The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

  Ushikawa put both hands on the table. Then he flicked his tongue over his lips.

  “So let’s say I’ve just told you that you ought to cut your ties with that land and pull out of the deal. But maybe you can’t pull out, even if you want to. Maybe you’re stuck until you pay off your loan.” Ushikawa cut himself short and gave me a searching look. “If money’s a problem, we’ve got it to give you. If you need eighty million yen, I can bring you eighty million yen in a nice, neat bundle. That’s eight thousand ten-thousand-yen bills. You can pay off whatever you owe and pocket the rest, free and clear. Then it’s party time! Hey, what do you say?”

  “So then the land and building belong to Noboru Wataya? Is that the idea?”

  “Yes, I guess it is, the way things work. I suppose there are a lot of annoying details that will have to be taken care of, though.…”

  I gave his proposal some thought. “You know, Ushikawa, I really don’t get it. I don’t see why Noboru Wataya is so eager to get me away from that property. What does he plan to do with it once he owns it?”

  Ushikawa slowly rubbed one cheek with the palm of his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Okada, I don’t know about things like that. As I mentioned to you at first, I’m just a stupid carrier pigeon. My master tells me what to do, and I do it. And most of the jobs he gives me are unpleasant. When I used to read the story of Aladdin, I’d always sympathize with the genie, the way they worked him so hard, but I never dreamed I’d grow up to be like him. It’s a sad story, let me tell you. But finally, everything I have said to you is a message I was sent to deliver. It comes from Dr. Wataya. The choice is up to you. So what do you say? What kind of answer should I carry back?”

  I said nothing.

  “Of course, you will need time to think. That is fine. We can give you time. I don’t mean for you to decide right now, on the spot. I would like to say take all the time you want, but I’m afraid we can’t be that flexible. Now, let me just say this, Mr. Okada. Let me give you my own personal opinion. A nice, fat offer like this is not going to sit on the table forever. You could look away for a second, and it might be gone when you looked back. It could evaporate, like mist on a windowpane. So please give it some serious thought—in a hurry. I mean, it’s not a bad offer. Do you see what I mean?”

  Ushikawa sighed and looked at his watch. “Oh, my, my, my—I’ve got to be going. Overstayed my welcome again, I’m afraid. Enjoyed another beer. And as usual, I did all the talking. Sorry about that. I’m not trying to make excuses, but, I don’t know, when I come here I just seem to settle in. You have a comfortable house here, Mr. Okada. That must be it.”

  Ushikawa stood up and carried his glass and beer bottle and ashtray to the kitchen sink.

  “I’ll be in touch with you soon, Mr. Okada. And I’ll make arrangements for you to talk with Ms. Kumiko, that I promise. You can look forward to it soon.”

  •

  After Ushikawa left, I opened the windows and let the accumulated cigarette smoke out. Then I drank a glass of water. Sitting on the sofa, I cuddled the cat, Mackerel, on my lap. I imagined Ushikawa removing his disguise when he was one step beyond my door, and flying back to Noboru Wataya. It was a stupid thing to imagine.

  The Fitting Room

  •

  A Successor

  Nutmeg knew nothing about the women who came to her. None of them offered information about herself, and Nutmeg never asked. The names with which they made their appointments were obviously made up. But around them lingered that special smell produced by the combination of power and money. The women themselves never made a show of it, but Nutmeg could tell from the style and fit of their clothes that they came from backgrounds of privilege.

  She rented space in an office building in Akasaka—an inconspicuous building in an inconspicuous place, out of respect for her clients’ hyperactive concern for their privacy. After careful consideration, she decided to make it a fashion design studio. She had, in fact, been a fashion designer, and no one would have found it suspicious for a variety of women to be coming to see her in substantial numbers. Her clients were all women in their thirties to fifties of a sort that could be expected to wear expensive, tailor-made clothes. She stocked the room with clothing and design sketches and fashion magazines, brought in the tools and workbenches and mannequins needed for fashion design, and even went so far as to design a few outfits to give the place an air of authenticity. The smaller of the two rooms she designated as the fitting room. Her clients would be shown to this “fitting room,” and on the sofa they would be “fitted” by Nutmeg.

