Kafka on the Shore (41 page)

"Thanks, but why don't we just forget that, okay?"

"I wanted to hear your voice, too," I say.

"I'm happy to hear that, but how does that help anything?"

"I don't know how to put it exactly.... This might sound strange, but you're living in the real world, breathing real air, speaking real words. Talking with you makes me feel, for the time being, connected to reality. And that's really important to me now."

"The people you're with now aren't?"

"I'm not sure," I tell her.

"So what you're saying is you're in some unreal place, with people cut off from reality?"

I think about that for a while. "You might say that."

"Kafka," Sakura says. "I know it's your life and I shouldn't butt in, but I think you'd better get out of there. I don't know what kind of place you're in, but I get the feeling that's the smart move. Call it a hunch. Why don't you come over to my place?

You can stay as long as you like."

"Why are you so nice to me?"

"What are you, a dunce?"

"What do you mean?"

"'Cause I like you—can't you figure that out? I'm a basically curious type, but I wouldn't do this for just anybody. I've done all this for you because I like you, okay? I don't know how to put it, but you feel like a younger brother to me."

I hold the phone without saying a word. For a second I'm completely confused, even dizzy. Nobody's ever said anything like that to me. Ever.

"You still there?" Sakura asks.

"Yeah," I manage to say.

"Well, then say something."

I stand up straight and take a deep breath. "Sakura, I wish I could do that. I really do. But I can't right now. Like I told you, I can't leave here. I'm in love."

"With some complicated, unreal person?"

"You could say that."

I hear her sigh again—a deep, profound kind of sigh. "You know, when kids your age fall in love they tend to get a little spacey, so if the person you're in love with isn't connected to reality, that's a major problem. You follow me?"

"Yeah, I get it."

"Kafka?"

"Hmm?"

"If anything happens, call me, okay? Don't hesitate, at all."

"I appreciate it."

I hang up, go back to my room, put the single of "Kafka on the Shore" on the turntable, and lower the needle. And once more, whether I like it or not, I'm swept away to that place. To that time.

I sense a presence and open my eyes. It's totally dark. The fluorescent numbers on the alarm clock next to my bed show it's after three. I must've fallen asleep. In the faint light from the lamppost out in the garden I see her sitting there. As always she's at the desk, gazing at the painting on the wall. Motionless, head in her hands. And I'm lying in bed as before, trying hard not to breathe, eyes barely open, gazing at her silhouette.

Outside the window the breeze from the sea is rustling the branches of the dogwood.

After a while, though, I sense that something's different. Something in the air that disturbs the perfect harmony of our little world. I strain to see through the gloom. What is it? The wind momentarily picks up, and the blood coursing through my veins begins to feel strangely thick and heavy. The dogwood branches draw a nervous maze on the windowpane. Finally it comes to me. The silhouette isn't that of the young girl. It looks a lot like her, almost an exact match. But it isn't exactly the same. Like a copy of a drawing laid over the real thing, some of the details are off. Her hairstyle is different, for one thing. And she has on different clothes. Her whole presence is different.

Unconsciously I shake my head. It isn't the girl sitting there—it's someone else.

Something's happening, something very important. I'm clutching my hands tightly beneath the covers, and my heart, unable to stand it anymore, starts pounding hard, beating out an unexpected, erratic rhythm.

As if that sound is the signal, the silhouette in the chair starts to move, slowly changing its angle like some massive ship changing course. She takes her head out of her hands and turns in my direction. With a start I realize it's Miss Saeki. I gulp and can't let my breath out. It's the Miss Saeki of the present. The real Miss Saeki. She looks at me for a while, quietly concentrating like when she's looking at the painting, and a thought hits me—the axis of time. Somewhere I don't know about, something weird is happening to time. Reality and dreams are all mixed up, like seawater and river water flowing together. I struggle to find the meaning behind it all, but nothing makes any sense.

