Kafka on the Shore Read online

  I have no idea what to say.

  "All joking aside," she says, and smiles broadly to show that she means it, "my point is, in this whole wide world the only person you can depend on is you."

  "I guess so."

  She stands there leaning against the sink, drinking her coffee.

  "I have to get some sleep," she says, as if suddenly remembering. It's past three.

  "I have to get up at seven-thirty so I won't get much, but a little's better than none. I hate going to work on no sleep at all. So what're you going to do?"

  "I have my sleeping bag with me," I tell her, "so if it's no bother I'll just sack out in a corner." I take my tightly rolled-up sleeping bag out of my backpack, spread it out, and fluff it up.

  She watches, impressed. "A regular Boy Scout," she says.

  After she turns out the light and gets in bed, I climb into my sleeping bag, shut my eyes, and try to go to sleep. But I can't stop picturing that bloody white T-shirt. I still feel that burning sensation in my palm. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. A floor creaks somewhere. Somebody turns on a faucet. And again I hear an ambulance in the night, far off but echoing sharply in the darkness.

  "Can't fall asleep?" she whispers in the dark.

  "No," I say.

  "Me neither. Shouldn't have had that coffee. That was dumb." She switches on her bedside light, checks the time, then turns the light off. "Don't get me wrong," she says, "but if you'd like to come over here you can. I can't get to sleep either."

  I slip out of my sleeping bag and climb in bed with her. I'm wearing boxers and the T-shirt. She has on a pair of light pink pajamas.

  "I have a steady boyfriend in Tokyo," she tells me. "He's not much to brag about, but he's my guy. So I don't have sex with anybody else. I might not look like it, but when it comes to sex I'm pretty straightlaced. Call me old-fashioned. I wasn't always that way—I used to be pretty wild—but I don't fool around anymore. So don't get any ideas, okay? Just think of us as brother and sister. You understand?"

  "Gotcha," I tell her.

  She puts her arms around me, hugs me close, and rests her cheek on my forehead.

  "You poor thing," she says.

  I don't need to tell you that I get a hard-on right away. Big time. And it couldn't help rubbing up against her thigh.

  "My oh my!" she says.

  "Sorry," I tell her. "I didn't mean to."

  "It's okay," she says. "I know what an inconvenience it is. Nothing you can do to stop it."

  I nod in the darkness.

  She hesitates for a moment, then lowers my boxers, pulls out my rock-hard cock, and cradles it gently in her hand. Like she's making sure of something, the way a doctor takes a pulse. With her soft hand touching me, I feel something—a stray thought, maybe—spring up in my crotch.

  "How old would your sister be now?"

  "Twenty-one," I say. "Six years older than me."

  She thinks about this for a while. "Do you want to see her?"

  "Maybe," I say.

  "Maybe?" Her hand grasps my cock a little harder. "What do you mean, maybe?

  You really don't want to see her that much?"

  "I don't know what we'd talk about, and she might not want to see me. Same thing with my mother. Maybe neither one of them wants to have anything to do with me. No one's searching for me. I mean, they left and everything." Without me, I silently complete the thought.

  She doesn't say anything. Her hand on my cock loosens a bit, then tightens. In time with this my cock relaxes, then gets even harder.

  "You want to come?" she asks.

  "Maybe," I say.

  "Again with the maybes?"

  "Very much," I correct myself.

  She sighs lightly and slowly begins to move her hand. It feels out of this world.

  Not just an up-and-down motion, but more of an all-over massage. Her fingers gently stroke my cock and my balls. I close my eyes and let out a big sigh.

  "You can't touch me. And when you're about to come let me know so you don't mess up the sheets."

  "Okay," I say.

  "How is it? I'm pretty good, huh?"

  "Fantastic."

  "Like I was telling you, I'm very nimble-fingered. But this isn't sex, okay? I'm just—helping you relax, is what it is. You've had a rough day, you're all tense, and you're not going to sleep well unless we do something about it. Got it?"

