Kafka on the Shore Read online

  "Yes, that's fine. Much obliged. Sorry to take your time. And please say hello to the Governor for me."

  "Will do. So don't worry, and just take it easy today, okay?" the policeman said.

  He couldn't help adding a personal aside: "You know, your clothes look pretty clean for having killed someone and gotten all bloody. There's not a spot on you."

  "Yes, you're entirely correct. To tell the truth, Nakata finds it very strange too. It doesn't make any sense. I should be covered in blood, but when I looked it had all disappeared. It's very strange."

  "It certainly is," the policeman said, his voice tinged with an entire day's worth of exhaustion.

  Nakata slid the door open and was about to leave when he stopped and turned around. "Excuse me, sir, but will you be in this area tomorrow evening?"

  "Yes, I will," the policeman replied cautiously. "I'm on duty here tomorrow evening. Why do you ask?"

  "Even if it's sunny, I suggest you bring an umbrella."

  The policeman nodded. He turned and looked at the clock. His colleague should be phoning any minute now. "Okay, I'll be sure to bring one."

  "There will be fish falling from the sky, just like rain. A lot of fish. Mostly sardines, I believe. With a few mackerel mixed in."

  "Sardines and mackerel, huh?" the policeman laughed. "Better turn the umbrella upside down, then, and catch a few. Could vinegar some for a meal."

  "Vinegared mackerel's one of Nakata's favorites," Nakata said with a serious look.

  "But by that time tomorrow I believe I'll be gone."

  The next day when—sure enough—sardines and mackerel rained down on a section of Nakano Ward, the young policeman turned white as a sheet. With no warning whatsoever some two thousand sardines and mackerel plunged to earth from the clouds.

  Most of the fish were crushed to a pulp as they slammed into the ground, but a few survived and flopped around on the road in front of the shopping district. The fish were fresh, still with a smell of the sea about them. The fish struck people, cars, and roofs, but not, apparently, from a great height, so no serious injuries resulted. It was more shocking than anything else. A huge number of fish falling like hail from the sky—it was positively apocalyptic.

  The police investigated the matter but could come up with no good explanation for how it happened. No fish market or fishing boat reported any large number of sardines and mackerel missing. No planes or helicopters were flying overhead at the time. Neither were there any reports of tornados. They dismissed the possibility it was some elaborate practical joke—who would possibly do something so utterly bizarre? At the request of the police, the Nakano Ward Health Office collected some of the fish and examined them, but found nothing unusual. They were just ordinary sardines and mackerel. Fresh—and good to eat, by the looks of them. Still, the police, afraid these mystery fish might contain some dangerous substance, sent out a loudspeaker truck around the neighborhood warning people not to eat any.

  This was the kind of story TV news shows lapped up, and crews rushed to the scene. Reporters crowded around the shopping district and sent out their reports on this curious event across the nation. The reporters scooped up fish with their shovels to illustrate what had happened. They also interviewed a housewife who had been struck on the head by one of the falling mackerel, the dorsal fin cutting her cheek. "I'm just glad it wasn't a tuna," she said, pressing a handkerchief to her cheek. That made sense, but still viewers chuckled. One of the more adventuresome reporters grilled some of the fish on the spot. "Delicious," he told viewers proudly. "Very fresh, with just the right amount of fat. Too bad I don't have any grated radish and hot rice to round out the meal."

  The policeman was baffled. The strange old codger—what was his name again?—had predicted all these fish raining down from the sky. Sardines and mackerel, just like he'd said.... But I just laughed it off, the policeman thought, and didn't even get his name and address. Should he tell his boss about it? He supposed so, but then again what good would it do now? Nobody really got hurt, and there wasn't any proof that a crime was involved. Just a sudden squall of fish, raining from the sky.

  But who's to say my boss would even believe me? he asked himself. Say I told him the whole story—that the day before this happened a weird old guy stopped by the police box and predicted there'd be a shower of fish. He'd think I've completely lost it.

