Kafka on the Shore (57 page)

She stopped speaking here, picked up the fountain pen, and closed her eyes. "My life ended at age twenty. Since then it's been merely a series of endless reminiscences, a dark, winding corridor leading nowhere. Nevertheless, I had to live it, surviving each empty day, seeing each day off still empty. During those days I made a lot of mistakes. No, that's not correct—sometimes I feel that all I did was make mistakes. I felt like I was living at the bottom of a deep well, completely shut up inside myself, cursing my fate, hating everything outside. Occasionally I ventured outside myself, putting on a good show of being alive. Accepting whatever came along, numbly slipping through life. I slept around a lot, at one point even living in a sort of marriage, but it was all pointless. Everything passed away in an instant, with nothing left behind except the scars of things I injured and despised."

She laid her hands on top of the three files on her desk. "All the details are in here. I wrote this to put it all in order, to make sure one more time about the life I lived. I have only myself to blame, but it's a gut-wrenching process. And I've finally finished it. I've written everything I need to write. I don't need this anymore, and I don't want anybody else to read it. If someone else happened to see it, it might cause harm all over again. So I want it all burned up, every last page, so nothing's left. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like you to take care of it. You're the only person I can depend on, Mr. Nakata. I'm sorry to bother you with this, but could you do it for me?"

"Nakata understands," he said, nodding seriously. "If that's what you'd like, Miss Saeki, I'll be happy to burn it all up for you. You can rest assured."

"Thank you," Miss Saeki said.

"Writing things was important, wasn't it?" Nakata asked.

"Yes, it was. The process of writing was important. Even though the finished product is completely meaningless."

"I can't read or write, so I can't write things down. Nakata's just like a cat."

"Mr. Nakata?"

"How can I help you?"

"I feel like I've known you for ages," Miss Saeki said. "Weren't you in that painting? A figure in the sea in the background? White pants legs rolled up, dipping your feet in the water?"

Nakata silently stood up and came over to stand in front of Miss Saeki. He laid his hard, sunburned hands on top of hers on the files. And as if listening carefully to something, he felt the warmth there filter from her hand to his. "Miss Saeki?"

"Yes?"

"I think I understand a little now."

"About what?"

"What memories are. I can feel them, through your hands."

She smiled. "I'm glad."

Nakata kept his hands on top of hers for a long while. Eventually Miss Saeki closed her eyes, quietly giving herself over to memories. There was no more pain there, for someone had siphoned it off forever. The circle was once again complete. She opens the door of a faraway room and finds two beautiful chords, in the shape of lizards, asleep on the wall. She gently touches them and can feel their peaceful sleep. A gentle wind is blowing, rustling the old curtain from time to time. A significant rustling, like some parable. She's wearing a long blue dress. A dress she wore somewhere a long time ago. Its hem swishes faintly as she walks. The shore is visible outside the window. And you can hear the sound of waves, and someone's voice. There's a hint of the sea in the breeze. And it's summer. Always it's summer. Small white clouds are etched against the azure sky.

Nakata carried the three thick files downstairs. Oshima was at the counter talking with one of the patrons. When he saw Nakata, he grinned. Nakata gave a polite bow in return, and Oshima went back to his conversation. Hoshino was in the reading room all the while, deep in a book.

"Mr. Hoshino?" Nakata said.

Hoshino laid his book down and looked up. "Hey, that took a while. You all finished?"

"Yes, Nakata's all finished here. If it's all right with you, I was thinking we can leave pretty soon."

"Fine by me. I'm nearly finished with this book. Beethoven just died, and I'm at the part about the funeral. Man, what a funeral! Twenty-five thousand Viennese joined the procession, and they closed all the schools for the day."

"Mr. Hoshino?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I have one more favor to ask of you."

"Shoot."

"I need to burn this somewhere."

Hoshino looked at the files the old man was carrying. "Hmm, that's a lot of stuff. We can't just burn it anywhere. We'd need a dry riverbed or someplace."

"Mr. Hoshino?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's go find one then."

"Maybe this is a stupid question, but is that really so important? Can't we just toss it somewhere?"

