take elevators, must be a modern-day Luddite. Maybe a childhood trauma leading to arrested development. Let them think what they like. They’re the ones who are screwed up, if you ask me.
In any case, there I am, climbing the stairs as always; I’m the only one on the stairs—almost nobody else uses them—when between the fourth and fifth floors I pass one of the TV People coming down. It happens so suddenly I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should say something?
But I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say, and he’s unapproachable. He leaves no opening; he descends the stairs so functionally, at one set tempo, with such regulated precision. Plus, he utterly ignores my presence, same as the day before. I don’t even enter his field of vision. He slips by before I can think what to do. In that instant, the field of gravity warps.
At work, the day is solid with meetings from the morning on. Important meetings on sales campaigns for a new product line. Several employees read reports. Blackboards fill with figures, bar graphs proliferate on computer screens. Heated discussions. I participate, although my contribution to the meetings is not that critical because I’m not directly involved with the project. So between meetings I keep puzzling things over. I voice an opinion only once. Isn’t much of an opinion, either—something perfectly obvious to any observer—but I couldn’t very well go without saying anything, after all. I may not be terribly ambitious when it comes to work, but so long as I’m receiving a salary I have to demonstrate
The meetings are endless. At noon, there’s a short break for lunch. Too short to go out and eat. Instead, everyone gets sandwiches and coffee. The conference room is a haze of cigarette smoke, so I eat at my own desk. While I’m eating, the section chief comes around. To be perfectly frank, I don’t like the guy. For no reason I can put my finger on: There’s nothing you can fault him on, no single target for attack. He has an air of breeding. Moreover, he’s not stupid. He has good taste in neckties, he doesn’t wave his own flag or lord it over his inferiors. He even looks out for me, invites me out for the occasional meal. But there’s just something about the guy that doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it’s his habit of coming into body contact with people he’s talking to. Men or women, at some point in the course of the conversation he’ll reach out a hand and touch. Not in any suggestive way, mind you. No, his manner is brisk, his bearing perfectly casual. I wouldn’t be surprised if some people don’t even notice, it’s so natural. Still—I don’t know why—it does bother me. So whenever I see him, almost instinctively I brace myself. Call it petty, it gets to me.
He leans over, placing a hand on my shoulder. “About your statement at the meeting just now. Very nice,” says the section chief warmly. “Very simply put, very pivotal. I was impressed. Points well taken. The whole room buzzed at that statement of yours. The timing was perfect, too. Yessir, you keep ’em coming like that.”
And he glides off. Probably to lunch. I thank him straight out, but the honest truth is I’m taken aback. I mean, I don’t remember a thing of what I said at the meeting. Why does the section chief have to come all the way over to my desk to praise me for that? There have to be more brilliant examples of Homo loquens around here. Strange. I go on eating my lunch, uncomprehending. Then I think about the wife. Wonder what she’s up to right now. Out to lunch? Maybe I ought to give her a call, exchange a few words, anything. I dial the first three digits, have second thoughts, hang up. I have no reason to be calling her. My world may be crumbling, out of balance, but is that a reason to ring up her office? What can I say about all this, anyway? Besides, I hate calling her at work. I set down the receiver, let out a sigh, and finish off my coffee. Then I toss the Styrofoam cup into the wastebasket.
AT ONE OF THE AFTERNOON MEETINGS, I see TV People again. This time, their number has increased by two. Just as on the previous day, they come traipsing across the conference room, carrying a Sony color TV. A model one size bigger. Uh-oh. Sony’s the rival camp. If, for whatever reason, any competitor’s product gets brought into our offices, there’s hell to pay, barring when other manufacturers’ products are brought in for test comparisons, of course. But then we take pains to remove the company logo—just to make sure no outside eyes happen upon it. Little do the TV People care: The Sony mark is emblazoned for all to see. They open the door and march right into the conference room, flashing it in our direction. Then they parade the thing around the room, scanning the place for somewhere to set it down, until at last, not finding any location, they carry it backward out the door. The others in the room show no reaction to the TV People. And they can’t have missed them. No, they’ve definitely seen them. And the proof is they even got out of the way, clearing a path for the TV People to carry their television through. Still, that’s as far as it went: a reaction no more alarmed than when the nearby coffee shop delivered. They’d made it a ground rule not to acknowledge the presence of the TV People. The others all knew they were there; they just acted as if they weren’t.
None of it makes any sense. Does everybody know about the TV People? Am I alone in the dark? Maybe the wife knew about the TV People all along, too. Probably. I’ll bet that’s why she wasn’t surprised by the television and why she didn’t mention it. That’s the only possible explanation. Yet this confuses me even more. Who or what, then, are the TV People? And why are they always carrying around TV sets?
