The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami
So now you’re going to ask me, “Why go to such an awful place if you know it’s so awful?” You’re right, but I had no choice. The main thing I wanted was to get out of the house, but after all the problems I had caused, that was the only school “charitable” enough to accept me as a transfer student. So I made up my mind to stick it out. But it really was awful! People use the word “nightmarish,” but it was worse than that. I really did have nightmares in that place—all the time—and I’d wake up soaked in sweat, but even then I’d wish I could have kept dreaming, because my nightmares were way better than reality in that place. I wonder if you know what that’s like, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I wonder if you’ve ever been in the pits like that.
So finally, I stayed in this high-class hotel/jail/country school for only one semester. When I got home for spring vacation, I announced to my parents that if I had to go back there, I was going to kill myself. I’d stuff three tampons down my throat and drink tons of water; I’d slash my wrists; I’d dive headfirst off the school roof. And I meant what I said. I wasn’t kidding. Both my parents put together have the imagination of a tree frog, but they knew—from experience—that when I got going like that, it wasn’t an empty threat.
So anyhow, I never went back to the place. From March into April, I shut myself up in the house, reading, watching TV, and just plain vegging out. And a hundred times a day, I’d think, I want to see Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I wanted to slip down the alley, jump the fence, and have a nice long talk with you. But it wasn’t that easy. It would’ve been a replay of the summer. So I just watched the alley from my room and wondered to myself, What’s Mr. Wind-Up Bird up to now? Spring is slowly, quietly taking over the whole world, and Mr. Wind-Up Bird is in it too, but what’s happening in his life? Has Kumiko come home to him? What’s going on with those strange women Malta Kano and Creta Kano? Has Noboru Wataya the cat come back? Has the mark disappeared from Mr. Wind-Up Bird’s cheek …?
After a month of living like that, I couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t know how or when it happened, but for me that neighborhood is nothing now but “Mr. Wind-Up Bird’s world,” and when I’m in it, I’m nothing but “the me contained in Mr. Wind-Up Bird’s world.” And it’s not just a sort-of-kind-of thing. It’s not your fault, of course, but still … So I had to find my own place.
I thought about it and thought and thought, and finally it hit me where I had to go.
(Hint) It’s a place you can figure out if you think about it really, really hard. You’ll be able to imagine where I am if you make the effort. It’s not a school, it’s not a hotel, it’s not a hospital, it’s not a jail, it’s not a house. It’s a kind of special place way far away. It’s … a secret. For now, at least.
I’m in the mountains again, in another place surrounded by a wall (but not such a huge wall), and there’s a gate and a nice old man who guards the gate, but you can go in and out anytime you like. It’s a huge piece of land, with its own little woods and a pond, and if you go for a walk when the sun comes up you see lots of animals: lions and zebras and—no, I’m kidding, but you can see cute little animals like badgers and pheasants. There’s a dormitory, and that’s where I live.
I’m writing this letter in a tiny room at a tiny desk near a tiny bed next to a tiny bookcase beside a tiny closet, none of which have the slightest decorative touch, and all of which are designed to meet the minimum functional requirements. On the desk is a fluorescent lamp, a teacup, the stationery for writing this letter, and a dictionary. To be honest, I almost never use the dictionary. I just don’t like dictionaries. I don’t like the way they look, and I don’t like what they say inside. Whenever I use a dictionary, I make a face and think, Who needs to know that? People like me don’t get along well with dictionaries. Say I look up “transition” and it says: “passage from one state to another.” I think, So what? It’s got nothing to do with me. So when I see a dictionary on my desk I feel like I’m looking at some strange dog leaving a twisty piece of poop on our lawn out back. But anyway, I bought a dictionary because I figured I might have to look something up while I was writing to you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.
Also I’ve got a dozen pencils, all sharpened and laid out in a row. They’re brand-new. I just bought them at the stationery store—especially for writing to you (not that I’m trying to make you feel grateful or anything: just-sharpened, brand-new pencils are really nice, don’t you think?). Also I’ve got an ashtray and cigarettes and matches. I don’t smoke as much as I used to, just once in a while for a mood change (like right now, for instance). So that’s everything on my desk. The desk faces a window, and the window has curtains. The curtains have a sweet little flower design—not that I picked them out or anything: they came with the window. That flower design is the only thing here that doesn’t look absolutely plain and simple. This is a perfect room for a teenage girl—or maybe not. No, it’s more like a model jail cell designed with good intentions for first offenders. My boom box is on the shelf (the big one—remember, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?), and I’ve got Bruce Springsteen on now. It’s Sunday afternoon and everybody’s out having fun, so there’s nobody to complain if I turn it up loud.
The only thing I do for fun these days is go to the nearby town on weekends and buy the cassette tapes I want at a record store. (I almost never buy books. If there’s something I want to read, I can get it at our little library.) I’m pretty friendly with the girl next door. She bought a used car, so when I want to go to town, I go with her. And guess what? I’ve been learning to drive it. There’s so much open space here, I can practice all I want. I don’t have a license yet, but I’m a pretty good driver.