"Yes, it's very important and we have to burn it all up. It has to turn into smoke and rise into the sky. And we have to watch it, to make sure it all burns up."

Hoshino stood up and stretched. "Okay, let's find a big riverbed. I have no idea where, but I'm sure Shikoku's gotta have at least one—if we look long enough."

The afternoon was busier than it had ever been. Lots of people came to use the library, several with detailed, specialized questions. It was all Oshima could do to respond, and to run around collecting materials that had been requested. Several items he had to locate on the computer. Normally he'd ask Miss Saeki to help out, but today it didn't look like he'd be able to. Various tasks took him away from his desk and he didn't even notice when Nakata left. When things settled down for a moment he looked around, but the strange pair was nowhere to be seen. Oshima walked upstairs to Miss Saeki's study. Strangely, the door was shut. He knocked twice and waited, but there was no response. He knocked again. "Miss Saeki?" he said from outside the door. "Are you all right?"

He softly turned the knob. The door was unlocked. Oshima opened it a crack and peeked inside. And saw Miss Saeki facedown on the desk. Her hair had tumbled forward, hiding her face. He didn't know what to do. Maybe she was just tired and had fallen asleep. But he'd never once seen her take a nap. She wasn't the type to doze off at work.

He walked into the room and went over to the desk. He leaned over and whispered her name in her ear, but got no response. He touched her shoulder, then held her wrist and pressed his finger against it. There was no pulse. Her skin retained a faint warmth, but it was already fading away.

He lifted her hair and checked her face. Both eyes were slightly open. She looked like she was having a pleasant dream, but she wasn't. She was dead. A faint trace of a smile was still on her lips. Even in death she was graceful and dignified, Oshima thought. He let her hair fall back and picked up the phone on the desk.

He'd resigned himself to the fact that it was only a matter of time before this day came. But now that it had, and he was alone in this quiet room with a dead Miss Saeki, he was lost. He felt as if his heart had dried up. I needed her, he thought. I needed someone like her to fill the void inside me. But I wasn't able to fill the void inside her.

Until the bitter end, the emptiness inside her was hers alone.

Somebody was calling out his name from downstairs. He felt like he'd heard that voice. He'd left the door wide open and could hear the sounds of people bustling around.

A phone rang on the first floor. He ignored it all. He sat down and gazed at Miss Saeki.

You want to call my name, he thought, go right ahead. You want to call on the phone—be my guest. Finally he heard an ambulance siren that seemed to be getting closer. In a few moments people will be rushing upstairs to take her away—forever. He raised his left arm and glanced at his watch. It was 4:35 .4:35 on a Tuesday afternoon. I have to remember this time, he thought. I have to remember this day, this afternoon, forever.

"Kafka Tamura," he whispered, staring at the wall, "I have to tell you what happened. If you don't already know."

With all my baggage gone I can travel light now, forging on deeper into the forest. I focus totally on moving forward. No need to mark any more trees, no need to remember the path back. I don't even look at my surroundings. The scenery's always the same, so what's the point? A canopy of trees towering above thick ferns, vines trailing down, gnarled roots, lumps of decaying leaves, the dry, sloughed-off skins of various bugs.

Hard, sticky spiderwebs. And endless branches—a regular tree branch universe.

Menacing branches, branches fighting for space, cleverly hidden branches, twisted, crooked branches, contemplative branches, dried-up, dying branches—the same scenery repeated again and again. Though with each repetition the forest grows a bit deeper.

Mouth tightly shut, I continue down what passes for a path. It's running uphill, but not so steeply, at least for now. Not the kind of slope that's going to get me out of breath. Sometimes the path threatens to get lost in a sea of ferns or thorny bushes, but as long as I push on ahead the pseudo-path pops up again. The forest doesn't scare me anymore. It has its own rules and patterns, and once you stop being afraid you're aware of them. Once I grasp these repetitions, I make them a part of me.