One colleague leaves his seat to go to the toilet, and I get up to follow. This is a guy who entered the company around the same time I did. We’re on good terms. Sometimes we go out for a drink together after work. I don’t do that with most people. I’m standing next to him at the urinals. He’s the first to complain. “Oh, joy! Looks like we’re in for more of the same, straight through to evening. I swear! Meetings, meetings, meetings, going to drag on forever.”
“You can say that again,” I say. We wash our hands. He compliments me on the morning meeting’s statement. I thank him.
“Oh, by the way, those guys who came in with the TV just now …” I launch forth, then cut off.
He doesn’t say anything. He turns off the faucet, pulls two paper towels from the dispenser, and wipes his hands. He doesn’t even shoot a glance in my direction. How long can he keep drying his hands? Eventually, he crumples up his towels and throws them away. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Or maybe he’s pretending not to hear. I can’t tell. But from the sudden strain in the atmosphere, I know enough not to ask. I shut up, wipe my hands, and walk down the corridor to the conference room. The rest of the afternoon’s meetings, he avoids my eyes.
WHEN I GET HOME from work, the apartment is dark. Outside, dark clouds have swept in. It’s beginning to rain. The apartment smells like rain. Night is coming on. No sign of the wife. I loosen my tie, smooth out the wrinkles, and hang it up. I brush off my suit. I toss my shirt into the washing machine. My hair smells like cigarette smoke, so I take a shower and shave. Story of my life: I go to endless meetings, get smoked to death, then the wife gets on my case about it. The very first thing she did after we were married was make me stop smoking. Four years ago, that was.
Out of the shower, I sit on the sofa with a beer, drying my hair with a towel. The TV People’s television is still sitting on the sideboard. I pick up the remote control from the table and push the “on” switch. Again and again I press, but nothing happens. The screen stays dark. I check the plug; it’s in the socket, all right. I unplug it, then plug it back in. Still no go. No matter how often I press the “on” switch, the screen does not glow. Just to be sure, I pry open the back cover of the remote-control unit, remove the batteries, and check them with my handy electrical-contact tester. The batteries are fine. At this point, I give up, throw the remote control aside, and slosh down more beer.
Why should it upset me? Supposing the TV did come on, what then? It would glow and crackle with white noise. Who cares, if that’s all that’d come on?
I care. Last night it worked. And I haven’t laid a finger on it since. Doesn’t make sense.
I try the remote control one more time. I press slowly with my finger. But the result is the same. No response whatsoever. The screen is dead. Cold.
Dead cold.
I pull another beer out of the fridge and eat some potato salad from a plastic tub. It’s past six o’clock. I read the whole evening paper. If anything, it’s more boring than usual. Almost no article worth reading, nothing but inconsequential news items. But I keep reading, for lack of anything better to do. Until I finish the paper. What next? To avoid pursuing that thought any further, I dally over the newspaper. Hmm, how about answering letters? A cousin of mine has sent us a wedding invitation, which I have to turn down. The day of the wedding, the wife and I are going to be off on a trip. To Okinawa. We’ve been planning it for ages; we’re both taking time off from work. We can’t very well go changing our plans now. God only knows when we’ll get the next chance to spend a long holiday together. And
I pick up the newspaper again and read the same articles over again. Maybe I ought to start preparing dinner. But the wife might be working late and could come home having eaten. Which would mean wasting one portion. And if I am going to eat alone, I can make do with leftovers; no reason to make something up special. If she hasn’t eaten, we can go out and eat together.
Odd, though. Whenever either of us knows he or she is going to be later than six, we always call in. That’s the rule. Leave a message on the answering machine if necessary. That way, the other can coordinate: go ahead and eat alone, or set something out for the late arriver, or hit the sack. The nature of my work sometimes keeps me out late, and she often has meetings, or proofs to dispatch, before coming home. Neither of us has a regular nine-to-five job. When both of us are busy, we can go three days without a word to each other. Those are the breaks—just one of those things that nobody planned. Hence we always keep certain rules, so as not to place unrealistic burdens on each other. If it looks as though we’re going to be late, we call in and let the other one know. I sometimes forget, but she, never once.
Still, there’s no message on the answering machine.
I toss the newspaper, stretch out on the sofa, and shut my eyes.
I DREAM ABOUT a meeting. I’m standing up, delivering a statement I myself don’t understand. I open my mouth and talk. If I don’t, I’m a dead man. I have to keep talking. Have to keep coming out with endless blah-blah-blah. Everyone around me is dead. Dead and turned to stone. A roomful of stone statues. A wind is blowing. The windows are all broken; gusts of air are coming in. And the TV People are here. Three of them. Like the first time. They’re carrying a Sony color TV. And on the screen are the TV People. I’m running out of words; little by little I can feel my fingertips growing stiffen Gradually turning to stone.