  Her client list was compiled by the wife of the owner of a major department store. The woman had chosen a very carefully limited number of trustworthy candidates from among her wide circle of friends, convinced that in order to avoid any possibility of scandal, she would have to make this a club with an exclusive membership. Otherwise, news of the arrangement would be sure to spread quickly. The women chosen to become members were warned never to reveal anything about their “fitting” to outsiders. Not only were they women of great discretion, but they knew that if they broke their promise they would be permanently expelled from the club.

  Each client would telephone to make an appointment for a “fitting” and show up at the designated time, knowing that she need not fear encountering any other client, that her privacy would be protected absolutely. Honoraria were paid on the spot, in cash, their size having been determined by the department store owner’s wife—at a level much higher than Nutmeg would have imagined, though this never became an obstacle. Any woman who had been “fitted” by Nutmeg always called for another appointment, without exception. “You don’t have to let the money be a burden to you,” the department store owner’s wife explained to Nutmeg. “The more they pay, the more assured these women feel.” Nutmeg would go to her “office” three days a week and do one “fitting” a day. That was her limit.

  Cinnamon became his mother’s assistant when he turned sixteen. By then, it had become difficult for Nutmeg to handle all the clerical tasks herself, but she had been reluctant to hire a complete stranger. When, after much deliberation, she asked him to help her with her work, he agreed immediately without even asking what kind of work it was she did. He would go to the office each morning at ten o’clock by cab (unable to bear being with others on buses or subway trains), clean and dust, put everything where it belonged, fill the vases with fresh flowers, make coffee, do whatever shopping was needed, put classical music on the cassette player at low volume, and keep the books.

  Before long, Cinnamon had made himself an indispensable presence at the office. Whether clients were due that day or not, he would put on a suit and tie and take up his position at the waiting room desk. None of the clients complained about his not speaking. It never caused them any inconvenience, and if anything, they preferred it that way. He was the one who took their calls when they made appointments. They would state their preferred time and date, and he would knock on the desktop in response: once for “no” and twice for “yes.” The women liked this concision. He was a young man of such classic features that he could have been turned into a sculpture and displayed in a museum, and unlike so many other handsome young men, he never undercut his image when he opened his mouth. The women would talk to him on their way in and out, and he would respond with a smile and a nod. These “conversations” relaxed them, relieving the tensions they had brought with them from the outer world and reducing the awkwardness they felt after their “fittings.” Nor did Cinnamon himself, who ordinarily disliked contact with strangers, appear to find it painful to interact with the women.

  At eighteen, Cinnamon got his driver’s license. Nutmeg found a kindly driving instructor to give him private lessons, but Cinnamon himself had already been through every available instruction book and absorbed the details. All he needed was the practical know-how that couldn’t be obtained from books, and this he mastered in a few days at the wheel. Once he had his license, he pored over the used-car boo
ks and bought himself a Porsche Carrera, using as a down payment all the money he had saved working for his mother (none of which he ever had to use for living expenses). He made the engine shine, bought all new parts through mail order, put new tires on, and generally brought the car’s condition to racing level. All he ever did with it, though, was drive it over the same short, jam-packed route every day from his home in Hiroo to the office in Akasaka, rarely exceeding forty miles an hour. This made it one of the rarer Porsche 911s in the world.