I'm empty-handed now. The can of yellow spray paint, the little hatchet—they're history. The daypack's gone as well. No canteen, no food. Not even the compass. One by one I left these behind. Doing this gives a visible message to the forest: I'm not afraid anymore. That's why I chose to be totally defenseless. Minus my hard shell, just flesh and bones, I head for the core of the labyrinth, giving myself up to the void.

The music that had been playing in my head has vanished, leaving behind some faint white noise like a taut white sheet on a huge bed. I touch that sheet, tracing it with my fingertips. The white goes on forever. Sweat beads up under my arms. Sometimes I can catch a glimpse of the sky through the treetops. It's covered with an even, unbroken layer of gray clouds, but it doesn't look like it's going to rain. The clouds are still, the whole scene unchanging. Birds in the high branches call out clipped, meaningful greetings to each other. Insects buzz prophetically among the weeds.

I think about my deserted house back in Nogata. Most likely it's all shut up now.

Fine by me. Let the bloodstains be. What do I care? I'm never going back there. Even before that bloody incident took place, that house was a place where lots of things had died. Check that—were murdered.

Sometimes from above me, sometimes from below, the forest tries to threaten me.

Blowing a chill breath on my neck, stinging like needles with a thousand eyes. Trying anything to drive this intruder away. But I gradually get better at letting these threats pass me by. This forest is basically a part of me, isn't it? This thought takes hold at a certain point. The journey I'm taking is inside me. Just like blood travels down veins, what I'm seeing is my inner self, and what seems threatening is just the echo of the fear in my own heart. The spiderweb stretched taut there is the spiderweb inside me. The birds calling out overhead are birds I've fostered in my mind. These images spring up in my mind and take root.

Like I'm being shoved from behind by some huge heartbeat, I continue on and on through the forest. The path leads to a special place, a light source that spins out the dark, the place where soundless echoes come from. I need to see with my own eyes what's there. I'm carrying an important, sealed, personal letter, a secret message to myself.

A question. Why didn't she love me? Don't I deserve to have my mother love me?

For years that question's been a white-hot flame burning my heart, eating away at my soul. There had to be something fundamentally wrong with me that made my mother not love me. Was there something inherently polluted about me? Was I born just so everyone could turn their faces away from me?

My mother didn't even hold me close when she left. She turned her face away and left home with my sister without saying a word. She disappeared like quiet smoke. And now that face is gone forever.

The birds screech above me again, and I look up at the sky. Nothing there but that flat, expressionless layer of gray clouds. No wind at all. I trudge along. I'm walking by the shores of consciousness. Waves of consciousness roll in, roll out, leave some writing, and just as quickly new waves roll in and erase it. I try to quickly read what's written there, between one wave and the next, but it's hard. Before I can read it the next wave's washed it away. All that's left are puzzling fragments.

My mind wanders back to my house on the day my mother left, taking my sister with her. I'm sitting alone on the porch, staring out at the garden. It's twilight, in early summer, and the trees cast long shadows. I'm alone in the house. I don't know why, but I already knew I was abandoned. I understood even then how this would change my world forever. Nobody told me this—I just knew it. The house is empty, deserted, an abandoned lookout post on some far-off frontier. I'm watching the sun setting in the west, shadows slowly stealing over the world. In a world of time, nothing can go back to the way it was. The shadows' feelers steadily advance, eroding away one point after another along the ground, until my mother's face, there until a moment ago, is swallowed up in this dark, cold realm. That hardened face, turned away from me, is automatically snatched away, deleted from my memory.

Trudging along in the woods, I think of Miss Saeki. Her face, that calm, faint smile, the warmth of her hand. I try imagining her as my mother, leaving me behind when I was four. Without realizing it, I shake my head. The picture is all wrong. Why would Miss Saeki have done that? Why does she have to hurt me, to permanently screw up my life? There had to be a hidden, important reason, something deeper I'm just not getting.

I try to feel what she felt then and get closer to her viewpoint. It isn't easy. I'm the one who was abandoned, after all, she's the one who did the abandoning. But after a while I take leave of myself. My soul sloughs off the stiff clothes of the self and turns into a black crow that sits there on a branch high up in a pine tree in the garden, gazing down at the four-year-old boy on the porch.