Kafka on the Shore (6 page)

"No," I answer.

"That's what I thought."

"Is it still okay for me to use the library?" I ask timidly, trying to keep my voice from cracking.

"Of course." He smiles and places both hands on the desk. "This is a library, and anybody who wants to read is welcome. This can be our little secret, but I'm not particularly fond of tanka or haiku myself."

"It's a really beautiful building," I say.

He nods. "The Komura family's been a major sake producer since the Edo period," he explains, "and the previous head of the family was quite a bibliophile, nationally famous for scouring the country in search of books. His father was himself a tanka poet, and many writers used to stop by here when they came to Shikoku.

Wakayama Bokusui, for instance, or Ishikawa Takuboku, and Shiga Naoya. Some of them must have found it quite comfortable here, because they stayed a long time. All in all, the family spared no expense when it came to the literary arts. What usually happens with a family like that is eventually a descendant squanders the inheritance, but fortunately the Komuras avoided that fate. They enjoyed their hobby, in its place, but made sure the family business did well."

"So they were rich," I say, stating the obvious.

"Very much so." His lips curve ever so slightly. "They aren't as rich now as they were before the war, but they're still pretty wealthy. Which is why they can maintain such a wonderful library. Of course making it a foundation helps lower their inheritance tax, but that's another story. If you're really interested in this building I suggest you take the little tour at two. It's only once a week, on Tuesdays, which happens to be today.

There's a rather unique collection of paintings and drawings on the second floor, and the building itself is, architecturally, quite fascinating. I know you'll enjoy it."

"Thank you," I say.

You're quite welcome, his smile suggests. He picks his pencil up again and starts tapping the eraser end on the desk like he's gently encouraging me.

"Are you the one who does the tour?"

Oshima smiles. "No, I'm just a lowly assistant, I'm afraid. A lady named Miss Saeki is in charge here—my boss. She's related to the Komuras and does the tour herself.

I know you'll like her. She's a wonderful person."

I go into the high-ceilinged stacks and wander among the shelves, searching for a book that looks interesting. Magnificent thick beams run across the ceiling of the room, and gentle early-summer sunlight is shining through the open window, the chatter of birds in the garden filtering in. The books in the shelves in front of me, sure enough, are just like Oshima said, mainly books of Japanese poetry. Tanka and haiku, essays on poetry, biographies of various poets. There are also a lot of books on local history. A shelf farther back contains general humanities—collections of Japanese literature, world literature, and individual writers, classics, philosophy, drama, art history, sociology, history, biography, geography.... When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier time leaking out between the pages—a special odor of the knowledge and emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers. Breathing it in, I glance through a few pages before returning each book to its shelf.

Finally I decide on a multivolume set, with beautiful covers, of the Burton translation of The Arabian Nights, pick out one volume, and take it back to the reading room. I've been meaning to read this book. Since the library has just opened for the day, there's no one else there and I have the elegant reading room all to myself. It's exactly like in the photo in the magazine—roomy and comfortable, with a high ceiling. Every once in a while a gentle breeze blows in through the open window, the white curtain rustling softly in air that has a hint of the sea. And I love the comfortable sofa. An old upright piano stands in a corner, and the whole place makes me feel like I'm in some friend's home.

As I relax on the sofa and gaze around the room a thought hits me: This is exactly the place I've been looking for forever. A little hideaway in some sinkhole somewhere.

I'd always thought of it as a secret, imaginary place, and can barely believe that it actually exists. I close my eyes and take a breath, and like a gentle cloud the wonder of it all settles over me. I slowly stroke the creamish cover of the sofa, then stand up and walk over to the piano and lift the cover, laying all ten fingers down on the slightly yellowed keys. I shut the cover and walk across the faded grape-patterned carpet to the window and test the antique handle that opens and closes it. I switch the floor lamp on and off, then check out all the paintings hanging on the walls. Finally I plop back down on the sofa and pick up reading where I left off, focusing on The Arabian Nights for a while.

At noon I take my bottle of mineral water and box lunch out to the veranda that faces the garden and sit down to eat. Different kinds of birds fly overhead, fluttering from one tree to the next or flying down to the pond to drink and groom themselves.

There are some I've never seen before. A large brown cat makes an appearance, which is their signal to clear out of there, even though the cat looks like he couldn't care less about birds. All he wants is to stretch out on the stepping stones and enjoy the warm sunlight.

"Is your school closed today?" Oshima asks when I drop off my backpack on my way back to the reading room.

"No," I reply, carefully choosing my words, "I just decided to take some time off."

"Refusing to go to school," he says.

"I guess so."

Oshima looks at me with great interest. "You guess so."

"I'm not refusing to go to school. I just decided not to."

"Very calmly, all on your own, you stopped going to school?"

I merely nod. I have no idea how to reply.

"According to Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, in the ancient world of myth there were three types of people," Oshima says. "Have you heard about this?"

"No."

"In ancient times people weren't just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half."

"Why did God do that?"

"Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There's that whole wrath-of-God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the Fall and so forth."

"Original sin," I say.

"That's right, original sin." Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing the balance. "Anyway, my point is that it's really hard for people to live their lives alone."

Back in the reading room I return to "The Tale of Abu-l-Hasan, the Wag," but my mind wanders away from the book. Male/male, male/female, and female/female?

At two o'clock I lay down my book and get up from the sofa to join the tour of the building. Miss Saeki, leading the tour, is a slim woman I'd guess is in her mid-forties.