  •

  Nutmeg continued her work for more than seven years, during which time she lost three clients: the first was killed in an automobile accident; the second suffered “permanent expulsion” for a minor infraction; and the third went “far away” in connection with her husband’s work. These were replaced by four new clients, all the same sort of fascinating middle-aged women who wore expensive clothing and used aliases. The work itself did not change during the seven years. She went on “fitting” her clients, and Cinnamon went on cleaning the office, keeping the books, and driving the Porsche. There was no progress, no retrogression, only the gradual aging of everyone involved. Nutmeg was nearing fifty, and Cinnamon turned twenty. Cinnamon seemed to enjoy his work, but Nutmeg was gradually overcome by a sense of powerlessness. Over the years, she went on “fitting” the “something” that each of her clients carried within. She never fully understood what it was that she did for them, but she continued to do her best. The “somethings,” meanwhile, were never cured. She could never make them go away; all that her curative powers could do was reduce their activity somewhat for a time. Within a few days (usually, from three to ten days), each “something” would start up again, advancing and retreating over the short span but growing unmistakably larger over time—like cancer cells. Nutmeg could feel them growing in her hands. They would tell her: You’re wasting your time; no matter what you do, we are going to win in the end. And they were right. She had no hope of victory. All she could do was slow their progress somewhat, to give her clients a few days of peace.

  Nutmeg would often ask herself, “Is it not just these women? Do all the women of the world carry this kind of ‘something’ inside them? And why are the ones who come here all middle-aged women? Do I have a ‘something’ inside me as well?”

  But Nutmeg did not really want to know the answers to her questions. All she could be sure of was that circumstances had somehow conspired to confine her in her fitting room. People needed her, and as long as they went on needing her, she could not get out. Sometimes her sense of powerlessness would be deep and terrible, and she would feel like an empty shell. She was being worn down, disappearing into a dark nothingness. At times like this, she would open herself to her quiet son, and Cinnamon would nod as he listened intently to his mother’s words. He never said anything, but speaking to him like this enabled her to attain an odd kind of peace. She was not entirely alone, she felt, and not entirely powerless. How strange, she thought: I heal others, and Cinnamon heals me. But who heals Cinnamon? Is he like a black hole, absorbing all pain and loneliness by himself? One time—and only that once—she tried to search inside him by placing her hand on his forehead the way she did to her clients when she was “fitting” them. But she could feel nothing.

  Before long, Nutmeg felt that she wanted to leave her work. “I don’t have much strength left. If I keep this up, I will burn out completely. I’ll have nothing left at all.” But people continued to have an intense need for her “fitting.” She could not bring herself to abandon her clients just to suit her own convenience.

  Nutmeg found a successor during the summer of that year. The moment she saw the mark on the cheek of the young man who was sitting in front of a building in Shinjuku, she knew.

  A Stupid Tree Frog Daughter

  (May Kasahara’s Point of View: 4)

  •

  Hi, again, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.

  It’s two-thirty in the morning. All my neighbors are sound asleep, but I can’t sleep tonight, so I’m up, writing this letter to you. To tell you the truth, sleepless nights are as unusual for me as sumo wrestlers who look good in berets. Usually, I just slip right into sleep when the time comes, and slip right out when it’s time to wake up. I do have an alarm clock, but I almost never use it. Every rare once in a while, though, this happens: I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t get back to sleep.

  I’m planning to stay at my desk, writing this letter to you, until I get sleepy, so I don’t know if this is going to be a long letter or a short one. Of course, I never really know that anytime I write to you until I get to the end.

  Anyway, it seems to me that the way most people go on living (I suppose there are a few exceptions), they think that the world or life (or whatever) is this place where everything is (or is supposed to be) basically logical and consistent. Talking with my neighbors here often makes me think that. Like, when something happens, whether it’s a big event that affects the whole society or something small and personal, people talk about it like, “Oh, well, of course, that happened because such and such,” and most of the time people will agree and say, like, “Oh, sure, I see,” but I just don’t get it. “A is like this, so that’s why B happened.” I mean, that doesn’t explain anything. It’s like when you put instant rice pudding mix in a bowl in the microwave and push the button, and you take the cover off when it rings, and there you’ve got rice pudding. I mean, what happens in between the time when you push the switch and when the microwave rings? You can’t tell what’s going on under the cover. Maybe the instant rice pudding first turns into macaroni gratin in the darkness when nobody’s looking and only then turns back into rice pudding. We think it’s only natural to get rice pudding after we put rice pudding mix in the microwave and the bell rings, but to me that’s just a presumption. I would be kind of relieved if, every once in a while, after you put rice pudding mix in the microwave and it rang and you opened the top, you got macaroni gratin. I suppose I’d be shocked, of course, but I don’t know, I think I’d be kind of relieved too. Or at least I think I wouldn’t be so upset, because that would feel, in some ways, a whole lot more real.