  And the story would make the rounds of the precinct, getting fishier with each retelling, and end up as a running joke with him as the butt of it.

  One more thing, the policeman thought. That old man had come to report that he'd murdered somebody. To give himself up, in other words. And I never took him seriously. Didn't even note it in the logbook. This was definitely against regulations, and I could be brought up on charges. But the old man's story was so preposterous. No policeman would ever take it seriously. It's a madhouse working the police box sometimes, with paperwork up to here. The world's filled with people with a screw loose, and, as if by agreement, at one time or another they all seem to find their way into police boxes to blab out some nonsense. If you bother yourself with every one of these nutcases, you'll go nuts yourself!

  But that prediction about fish raining from the sky, a lunatic statement if there ever was one, actually did happen, so maybe—just maybe—that story he told about knifing somebody to death—Johnnie Walker, as he put it—might actually be true.

  Assuming it was, this was a major problem, for he'd turned away someone confessing to murder and didn't even write up a report on it.

  Finally a garbage truck came and cleaned up all the mounds of fish. The young policeman directed traffic, blocking off the entrance to the shopping district so cars couldn't come in. Fish scales were stuck to the street in front of the shops and wouldn't come off no matter how much they were hosed down. The street remained wet for some time, causing a couple of housewives on bicycles to slip and fall. The place reeked of fish for days afterward, getting the neighborhood cats all worked up. The policeman was kept busy with the cleanup and didn't have time to think any more about the strange old man.

  The day after it rained fish, though, the policeman gulped in shock when the body of a man, stabbed to death, was discovered nearby. The dead man was a famous sculptor, and his body was discovered by the cleaning woman who came every other day. The body was naked, lying in a pool of blood. Estimated time of death was in the evening two days previous, the murder weapon a steak knife from the kitchen. To his dismay, the young policeman finally believed what the old man had told him. My God, he thought, what a complete mess I've gotten myself into! I should have called up the precinct and taken the old man in. He confessed to murder, so I should've handed him over to the higher-ups and let them decide if he's crazy or not. But I shirked my duty. Now that it's come to this, the young policeman decided, the best thing to do is to just clam up and pretend it never happened.

  But by this time, Nakata was no longer in town.

  Chapter 19

  It's Monday and the library's closed. The library is quiet enough most of the time, but on a day like this when it's closed it's like the land that time forgot. Or more like a place that's holding its breath, hoping time won't stumble upon it.

  Down the corridor from the reading room, past a STAFF ONLY sign, there's a sink area where you can make coffee or tea, and there's a microwave oven, too. Just past this is the door to the guest room, which includes a barebones bathroom and closet. Next to the single bed is a nightstand outfitted with a reading lamp and alarm clock. There's also a little writing desk with a lamp on it. Plus an old-fashioned set of chairs, covered in white cloth, for receiving guests, and a chest for clothes. On top of a small, bachelor-size refrigerator are some dishes and a small shelf for stowing them away. If you feel like making a simple meal, the sink area's right outside. The bathroom's outfitted with a shower, soap and shampoo, a hair dryer, and towels. Everything you need for a comfortable short stay. Through a west-facing window you can see the trees in the garden
. It's getting close to evening, and the sinking sun glints past the cedar branches.

  "I've stayed here a couple of times when it was too much trouble to go home,"

  Oshima says. "But nobody else uses the room. As far as I know, Miss Saeki never uses it. It's not going to put anybody out, your staying here, is what I'm trying to say."

  I set my backpack on the floor and look around my new lodgings.

  "There's a clean set of sheets, and enough in the fridge to tide you over. Milk, some fruit, vegetables, butter, ham, cheese... Not enough for a decent meal, but enough for a sandwich or salad at least. If you want something more, I suggest takeout, or going out to eat. For laundry you'll have to make do with rinsing things out in the bathroom, I'm afraid. Let's see, have I forgotten anything?"