She's a little on the tall side for someone of her generation. She's wearing a blue half-sleeved dress and a cream-colored cardigan, and has excellent posture. Her long hair is loosely tied back, her face very refined and intelligent looking, with beautiful eyes and a shadowy smile playing over her lips, a smile whose sense of completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place. My house back in Tokyo has one just like that in the garden, and ever since I was little I loved that bright little spot.

She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic.

Wouldn't it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman. The chances that Miss Saeki's actually my mother are close to zero, I realize. Still, since I have no idea what my mother looks like, or even her name, the possibility does exist, right? There's nothing that rules it out completely.

The only other people taking the tour are a middle-aged couple from Osaka. The wife is short and pudgy with glasses as thick as a Coke bottle. The husband's a skinny guy with hair so stiff I bet he needs a wire brush to tame it. With narrow eyes and a broad forehead, he reminds me of some statue on a southern island, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wife keeps up a one-sided conversation, her husband just grunting out a monosyllable every once in a while to let her know he's still alive. Other than that, he gives the occasional nod to show he's properly impressed or else mutters some fragmentary comment I can't catch. Both of them are dressed more for mountain climbing than for visiting a library, each wearing a waterproof vest with a million pockets, sturdy lace-up boots, and hiking hats. Maybe this is how they always dress when they go on a trip, who knows. They seem okay—not that I'd want them as parents or anything—and I'm relieved not to be the only one taking the tour.

Miss Saeki begins by explaining the library's history—basically the same story Oshima told me. How they opened to the public the books and paintings the umpteenth head of the family had collected, devoting the library to the region's cultural development. A foundation was set up based on the Komura fortune and now managed the library and occasionally sponsored lectures, chamber music concerts, and the like.

The building itself dated from the early Meiji period, when it was built to serve double duty as the family library and guesthouse. In the Taisho period it was completely renovated as a two-story building, with the addition of magnificent guest rooms for visiting writers and artists. From the Taisho to the early Showa period, many famous artists visited the Komuras, leaving behind mementos—poems, sketches, and paintings—in gratitude for having been allowed to stay here.

"You'll be able to view some selected items from this valuable collection in the second-floor gallery," Miss Saeki adds. "Before World War II, a vibrant local culture was established less through the efforts of local government than those of wealthy connoisseurs such as the Komura family. They were, in short, patrons of the arts.

Kagawa Prefecture has produced quite a number of talented tanka and haiku poets, and one reason for this was the dedication with which the Komura family founded and supported the local art scene. Quite a number of books, essays, and reminiscences have been published on the history of these fascinating artistic circles, all of which are in our reading room. I hope you'll take the opportunity to look at them.

"The heads of the Komura family down through the years have been well versed in the arts, with an especially refined appreciation of the truly excellent. This might have run in the blood. They were very discerning patrons of the arts, supporting artists with the highest aims who produced the most outstanding works. But as you're surely aware, in the arts there is no such thing as an absolutely perfect eye. Unfortunately, some exceptional artists did not win their favor or were not received by them as they deserved to be. One of these was the haiku poet Taneda Santoka. According to the guestbook, Santoka stayed here on numerous occasions, each time leaving behind poems and drawings. The head of the family, however, called him a 'beggar and a braggart,' wouldn't have much to do with him, and in fact threw away most of these works."

"What a terrible waste," the lady from Osaka says, apparently truly sorry to hear this. "Nowadays Santoka fetches a hefty price."

"You're exactly right," Miss Saeki says, beaming. "But at the time, he was an unknown, so perhaps it couldn't be helped. There are many things we only see clearly in retrospect."

"You got that right," the husband pipes in.

After this Miss Saeki guides us around the first floor, showing us the stacks, the reading room, the rare-books collection.

"When he built this library, the head of the family decided not to follow the simple and elegant style favored by artists in Kyoto, instead choosing a design more like a rustic dwelling. Still, as you can see, in contrast to the bold structure of the building, the furnishings and picture frames are quite elaborate and luxurious. The carving of these wooden panels, for instance, is very elegant. All the finest master craftsmen in Shikoku were assembled to work on the construction."

Our little group starts upstairs, a vaulted ceiling soaring over the staircase. The ebony railing's so highly polished it looks like you'll leave a mark if you touch it. On a stained-glass window next to the landing, a deer stretches out its neck to nibble at some grapes. There are two parlors on the second floor, as well as a spacious hall that in the past was probably lined with tatami for banquets and gatherings. Now the floor is plain wood, and the walls are covered with framed calligraphy, hanging scrolls, and Japanese-style paintings. In the center, a glass case displays various mementos and the story behind each. One parlor is in the Japanese style, the other Western. The Western-style room contains a large writing desk and a swivel chair that look like someone's still using.

There's a line of pines outside the window behind the desk, and the horizon's faintly visible between the trees.

The couple from Osaka walks around the parlor, inspecting all the items, reading the explanations in the pamphlet. Every time the wife makes a comment, the husband chimes in to second her opinion. A lucky couple that agrees on everything. The things on display don't do much for me, so I check out the details of the building's construction.

While I'm nosing around the Western parlor Miss Saeki comes up to me and says, "You can sit in that chair, if you'd like to. Shiga Naoya and Tanizaki both sat there at one time or another. Not that this is the same chair, of course."

I sit down on the swivel chair and quietly rest my hands on the desk.