  Why “more real”? Trying to explain that logically, in words, would be very, very, very hard, but maybe if you take the path my life has followed as an example and really think about it, you can see that it has had almost nothing about it that you could call “consistency.” First of all, it’s an absolute mystery how a daughter like me could have been born to two parents as boring as tree frogs. I know it’s a little weird for me to be saying this, but I’m a lot more serious than the two of them combined. I’m not boasting or anything; it’s just a fact. I don’t mean to say that I’m any better than they are, but I am a more serious human being. If you met them, you’d know what I mean, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. Those people believe that the world is as consistent and explainable as the floor plan of a new house in a high-priced development, so if you do everything in a logical, consistent way, everything will turn out right in the end. That’s why they get upset and sad and angry when I’m not like that.

  Why was I born into this world as the child of such absolute dummies? And why didn’t I turn into the same kind of stupid tree frog daughter even though I was raised by those people? I’ve been wondering and wondering about that ever since I can remember. But I can’t explain it. It seems to me there ought to be a good reason, but it’s a reason that I can’t find. And there are tons of other things that don’t have logical explanations. For example, “Why does everybody hate me?” I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just living my life in the usual way. But then, all of a sudden, one day I noticed that nobody liked me. I don’t understand it.

  So then one disconnected thing led to another disconnected thing, and that’s how all kinds of stuff happened. Like, I met the boy with the motorcycle and we had that stupid accident. The way I remember it—or the way those things are all lined up in my head—there’s no “This happened this way, so naturally that happened that way.” Ev
ery time the bell rings and I take off the cover, I seem to find something I’ve never seen before.

  I don’t have any idea what’s happening to me, and before I know it I’m not going to school anymore and I’m hanging around the house, and that’s when I meet you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. No, before that I’m doing surveys for a wig company. But why a wig company? That’s another mystery. I can’t remember. Maybe I hit my head in the accident, and the position of my brain got messed up. Or maybe the psychological shock of it started me covering up all kinds of memories, the way a squirrel hides a nut and forgets where he’s buried it. (Have you ever seen that happen, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? I have. When I was little. I thought the stupid squirrel was sooo funny! It never occurred to me the same thing was going to happen to me.)

  So anyhow, I started doing surveys for the wig company, and that’s what gave me this fondness for wigs like they were my destiny or something. Talk about no connection! Why wigs and not stockings or rice scoops? If it had been stockings or rice scoops, I wouldn’t be working hard in a wig factory like this. Right? And if I hadn’t caused that stupid bike accident, I probably wouldn’t have met you in the back alley that summer, and if you hadn’t met me, you probably would never have known about the Miyawakis’ well, so you wouldn’t have gotten that mark on your face, and you wouldn’t have gotten mixed up in all those strange things … probably. When I think about it like this, I can’t help asking myself, “Where is there any logical consistency in the world?”

  I don’t know—maybe the world has two different kinds of people, and for one kind the world is this completely logical, rice pudding place, and for the other it’s all hit-or-miss macaroni gratin. I bet if those tree frog parents of mine put rice pudding mix in the microwave and got macaroni gratin when the bell rang, they’d just tell themselves, “Oh, we must have put in macaroni gratin mix by mistake,” or they’d take out the macaroni gratin and try to convince themselves, “This looks like macaroni gratin, but actually it’s rice pudding.” And if I tried to be nice and explain to them that sometimes, when you put in rice pudding mix, you get macaroni gratin, they would never believe me. They’d probably just get mad. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?