  "Where does Miss Saeki usually work?"

  Oshima points to the ceiling. "You remember that room on the second floor you saw on the tour? She's always there, writing. If I have to go out for a while she sometimes comes downstairs and takes over at the counter. But unless she's got something to do on the first floor, that's where you'll find her."

  I nod.

  "I'll be here tomorrow before ten to run through what your job involves. Until then, just relax and take it easy."

  "Thanks for everything," I tell him.

  "My pleasure," he replies.

  After he leaves I unload my backpack. Arrange my meager assortment of clothes in the dresser, hang up my shirts and jacket, line up my notebook and pens on the desk, put my toiletries in the bathroom, and finally stow the pack itself in the closet.

  The room doesn't have any decorations at all, except for a small oil painting, a realistic portrait of a young boy by the shore. Not bad, I decide—maybe done by somebody famous? The boy looks about twelve or so, and he's wearing a white sunhat and sitting on a small deck chair. His elbow's on one of the arms of the chair, his chin resting in his hand. He looks a little sad, but kind of pleased, too. A black German shepherd sits next to the boy, like he's guarding him. In the background is the sea and a couple of other people, but they're too far away to make out their faces. A small island's visible, and a few fist-shaped clouds float over the water. Most definitely a summer scene. I sit down at the desk and gaze at the painting for a while. I start to feel like I can hear the crash of waves, the salty smell of the sea.

  The boy in the painting might be the boy who used to live in this room, the young man Miss Saeki loved. The one who got caught up in the student movement clashes and was pointlessly beaten to death. There's no saying for sure, but I'm betting that's who it is. The scenery looks a lot like what you see around here, for one thing. If that's the case, then it must be from about forty years ago—an eternity to somebody like me. I try imagining myself in forty years, but it's like trying to picture what lies beyond the universe.

  The next morning Oshima arrives and shows me what I'm supposed to do to get the library ready to open. First I have to unlock and open the windows to air out the rooms, make a quick pass with the vacuum cleaner, wipe the desktops, change the flowers in the vases, turn on the lights, occasionally sprinkle water in the garden to keep down the dust, and, when the time comes, open the door. At closing time it's the same procedure in reverse—lock the windows, wipe the desktops again, turn off the lights, and close the front door.

  "There's not much for anybody to steal here, so maybe we don't need to be so worried about always locking the door," Oshima tells me. "But Miss Saeki and I don't like things done sloppily. So we try to do things by the book. This is our house, so we treat it with respect. And I hope you'll do the same."

  I nod.

  Next he shows me what to do at the reception desk, how to help out people coming to use the library.

  "For the time being you should just sit next to me and watch what I do. It's not all that hard. If something ever comes up you can't handle, just go upstairs and ask Miss Saeki. She'll take care of it."

  Miss Saeki shows up just before eleven. Her Volkswagen Golf makes a distinctive roar as it pulls up, and I can tell right away it's her. She parks, comes in through the back door, and greets the two of us. "Morning," she says. "Good morning,"

  we answer back. That's the extent of our conversation. Miss Saeki has on a navy blue short-sleeved dress, a cotton coat in her arms, a shoulder bag. Nothing you could call an accessory, and hardly a hint of makeup. Still, there's something about her that's dazzling.

  She glances at me standing next to Oshima and looks for a moment like she wants to say something, but doesn't. She merely beams a slight smile in my direction and walks up to her office on the second floor.

  "Not to worry," Oshima assures me. "She has no problem with your being here.

  She just doesn't go in for a lot of small talk, that's all."

  At eleven Oshima and I open up the main door, but nobody comes for a while.

  During the interval he shows me how to use the computers to search for books. They're typical library PCs I'm already familiar with. Next he shows me how to arrange all the catalog cards. Every day the library receives copies of newly published books, and one of the other tasks is to log in these new arrivals by hand.