To tell you the truth, though, aside from buying music tapes, going to town is not all that much fun. Everybody says they have to get out once a week or they’ll go nuts, but I get my relief by staying here when everybody’s gone and listening to my favorite music like this. I once went on a kind of double date with my friend with the car. Just to give it a try. She’s from around here, so she knows a lot of people. My date was a nice enough guy, a college student, but I don’t know, I still can’t really get a clear sense of all kinds of things. It’s as if they’re out there, far away, lined up like dolls in a shooting gallery, and all these transparent curtains are hanging down between me and the dolls.
To tell you the truth, when I was seeing you that summer, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, like, when we were sitting at the kitchen table talking and drinking beer and things, I would think, What would I do if Mr. Wind-Up Bird all of a sudden pushed me down and tried to rape me? I didn’t know what I would do. Of course, I would have resisted and said, “No, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you shouldn’t do this!” But I also would have been thinking I had to explain why it was wrong and why you shouldn’t be doing it, and the more I thought, the more mixed up I would get, and by that time you probably would have finished raping me. My heart would pound like crazy when I thought about this, and I would think the whole thing was kind of unfair. I’ll bet you never had any idea I had thoughts like this going on in my head. Do you think this is stupid? You probably do. I mean, it is stupid. But at the time, I was absolutely, tremendously serious about these things. Which, I think, is why I pulled the rope ladder out of the well and put the cover on with you down inside there that time, kind of like sealing you off. That way, there would be no more Mr. Wind-Up Bird around, and I wouldn’t have to be bothered by those thoughts for a while.
I’m sorry, though. I know I should never have done that to you (or to anybody). But I can’t help myself sometimes. I know exactly what I’m doing, but I just can’t stop. That’s my greatest weakness.
I don’t believe that you would ever rape me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I know that now, somehow. It’s not that you would never, ever do it (I mean, nobody knows for sure what’s going to happen), but maybe that you would at least not do it to confuse me. I don’t know how to put it exactly, but I just sort of feel that way.
All right, enough of this rape stuff
Anyhow, even though I migh
I’ll write again soon. Next time, I’ll probably be able to go a little further into all kinds of things.
P.S. Before the next letter comes, try to guess where I am and what I’m doing.
Nutmeg and Cinnamon
•
The cat was covered from nose to tailtip with clumps of dried mud, his fur stuck together in little balls, as if he had been rolling around on a filthy patch of ground for a long time. He purred with excitement as I picked him up and examined him all over. He might have been somewhat emaciated, but aside from that, he looked little different from when I had last seen him: face, body, fur. His eyes were clear, and he had no wounds. He certainly didn’t seem like a cat that had been missing for a year. It was more as if he had come home after a single night of carousing.
I fed him on the veranda: a plateful of sliced mackerel that I had bought at the supermarket. He was obviously starved. He polished off the fish slices so quickly he would gag now and then and spit pieces back into the plate. I found the cat’s water dish under the sink and filled it to the brim. He came close to emptying it. Having accomplished this much, he started licking his mud-caked fur, but then, as if suddenly recalling that I was there, he climbed into my lap, curled up, and went to sleep.
The cat slept with his forelegs tucked under his body, his face buried in his tail. He purred loudly at first, but that grew quieter, until he entered a state of complete and silent sleep, all defenses down. I sat in a sunny spot on the veranda, petting him gently so as not to wake him. I had not thought about the cat’s special soft, warm touch for a very long time. So much had been happening to me that I had all but forgotten that the cat had disappeared. Holding this soft, small living creature in my lap this way, though, and seeing how it slept with complete trust in me, I felt a warm rush in my chest. I put my hand on the cat’s chest and felt his heart beating. The pulse was faint and fast, but his heart, like mine, was ticking off the time allotted to his small body with all the restless earnestness of my own.
Where had this cat been for a year? What had he been doing? Why had he chosen to come back now, all of a sudden? And where were the traces of the time he had lost? I wished I could ask him these questions. If only he could have answered me!
•
I brought an old cushion out to the veranda and set the cat down on top of it. He was as limp as a load of wash. When I picked him up, the slits of his eyes opened, and he opened his mouth, but he made no sound. He settled himself onto the cushion, gave a yawn, and fell back asleep. Once I was satisfied he was resting, I went to the kitchen to put away the groceries I had brought home. I placed the tofu and vegetables and fish in their compartments in the refrigerator, then glanced out to the veranda again. The cat was sleeping in the same position. We had always called him Noboru Wataya because the look in his eyes resembled that of Kumiko’s brother, but that had just been our little joke, not the cat’s real name. In fact, we had let six years go by without giving him a name.
Even as a joke, though, Noboru Wataya was no name for a cat of ours. The real Noboru Wataya had simply become too great a presence in the course of those six years—especially now that he had been elected to the House of Representatives. Saddling the cat with that name forever was out of the question. As long as he remained in this house, it would be necessary to give him a new name, a name of his own—and the sooner the better. It should be a simple, tangible, realistic name, something you could see with your eyes and feel with your hands, something that could erase the sound and memory and meaning of the name Noboru Wataya.