Finally she gets to her feet and slowly comes toward me, holding herself as erect as always. She's barefoot, and the floorboards faintly creak as she walks. Silently she sits down on the edge of the bed, and remains still for a time. Her body has a definite density and weight. She has on a white silk blouse and a navy blue skirt that reaches to her knees. She reaches out and touches my head, her fingers groping through my short hair. Her hand is real, with real fingers touching me. She stands up again, and in the faint light shining in from outside—like it's the most natural thing to do—begins to undress. She's in no hurry, but she doesn't hesitate, either. In smooth, natural motions she unbuttons her blouse, slips out of her skirt, and steps out of her panties. Piece by piece her clothing falls to the floor, the soft fabric hardly making a sound. She's asleep, I realize. Her eyes are open but it's like she's sleepwalking.

Once she's naked she crawls into the narrow bed and wraps her pale arms around me. Her warm breath grazes my neck, her pubic hair pushing up against my thigh. She must think I'm her dead boyfriend from long ago, and that she's doing what they used to do here in this very room. Fast asleep, dreaming, she goes through the motions from long ago.

I figure I'd better wake her up. She's making a big mistake, and I have to let her know. This isn't a dream—it's real life. But everything's happening so fast, and I don't have the strength to resist. Thrown totally off balance, I feel like I'm being sucked into a time warp.

And you're sucked into a time warp.

Before you know it, her dream has wrapped itself around your mind. Gently, warmly, like amniotic fluid. Miss Saeki will take off your T-shirt, pull off your boxers.

She'll kiss your neck over and over, then reach out and hold your penis, which is already porcelain-hard. Gently she wraps her hand around your balls, and wordlessly guides your fingers to her pubic hair. Her vagina is warm and wet. She kisses your chest, sucking your nipples. Your fingers are slowly sucked inside her.

Where does your responsibility begin here? Wiping away the nebula from your sight, you struggle to find where you really are. You're trying to find the direction of the flow, struggling to hold on to the axis of time. But you can't locate the borderline separating dream and reality. Or even the boundary between what's real and what's possible. All you're sure of is that you're in a delicate position. Delicate—and dangerous.

You're pulled along, a part of it, unable to pin down the principles of prophecy, or of logic. Like when a river overflows, washing over a town, all road signs have sunk beneath the waves. And all you can see are the anonymous roofs of the sunken houses.

You're faceup, and Miss Saeki gets on top of you. She guides your rock-hard cock inside her. You're helpless—she's the one who's in charge. She bends and twists her waist as if tracing a picture with her body. Her straight hair falls on your shoulders and trembles noiselessly, like the branches of a willow. Little by little you're sucked down into the warm mud. The whole world turns warm, wet, indistinct, and all that exists is your rigid, glistening cock. You close your eyes and your own dream begins. It's hard to tell how much time is passing. The tide comes in, the moon rises. And soon you come.

There's nothing you can do to stop it. You come over and over inside her. The warm walls inside her contract, gathering in your semen. All this while she's still asleep with her eyes wide open. She's in a different world, and that's where your seed goes—swallowed down into a place apart.

A long time passes. I can't move. Every part of me is paralyzed. Paralyzed, or else maybe I just don't feel like trying to move. She gets off and lies down beside me. After a while she gets up, tugs on her panties, pulls on her skirt, and buttons up her blouse. She gently reaches out again and tousles my hair. All this takes place without a word passing between us. She hasn't said a thing since she entered the room. The only sounds are the creak of the floorboards, the wind blowing ceaselessly outside. The room breathing out, the windowpane shivering. That's the chorus behind me.

Still asleep, she crosses the room and leaves. The door's open just a crack but she slips right out like a delicate, dreamy fish. Silently the door closes. I watch from the bed as she makes her exit, still unable to move. I can't even raise a finger. My lips are tightly sealed. Words are asleep in a corner of time.

Unable to move a muscle, I lie there straining to hear. I imagine I'll catch the roar of her Golf in the parking lot. But I never hear it, no matter how long I listen. The wind blows clouds over, then scatters them away. The branches of the dogwood quiver, and countless knives flash in the darkness. The window is my heart's window, the door my soul's door. I lie there awake until dawn, gazing at the empty chair.

