Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I understand completely, he said. I never thought this would be easy, so I'm not particularly surprised by your answer. Besides, I don't surprise very easily. I understand how you feel, and I'm glad everything is out in the open like this, no hemming and hawing, just a simple yes or no. Makes it easier for everybody. All I need as a carrier pigeon is another convoluted answer where you cant tell black from white! The world has too many of those as it is! Not that I'm complaining, but all I seem to get every day are sphinxes giving me riddles. This job is bad for my health, let me tell you. Living like this, before you know it, you become devious by nature. Do you see what I mean, Mr. Okada? You become suspicious, always looking for ulterior motives, never able to put your faith in anything thats clear and simple. Its a terrible thing, Mr. Okada, it really is.

So, fine, Mr. Okada, I will let the Doctor know that you have given him a very clear-cut answer. But don't expect things to end there, you may want to finish this business, but its not that simple. I will probably have to come to see you again. I'm sorry to put you through this, having to deal with such an ugly, messy little fellow, but please try to accustom yourself to my existence, at least. I don't harbor any feelings toward you as an individual, Mr. Okada. Really. But for the time being, whether you like it or not, I'm going to be one of those things that you cant just sweep away. I know its an odd way to put it, but please try to think of me like that. I can promise you one thing, though. I will not be letting myself into your house again. You are quite right: that is not a proper way to behave. I should go down on my knees and beg to be let in. This time I had no choice. Please try to understand. I am not always so reckless. Appearances to the contrary, I am an ordinary human being. From now on, I will do as other people do and call beforehand. That should be all right, don't you think? I will ring once, hang up, then ring again. You'll know its me that way, and you can tell yourself, Oh, its that stupid Ushikawa again, when you pick up the phone. But do pick up the phone.

Otherwise, I will have no choice but to let myself in again. Personally, I would rather not do such a thing, but I am being paid to wag my tail, so when my boss says Do it! I have to try my best to do it. You understand.

I said nothing to him. Ushikawa crushed what was left of his cigarette in the bottom of the cat food can, then glanced at his watch as if suddenly recalling something. Oh, my, my, my- look how late it is! First I come barging in, then I talk you to death and take your beer. Please excuse me. As I said earlier, I don't have anybody to go home to, so when I find someone I can talk to, I settle in for the night. Sad, don't you think? I tell you, Mr. Okada, living alone is not something you should do for long. What is it they say? No man is an island. Or is it The devil finds mischief for idle hands?

After sweeping some imaginary dust from his lap, Ushikawa stood up slowly.

No need to see me out, he said. I let myself in, after all; I can let myself out. I'll be sure to lock the door. One last word of advice, though, Mr. Okada, though you may not want to hear this: There are things in this world it is better not to know about. Of course, those are the very things that people most want to know about. Its strange. I know I'm being very general.... I wonder when well meet again? I hope things are better by then. Oh, well, good night.

The quiet rain continued through the night, tapering off toward dawn, but the sticky presence of the strange little man, and the smell of his unfiltered cigarettes, remained in the house as long as the lingering dampness.

Cinnamon stopped talking once and for all just before his sixth birthday, Nutmeg said to me. It was the year he should have entered elementary school. All of a sudden, that February, he stopped talking. And as strange as it may seem, it was night before we noticed that he hadn't said a word all day. True, he was never much of a talker, but still. When it finally occurred to me what was happening, I did everything I could to make him speak. I talked to him, I shook him; nothing worked. He was like a stone. I didn't know whether he had suddenly lost the power to speak or he had decided on his own that he would stop speaking.

And I still don't know. But he's never said another word-never made another sound. Hell never scream if he's in pain, and you can tickle him but hell never laugh out loud.

Nutmeg took her son to several different ear, nose, and throat specialists, but none of them could locate the cause. All they could determine was that it was not physical. Cinnamon could hear perfectly well, but he wouldn't speak. All the doctors concluded that it must be psychological in origin. Nutmeg took him to a psychiatrist friend of hers, but he also was unable to determine a cause for Cinnamon's continued silence. He administered an IQ. test, but there was no problem there. In fact, he turned out to have an unusually high IQ. The doctor could find no evidence of emotional problems, either. Has he experienced some kind of unusual shock? the psychiatrist asked Nutmeg. Try to think. Could he have witnessed something abnormal or been subjected to violence at home? But Nutmeg could think of nothing. One day her son had been normal in every way: he had eaten his meals in the normal way, had normal conversations with her, gone to bed when he was supposed to, had no trouble falling asleep. And the next morning he had sunk into a world of deep silence. There had been no problems in the home. The child was being brought up under the ever watchful gaze of Nutmeg and her mother, neither of whom had ever raised a hand to him. The doctor concluded that the only thing they could do was observe him and hope that something would turn up. Unless they knew the cause, there was no way to treat him. Nutmeg should bring Cinnamon to see the doctor once a week, in the course of which they might figure out what had happened. It was possible that he would just start speaking again, like someone waking from a dream. All they could do was wait. True, the child was not speaking, but there was nothing else wrong with him....

And so they waited, but Cinnamon never again rose to the surface of his deep ocean of silence.

Its electric motor producing a low hum, the front gate began to swing inward at nine o'clock in the morning, and Cinnamon's Mercedes-Benz 500SEL pulled into the driveway. The car phones antenna protruded from the back window like a newly sprouted tentacle. I watched through a crack in the blinds. The car looked like some kind of huge migratory fish, afraid of nothing. The brand-new black tires traced a silent arc over the concrete surface and came to a stop in the designated spot. They traced exactly the same arc every morning and stopped in exactly the same place with probably no more than two inches variation.

I was drinking the coffee that I had brewed for myself a few minutes earlier. The rain had stopped, but gray clouds covered the sky, and the ground was still black and cold and wet. The birds raised sharp cries as they flitted back and forth in search of worms on the ground. The drivers door opened after a short pause, and Cinnamon stepped out, wearing sunglasses. After a quick scan of the area, he took the glasses off and slipped them into his breast pocket. Then he closed the car door. The precise sound of the big Mercedes' door latch was different from the sounds other car doors made. For me, this sound marked the beginning of another day at the Residence.

I had been thinking all morning about Ushikawa's visit the night before, wondering whether I should tell Cinnamon that Ushikawa had been sent by Noboru Wataya to get me to pull out of the activities conducted at this house. In the end, though, I decided not to tell him- for the time being, at least. This was something that had to be settled between Noboru Wataya and me. I didn't want to have any third parties involved.