Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Once he had sucked all the nicotine he needed into his lungs, he gave a sigh of relief and produced a strange look on his face that hovered somewhere midway between a smile and a smirk. Then he opened his mouth.

Well, now, let me not forget to introduce myself. I am not usually so rude. The name is Ushikawa. That's ushi for bull and kawa for river. Easy enough to remember, don't you think? Everybody calls me Ushi. Funny: the more I hear that, the more I feel like a real bull. I even feel a kind of closeness whenever I happen to see a bull out in a field somewhere. Names are funny things, don't you think, Mr. Okada? Take Okada, for example. Now, theres a nice, clean name: hill-field. I sometimes wish I had a normal name like that, but unfortunately, a surname is not something you're free to pick. Once you're born into this world as Ushikawa, you're Ushikawa for life, like it or not. They've been calling me Ushi since the day I started kindergarten. Theres no way around it. You get a guy named Ushikawa, and people are bound to call him Ushi, right? They say a name expresses the thing it stands for, but I wonder if it isn't the other way around-the thing gets more and more like its name. Anyhow, just think of me as Ushikawa, and if you feel like it, call me Ushi. I don't mind.

I went to the kitchen and brought back a can of beer from the refrigerator. I did not offer any to Ushikawa. I hadn't invited him here, after all. I said nothing and drank my beer, and Ushikawa said nothing and drew deeply on his cigarette. I did not sit in the chair across from him but rather stood leaning against a pillar, looking down at him. Finally, he crushed his butt out in the empty cat food can and looked up at me.

I'm sure you're wondering how I got in here, Mr. Okada. True? You're sure you locked the door. And in fact, it was locked. But I have a key. A real key. Look, here it is.

He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out a key ring with one key attached, and held it up for me to see. It certainly did look like the key to this house. But what attracted my attention was the key holder. It was just like Kumiko's-a simple-styled green leather key holder with a ring that opened in an unusual way.

Its the real thing, said Ushikawa. As you can see. And the holder belongs to your wife. Let me say this to avoid any misunderstanding: This was given to me by your wife, Kumiko. I did not steal it or take it by force.

Where is Kumiko? I asked, my voice sounding somewhat mangled.

Ushikawa took his glasses off, seemed to check on the cloudiness of the lenses, then put them back on. I know exactly where she is, he said. In fact, I am taking care of her.

Taking care of her?

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't mean it that way. Don't worry, Ushikawa said, with a smile. When he smiled, his face broke up asymmetrically from side to side, and his glasses went up at an angle. Please don't glare at me like that. I'm just sort of helping her as part of my work-running errands, doing odd jobs. I'm a gofer, thats all. You know how she cant go outside.

Cant go outside? I parroted his words again.

He hesitated a moment, his tongue flicking across his lips. Well, maybe you don't know. That's all right. I cant really say whether she cant go out or doesn't want to go out. I'm sure you would like to know, Mr. Okada, but please don't ask me. Not even I know all the details. But theres nothing for you to worry about. She is not being held against her will. I mean, this is not a movie or a novel. We cant really do that sort of thing.

I set my beer can down carefully at my feet. So anyway, tell me, what did you come here for?

After patting his knees several times with outstretched palms, Ushikawa gave one deep, sharp nod. Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that, didn't I? I go to all the trouble of introducing myself, and then I forget to tell you what I'm here for! That has been one of my most consistent flaws over the years: to go on and on about foolish things and leave out the main point. No wonder I'm always doing the wrong thing! Well, then, belated though it may be, here it is: I work for your wife Kumiko's elder brother. Ushikawa's the name-but I already told you that, about the Ushi and everything. I work for Dr. Noboru Wataya as a kind of private sery-though not the usual private sery that a member of the Diet might have. Only a certain kind of person, a superior kind of person, can be a real private sery. The term covers a wide range of types. I mean, there are private series, and then there are private series, and I'm as close to the second kind as you can get. I'm down there-I mean, way, way down there. If there are spirits lurking everywhere, I'm one of the dirty little ones down in the corner of a bathroom or a closet. But I cant complain. If somebody this messy came right out in the open, think of what it could do to Dr. Wataya's clean-cut image! No, the ones who face the cameras have to be slick, intelligent-looking types, not bald midgets. How-dee-doo, folks, its me, Dr. Wataya's private sec-ruh-teh-ree. What a laugh! Right, Mr. Okada? I kept silent as he prattled on.

So what I do for the Doctor are the unseen jobs, the shadow jobs, so to speak, the ones that aren't out in the open. I'm the fiddler under the porch. Jobs like that are my specialty. Like this business with Ms. Kumiko. Now, don't get me wrong, though: don't think that taking care of her is just some busywork for a lowly hack. If what I've said has given you that impression, it couldn't be further from the truth. I mean, Ms. Kumiko is the Doctors one and only dear little sister, after all. I consider it a consummate honor to have been allowed to take on such an important task, believe me!

Oh, by the way, this may seem very rude, but I wonder if I could ask you for a beer. All this talking has made me very thirsty. If you don't mind, I'll just grab one myself. I know where it is. While I was waiting, I took the liberty of peeking into the refrigerator.

I nodded to him. Ushikawa went to the kitchen and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator. Then he sat down on the sofa again, drinking straight from the bottle with obvious relish, his huge Adams apple twitching above the knot of his tie like some kind of animal.

I tell you, Mr. Okada, a cold beer at the end of the day is the best thing life has to offer. Some choosy people say that a too cold beer doesn't taste good, but I couldn't disagree more. The first beer should be so cold you cant even taste it. The second one should be a little less chilled, but I want that first one to be like ice. I want it to be so cold my temples throb with pain. This is my own personal preference, of course.

Still leaning against the pillar, I took another sip of my own beer. Lips tightly closed in a straight line, Ushikawa surveyed the room for some moments.

I must say, Mr. Okada, for a man without a wife, you do keep the house clean. I'm very impressed. I myself am absolutely hopeless, I'm embarrassed to say. My place is a mess, a garbage heap, a pigsty. I haven't washed the bathtub for a year or more. Perhaps I neglected to tell you that I was also deserted by my wife. Five years ago. So I can feel a certain sympathy for you, Mr. Okada, or to avoid the risk of misinterpretation, let me just say that I can understand how you feel. Of course, my situation was different from yours. It was only natural for my wife to leave me. I was the worst husband in the world. Far from complaining, I have to admire her for having put up with me as long as she did. I used to beat her. No one else: she was the only one I could beat up on. You can tell what a weakling I am. Got the heart of a flea. I would do nothing but kiss ass outside the house; people would call me Ushi and order me around, and I would just suck up to them all the more. So when I got home I would take it out on my wife. Heh heh heh-pretty bad, eh? And I knew just how bad I was, but I couldn't stop. It was like a sickness. Id beat her face out of shape until you couldn't recognize her. And not just beat her: Id slam her against the wall and kick her, pour hot tea on her, throw things at her, you name it. The kids would try to stop me, and Id end up hitting them. Little kids: seven, eight years old. And not just push them around: Id wallop them with everything I had. I was an absolute devil. Id try to stop myself, but I couldn't. I couldn't control myself. After a certain point, I would tell myself that I had done enough damage, that I had to stop, but I didn't know how to stop. Do you see what a horror I was? So then, five years ago, when my daughter was five, I broke her arm-just snapped it. That's when my wife finally got fed up with me and left with both kids. I haven't seen any of them since. Haven't even heard from them. But what can I do? Its my own fault.