I brought in the plate that had held the fish. It looked as clean as if it had just been washed and wiped. The cat must have enjoyed his meal. I was glad I had happened to buy some mackerel just at the time the cat had chosen to come home. It seemed like a good omen, fortunate for both me and the cat. Yes, that was it: I would call him Mackerel. Rubbing him behind the ears, I informed him of the change: “You’re not Noboru Wataya anymore,” I said. “From now on, your name is Mackerel.” I wanted to shout it to the world.
I sat on the veranda next to Mackerel the cat, reading a book until the sun began to set. The cat slept as soundly as if he had been knocked unconscious, his quiet breathing like a distant bellows, his body rising and falling with the sound. I would reach out now and then to feel his warmth and make sure the cat was really there. It was wonderful to be able to do that: to reach out and touch something, to feel something warm. I had been missing that kind of experience.
•
Mackerel was still there the next morning. He had not disappeared. When I woke up, I found him sleeping next to me, on his side, legs stretched straight out. He must have wakened during the night and licked himself clean. The mud and hair balls were gone. He looked almost like his old self. He had always had a handsome coat of fur. I held him for a while, then fed him his breakfast and changed his water. Then I moved away from him and tried calling him by name: “Mackerel.” Finally, on the third try, he turned toward me and gave a little meow.
Now it was time for me to begin my new day. The cat had come back to me, and I had to begin to move forward to some extent. I took a shower and ironed a freshly laundered shirt. I put on a pair of cotton pants and my new sneakers. A hazy overcast filled the sky, but the weather was not especially cold. I decided to wear a thickish sweater without a coat. I took the train to Shinjuku, as usual, went through the underground passageway to the west exit plaza, and took a seat on my usual bench.
•
The woman showed up a little after three o’clock. She didn’t seem astonished to see me, and I reacted to her approach without surprise. Our encounter was entirely natural. We exchanged no greetings, as if this had all been prearranged. I raised my face slightly, and she looked at me with a flicker of the lips.
She wore a springlike orange cotton top, a tight skirt the color of topaz, and small gold earrings. She sat down next to me and, as always, took a pack of Virginia Slims from her purse. She put a cigarette in her mouth and lit up with a slim gold lighter. This time she knew better than to offer me a smoke. And after taking two or three leisurely puffs herself, with an air of deep thought, she dropped her cigarette to the ground as if testing gravity conditions for the day. She then patted me on the knee and said, “Come with me,” after which she stood to leave. I crushed her cigarette out and did as she said. She raised her hand to stop a passing taxi and climbed in. I climbed in beside her. She then announced very clearly an address in Aoyama, after which she said nothing at all until the cab had threaded its way through thick traffic to Aoyama Boulevard. I watched the sights of Tokyo passing by the window. There were several new buildings that I had never seen before. The woman took a notebook from her bag and wrote something in it with a small gold pen. She looked at her watch now and then, as if checking on something. The watch was set in a gold bracelet. All the little accessories she carried with her seemed to be made of gold. Or was it that they turned to gold the moment she touched them?
She took me into a boutique on Omote Sando that featured designer brands. There she picked out two suits for me, both of thin material, one blue gray, the other dark gray. These were not suits I could have worn to the law firm: they even felt expensive. She did not offer any explanations, and I did not ask for them. I simply did as I was told. This reminded me of several so-called art films I had seen in college. Movies like that never explained what was going on. Explanations were rejected as some kind of evil that could only destroy the films’ “reality.” That was one way of thought, one way to look at things, no doubt, but it felt strange
I am of average build, so neither suit had to be altered other than to adjust the sleeves and pant legs. The woman picked out three dress shirts and three ties to match each shirt, then two belts and a half-dozen pairs of socks. She paid with a credit card and ordered them to deliver everything to my place. She seemed to have some kind of clear image in her mind of how I should look. It took her no time to pick out what she bought me. I would have spent more time at a stationer’s, picking out a new eraser. But I had to admit that her good taste in clothes was nothing short of astounding. The color and style of every shirt and tie she chose seemingly at random were perfectly coordinated, as if she had selected them after long, careful consideration. Nor were the combinations she came up with the least bit ordinary.
Next, she took me to a shoe store and bought me two pairs of shoes to go with the suits. This took no time, either. Again she paid with a credit card and asked for the items to be delivered to my house. Delivery seemed hardly necessary in the case of a couple of pairs of shoes, but this was apparently her way of doing things: pick things out fast, pay with a credit card, and have the stuff delivered.
Next, we went to a watchmaker’s and repeated the process. She bought me a stylish, elegant watch with an alligator band to go with the suits, and again she took almost no time picking it out. The price was somewhere up around fifty to sixty thousand yen. I had a cheap plastic watch, but this was apparently not good enough for her. The watch, at least, she did not have delivered. Instead, she had them wrap it and handed it to me without a word.