The two of them scrambled over the low hedge into the woods. Colonel Sanders took a small flashlight out of his pocket and illuminated the narrow path. The woods weren't very deep, but the trees were hugely ancient, the tangle of their branches looming darkly above. A strong grassy odor came from the ground below.

Colonel Sanders took the lead, for once maintaining a leisurely pace. Shining the flashlight to make sure of his footing, he cautiously took one step at a time.

Hoshino followed right behind. "Hey, Unc, is this some kind of dare or something?" he said to the Colonel's white back. "Whoa—a ghost!"

"Why don't you zip it for a change," Colonel Sanders said without turning around.

"Okay, okay." Hoshino suddenly wondered how Nakata was doing. Probably still sound asleep. It's like the term sound asleep was invented just to describe him—once he falls asleep, that's all she wrote. What kind of dreams does he have, though, during those record-breaking sleeps? Hoshino couldn't imagine. "Are we there yet?"

"Almost," Colonel Sanders replied.

"Tell me something," Hoshino began.

"What?"

"Are you really Colonel Sanders?"

Colonel Sanders cleared his throat. "Not really. I'm just taking on his appearance for a time."

"That's what I figured," Hoshino said. "So what are you really?"

"I don't have a name."

"How do you get along without one?"

"No problem. Originally I don't have a name or a shape."

"So you're kind of like a fart."

"You could say that. Since I don't have a shape I can become anything I want."

"Huh..."

"This time I decided to take on a familiar shape, that of a famous capitalist icon. I was toying with the idea of Mickey Mouse, but Disney's particular about the rights to their characters."

"I don't think I'd want Mickey Mouse pimping for me anyway."

"I see your point."

"Dressing up like Colonel Sanders fits your character, too."

"But I don't have a character. Or any feelings. Shape I may take, converse I may, but neither god nor Buddha am I, rather an insensate being whose heart thus differs from that of man."

"What the—?"

"A line from Ueda Akinari's Tales of Moonlight and Rain. I doubt you've read it."

"You got me there."

"I'm appearing here in human form, but I'm neither god nor Buddha. My heart works differently from humans' hearts because I don't have any feelings. That's what it means."

"Hmm," Hoshino said. "I'm not sure I follow, but what you're saying is you're not a person and not a god or Buddha either, right?"

"Neither god nor Buddha, just the insensate. As such, of the good and bad of man I neither inquire nor follow."

"Meaning?"

"Since I'm neither god nor Buddha, I don't need to judge whether people are good or evil. Likewise I don't have to act according to standards of good and evil."

"In other words you exist beyond good and evil."

"You're too kind. I'm not beyond good and evil, exactly—they just don't matter to me. I have no idea what's good or what's evil. I'm a very pragmatic being. A neutral object, as it were, and all I care about is consummating the function I've been given to perform."

"Consummate your function? What's that?"

"Didn't you go to school?"

"Yeah, I went to high school, but it was a trade school. I spent all my time screwing around on motorcyles."

"I'm kind of an overseer, supervising something to make sure it fulfills its original role. Checking the correlation between different worlds, making sure things are in the right order. So results follow causes and meanings don't get all mixed up. So the past comes before the present, the future after it. Things can get a little out of order, that's okay. Nothing's perfect. If the account book's basically in balance, though, that's fine by me. To tell you the truth, I'm not much of a detail person. The technical term for it is 'Abbreviating Sensory Processing of Continuous Information,' but I don't want to get into all that. It'd take too long to explain, and I know it's beyond you. So let's cut to the chase. What I'm getting at is I'm not going to complain about each and every little thing. Of course if the accounts don't eventually balance, that is a problem. I do have my responsibility to consider."

"I got a question for you. If you're such an important person, how come you're a pimp in a back alley in Takamatsu?"

"I am not a person, okay? How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Whatever..."

"Pimping's just a means of getting you here. There's something I need you to lend me a hand with, so as a reward I thought I'd let you have a good time first. A kind of formality we have to go through."

"Lend you a hand?"

"As I've explained, I don't have any form. I'm a metaphysical, conceptual object. I can take on any form, but I lack substance. And to perform a real act, I need someone with substance to help out."