  "Yeah, I get it," I say. "But I do have one request."

  "What's that?"

  "Is it okay if I imagine you naked?"

  Her hand stops and she looks me in the eyes. "You want to imagine me naked while we're doing this?"

  "Yeah. I've been trying to keep from imagining that, but I can't."

  "Really?"

  "It's like a TV you can't turn off."

  She laughs. "I don't get it. You didn't have to tell me that! Why don't you just go ahead and imagine what you want? You don't need my permission. How can I know what's in your head?"

  "I can't help it. Imagining something's very important, so I thought I'd better tell you. It has nothing to do with whether you know or not."

  "You are some kind of polite boy, aren't you," she says, impressed. "I guess it's nice, though, that you wanted to let me know. All right, permission granted. Go ahead and picture me nude."

  "Thanks," I say.

  "How is it? Is my body nice?"

  "It's amazing," I reply.

  This languid sensation spreads over my lower half, like a liquid floating to the surface. When I tell her, she grabs some tissue from the bedside, and I come, over and over, like crazy.... A little while later she goes to the kitchen, tosses away the tissue paper, and rinses her hand.

  "Sorry," I say.

  "It's all right," she says, snuggling back into bed. "No need to apologize. It's just a part of your body. So—do you feel better?"

  "Definitely."

  "I'm glad." She thinks for a while, then says, "I was thinking how nice it'd be if I was your real sister."

  "Me too," I say.

  She lightly touches my hair. "I'm going to sleep now, so why don't you go back to your sleeping bag. I can't sleep well unless I'm alone, and I don't want your hard-on poking me all night, okay?"

  I go back to my sleeping bag and close my eyes. This time I can get to sleep. A deep, deep sleep, maybe the deepest since I ran away from home. It's like I'm in some huge elevator that slowly, silently carries me deeper and deeper underground. Finally all light has disappeared, all sound faded away.

  When I wake up, Sakura's gone off to work. It's nine a. m. My shoulder hardly aches at all anymore. Just like she said. On the kitchen table I find a folded-up morning paper, a note, and a key.

  Her note says: I watched the TV news at seven and looked through the entire paper, but there weren't any bloody incidents reported around here. So I don't think that blood was anything. Good news, huh? There isn't much in the fridge, but help yourself.

  And make use of whatever you need around the house. If you aren't planning to go anywhere, feel free to hang out here. Just put the key under the doormat if you go out.

  I grab a carton of milk from the fridge, check the expiration date, and pour it over some cornflakes, boil some water, and make a cup of Darjeeling tea. Toast two slices of bread, and eat them with some low-fat margarine. Then I open the newspaper and scan the local news. Like she said, no violent crimes in the headlines. I let out a sigh of relief, fold up the paper, and put it back where it was. At least I won't have to run all over trying to evade the cops. But I decide it's better not to go back to the hotel, just to play it safe. I still don't know what happened during those lost four hours.

  I call the hotel. A man answers, and I don't recognize his voice. I tell him something's come up and I have to check out. I try my best to sound grown-up. I've paid in advance so that shouldn't be a problem. There are some personal effects in the room, I tell him, but they can be discarded. He checks the computer and sees that the bill's up-to-date. "Everything's
in order, Mr. Tamura," he says. "You're all checked out." The key's a plastic card, so there's no need to return it. I thank him and hang up.

  I take a shower. Sakura's underwear and stockings are drying out in the bathroom.

  I try not to look at them and concentrate on my usual job of thoroughly scrubbing myself. And I try my best not to think about last night. I brush my teeth and put on a pair of new shorts, roll up my sleeping bag and stuff it in my backpack, then wash my dirty clothes in the washer. There's no dryer, so after they go through the spin cycle I fold them up and put them in a plastic bag and into my pack. I can always dry them at a coin laundry later on.