  Around eleven-thirty two women come in together, wearing identical jeans. The shorter of the two has cropped hair like a swimmer, while the taller woman wears her hair pulled back. Both of them have on jogging shoes, one a pair of Nikes, the other Asics. The tall one looks around forty or so, with glasses and a checked shirt, the shorter woman, a decade younger, is wearing a white blouse. Both have little daypacks on, and expressions as gloomy as a cloudy day. Neither one says very much. Oshima relieves them of their packs at the entrance, and the women, looking displeased, extract notebooks and pens before leaving them.

  The women go through the library, checking the stacks one by one, earnestly flipping through the card catalog, occasionally taking notes. They don't read anything or sit down. They act less like people using a library than inspectors from the tax office checking a company's inventory. Oshima and I can't figure out who they are or what they could possibly be up to. He gives me a significant look and shrugs. To put it mildly, I don't have a good feeling about this.

  At noon, while Oshima goes out to the garden to eat his lunch, I fill in for him behind the counter.

  "Excuse me, but I have a question," one of the women comes over and says. The tall one. Her tone of voice is hard and unyielding, like a loaf of bread someone forgot on the back of a shelf.

  "Yes, what can I do for you?"

  She frowns and looks at me like I'm some off-kilter picture frame. "Aren't you a high school student?"

  "Yes, that's right. I'm a trainee," I answer.

  "Is there one of your superiors I could talk to?"

  I go out to the garden to get Oshima. He slowly takes a sip of coffee to dissolve the bite of food in his mouth, brushes the crumbs from his lap, and comes inside.

  "Yes, may I help you?" Oshima asks her amiably.

  "Just to let you know, we're investigating public cultural facilities in the entire country from a woman's point of view, looking at ease of use, fair access, and other issues," she says. "Our group is doing a yearlong investigation and plans to publish a public report on our findings. A large number of women are involved in this project, and the two of us happen to be in charge of this region."

  "If you don't mind," Oshima says, "would you tell me the name of this organization?"

  The woman whips out a business card and passes it to him.

  His expression unchanged, Oshima reads it carefully, places it on the counter, then looks up with a blazing smile and gazes intently at the woman. A first-class smile guaranteed to make any red-blooded woman blush.

  This woman, strangely enough, doesn't react, not even a twitch of an eyebrow.

  "What we've concluded is that, unfortunately, this library has several issues that need to be addressed."

  "From the viewpoint of women, is what you're saying," Oshima commented.

  "
Correct, from the viewpoint of women," the woman answers. She clears her throat. "And we'd like to bring this up with your administration and hear their response, so if you don't mind?"

  "We don't have something as fancy as an administration, but I would be happy to listen to you."

  "Well, first of all you have no restroom set aside for women. That's correct, isn't it?"

  "Yes, that's right. There's no women's restroom in this library. We have one restroom for both men and women."

  "Even if you are a private facility, since you're open to the public don't you think—in principle—that you should provide separate restrooms for men and women?"

  "In principle?" Oshima says.

  "Correct. Shared facilities give rise to all sorts of harassment. According to our survey, the majority of women are reluctant to use shared bathrooms. This is a clear case of neglect of your female patrons."

  "Neglect...," Oshima says, and makes a face like he's swallowed something bitter by mistake. He doesn't much like the sound of the word, it would seem.

  "An intentional oversight."

  "Intentional oversight," he repeats, and gives some thought to this clumsy phrase.

  "So what is your reaction to all this?" the woman asks, barely containing her irritation.

  "As you can see," Oshima says, "we're a very small library. And unfortunately we don't have the space for separate restrooms. Naturally it would be better to have separate facilities, but none of our patrons have ever complained. For better or for worse, our library doesn't get very crowded. If you'd like to pursue this issue of separate restrooms further, I suggest you go to the Boeing headquarters in Seattle and address the issue of restrooms on 747s. A 747's much bigger than our little library, and much more crowded. As far as I'm aware, all restrooms on passenger jets are shared by men and women."