  I wash all the dishes piled up in the sink, let them drain, dry them, and place them back in the shelf. Then I straighten up the contents of the fridge and toss whatever's gone bad. Some of the food stinks—moldy broccoli, an ancient, rubbery cucumber, a pack of tofu well past its expiration date. I take whatever's still edible, transfer it to new containers, and wipe up some spilled sauce. I throw away all the cigarette butts, make a neat stack of the scattered old newspapers, and run a vacuum around the place. Sakura might be good at giving a massage, but when it comes to keeping house she's a disaster.

  I iron the shirts she's crammed in the dresser, and think about going shopping and making dinner. At home I tried to take care of household chores myself, so none of this is any trouble. But making dinner, I decide, might be going too far.

  Finished with all that, I sit down at the kitchen table and look around the apartment. I know I can't stay here forever. I'd have a semipermanent hard-on, with semipermanent fantasies. Can't avoid looking at those tiny black panties hanging in the bathroom, can't keep asking her permission to let my imagination roam. But most of all I can't forget what she did for me last night.

  I leave a note for Sakura, using the blunt pencil and the memo pad beside the phone. Thanks. You really saved me. I'm sorry I woke you up so late last night. But you're the only one I could count on. I stop for a moment to think what I should write next, and do a three-sixty of the room as I'm thinking. Thanks for letting me stay over.

  I'm grateful you said I could stay here as long I liked. It would be nice if I could, but I don't think I should bother you anymore. There're all sorts of reasons I won't go into.

  I've got to make it on my own. I hope you'll still think kindly of me the next time I'm in a jam.

  I stop again. Someone in the neighborhood's got their TV on at full volume, one of those morning talk shows for housewives. The people on the show all yelling at each other, and commercials just as loud and obnoxious. I sit at the table, spinning the blunt pencil in my hand, pulling my thoughts together. To tell the truth, though, I don't think I deserve your kindness. I'm trying my best to be a much better person, but things aren't going so well. The next time we meet I hope I'll have my act together. Whether that will happen or not, I don't know. Thanks for last night. It was wonderful.

  I slip the note under a cup, shoulder my backpack, and head out of the apartment, leaving the key under the doormat like she said. A black-and-white spotted cat's lying in the middle of the stairs, taking a nap. He must be used to people because he doesn't make a move to get up as I go down the stairs. I sit down beside him and stroke his large body for a while. The feel of his fur brings back memories. The cat narrows his eyes and starts to purr. We sit there on the stairs for a long time, each enjoying his own version of this intimate feeling. Finally I tell him good-bye and walk down the road. A fine rain's begun to fall.

  Having checked out of the hotel and left Sakura's, I have no idea where I'll spend the night. Before the sun sets I've got to find a roof to sleep under, someplace safe. I don't know where to begin but decide to take the train out to the Komura Library. Once I get there, something will work out. I don't know why, but I just have a feeling it will.

  Fate seems to be taking me in some even stranger directions.

  Chapter 12

  October 19, 1972

  Dear Professor,

  I'm sure you must be quite surprised to receive a letter from me, out of the blue.

  Please forgive me for being so forward. I imagine that you no longer remember my name, Professor, but I was at one time a teacher at a small elementary school in Yamanashi Prefecture. When you read this, you may recall something about me. I was the teacher in charge of the group of children on a field trip, the ones involved in the incident in which the children all lost consciousness. Afterward, as you may remember, I had the opportunity to speak with you and your colleagues from the university in Tokyo several times when you visited our town with people from the military to investigate.

  In the years following I've often seen your name mentioned prominently in the press, and I have followed your career and achievements with the deepest admiration. At the same time, I have fond memories of when we met, especially your very businesslike, brisk way of speaking. I feel blessed, too, to have been able to read several of your books. I've always been impressed by your insights, and I find the worldview that runs through all of your publications very convincing—namely that as individuals each of us is extremely isolated, while at the same time we are all linked by a prototypical memory.

  There have been times in my own life that I felt exactly this way. From afar, then, I pray for your continued success.

  After that incident I continued to teach at the same elementary school. A few years ago, however, I unexpectedly fell ill, was hospitalized for a long spell in Kofu General Hospital, and, after some time, submitted my resignation. For a year I was in and out of the hospital, but eventually I recovered, was discharged, and opened a small tutorial school in our town. My students were the children of my former pupils. It's a trite observation, perhaps, but it is true what they say—that time does fly—and I've found the passage of time to be incredibly swift.

  During the war I lost both my husband and my father, then my mother as well in the confused period following the surrender. With my husband off to war soon after we married, we never had any children, so I've been all alone in the world. I wouldn't say my life has been happy, but it has been a great blessing to have been able to teach for so long and have the chance to work with so many children over the years. I thank God for this opportunity. If it hadn't been for teaching I don't think I'd have been able to survive.

  I summoned up my courage today to write to you, Professor, because I've never been able to forget that incident in the woods in the fall of 1944. Twenty-eight years have passed, but to me it's as fresh in my mind as if it took place yesterday. Those memories are always with me, shadowing my every waking moment. I've spent countless sleepless nights pondering it all, and it's even haunted my dreams.

  It's as if the aftershocks of that incident affect every aspect of my life. To give you an example, whenever I run across any of the children involved in the incident (half of whom still live here in town and are now in their mid-thirties) I always wonder what effects the incident had on them, and on myself. Something as traumatic as that you'd think would have to have some lingering physical or psychological impact on all of us. I can't believe otherwise. But when it comes to pinpointing what sort of effects these were, and how great an impact it all had, I'm at a loss.

  As you're well aware, Professor, the military kept news of this incident from reaching the public. During the Occupation the American military conducted their own investigation behind closed doors. The military's always the same, whether Japanese or American. Even when censorship was lifted after the Occupation, no articles about the incident appeared in newspapers or magazines. Which I suppose is understandable, since it had taken place years before and no one had died.

  Because of this, most people are unaware that such an incident ever took place.

  During the war there were so many horrific events, and millions of people lost their lives, so I don't suppose people would be very shocked by what happened in our little town.

  Even here not many people remember what happened, and those who d
o don't appear willing to talk about it. I'd say most people who recall the incident find it an unpleasant memory they'd prefer not to touch on.

  Most things are forgotten over time. Even the war itself, the life-and-death struggle people went through, is now like something from the distant past. We're so caught up in our everyday lives that events of the past, like ancient stars that have burned out, are no longer in orbit around our minds. There are just too many things we have to think about every day, too many new things we have to learn. New styles, new information, new technology, new terminology... But still, no matter how much time passes, no matter what takes place in the interim, there are some things we can never assign to oblivion, memories we can never rub away. They remain with us forever, like a touchstone. And for me, what happened in the woods that day is one of these.

  I realize there's nothing I can do about it now, and I would certainly understand if you are puzzled about why I'm bringing this up at this late date. But while I'm still alive there's something I have to get off my chest.

  During the war, of course, we lived under strict censorship, and there were things we couldn't easily talk about. When I met you, Professor, there were military officers with us and I couldn't speak freely. Also, I didn't know anything about you then, or about your work, so I certainly didn't feel—as a young woman talking to a man she didn't know—I could be candid about any private matter. Thus I kept several facts to myself. In other words, in the official investigation I intentionally changed some of the facts about the incident. And when, after the war, the American military interviewed me, I stuck to my story. Out of fear and to keep up appearances, perhaps, I repeated the same lies I'd told you. This may well have made it more difficult for you to investigate the incident, and may have somewhat skewed your conclusions. No, I know it did. This has bothered me for years, and I'm ashamed of what I did.

  I hope this explains why I've written this long letter to you. I realize you're a busy man and may not have time for this. If so, please feel free to treat it all as the ramblings of an old woman and toss the letter away. The thing is, I feel the need, while I'm still able, to confess all that really took place then, write it down, and pass it along to someone who should know. I recovered from my illness, but you never know when there might be a relapse. I hope you will take this into consideration.