Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

[Omitted here: conjectures that the property is being used by a religious organization with the backing of a powerful politician]

I sit down in front of Cinnamon's computer at the appointed time and use the password to access the communications program. Then I input the numbers I've been given by Ushikawa.

It will take five minutes for the circuits to connect. I start sipping the coffee I have prepared and work to steady my breathing. The coffee is tasteless, though, and the air I inhale has a harsh edge to it.

Finally, the computer beeps and a message appears on the screen, informing me that the connection has been made and the computer is ready be two-way communication. I specify that this is to be a collect call. If . am careful to prevent a record of this transaction from being made, I should be able to keep Cinnamon from finding out that I used the computer (though of this I am anything but confident: this is his labyrinth; I'm nothing but a powerless stranger here).

A far longer time goes by than I had anticipated, but finally the message appears that the other party has accepted the charges. Beyond this screen, at the far end of the cable that creeps through Tokyo's underground darkness, may be Kumiko. She, too, should be sitting before a monitor, with her hands on a keyboard. In reality, all I can see is my monitor, which sits there making a faint electronic squeal. I click on the box to choose Send mode and type the words that I have been rehearsing over and over in my brain.

>I have one question for you. Its not much of a question, but I need proof that its really you out there. Here it is: The first time we went out together, long before we were married, we went to the aquarium. I want you to tell me what you were most fascinated to see there.

Iclickonthesymbolforsendingthetext(I want you to tell me what you were most fascinated to see there . - .ThenIswitchtoReceivemode.

The answer comes back after a short, silent interval. It is a short answer.

>Jellyfish. Jellyfish from all around the world .< My question and the answer to it are lined up on the upper and lower halves of the screen.

Istareatthemforawhile.Jellyfish from all around the world.

>Let me start with the good news. The cat came back this spring. All of a sudden. He was kind of emaciated, but he was healthy and unharmed. Hes stayed home ever since. I know I should have consulted with you before I did this, but I gave him a new name. Mackerel. Like the fish. Were getting along together just fine. This is good news, I guess.< A delay follows. I cant tell whether it is due to the time lag inherent in this form of communication or a silence on Kumiko's part.

>I'm so happy to hear the cat is still alive! I was worried about him.< I take a sip of coffee to moisten my now dry mouth. Then I start typing again.

>Now for the bad news. Actually, aside from the fact that the cat is back, it seems that everything else is going to be bad news. First of all, I still haven't been able to solve any riddles.

I reread what I have written, then continue to type.

First riddle: Where are you now? What are you doing there? Why do you continue to stay away from me? Why don't you want to see me? Is there some reason for that? I mean, there are so many things that you and I have to talk about face-to-face. Don't you think so?< It takes her some time to reply to this. I imagine her sitting in front of the keyboard, biting her lip and thinking. Finally, the cursor begins to dart across the screen in response to the movement of her fingers.

>Everything I wanted to say to you I wrote in the letter I sent. What I most want you to understand is that, in many ways, I am no longer the Kumiko you knew. People change for all sorts of reasons, and in some cases the transformation makes them go bad. That is why I don't want to see you. And that is why I don't want to come back to you.

The cursor halts and remains blinking in one spot, searching for words. I keep my eyes fixed on it for ten seconds, twenty seconds, waiting for it to form new words on the screen. The transformation makes them go bad?

If possible, I would like you to forget about me as soon as you can. The best thing for both of us would be if you were to complete the formalities for divorce and begin a whole new life. It doesn't matter where I am now or what I am doing. The most important thing is that, for whatever reason, you and I have already been separated into two entirely different worlds. And there is no way we can ever go back to being what we were. Please try to understand how painful it is for me to be communicating with you like this. You probably cant imagine how it tears me apart.< I reread Kumiko's words several times. I find in them no sign of hesitation, no suggestion they come from anything but the deepest, most painful conviction. She has probably rehearsed them in her mind any number of times. But still, I have to find a way to shake this impenetrable wall of hers, if only to make it tremble. I go back to the keyboard.

>What you say is somewhat vague and difficult for me to grasp. You say you've gone bad, but what does that mean in concrete terms? I just don't understand. Tomatoes go bad. Umbrellas go bad. That I can understand. Tomatoes rot and umbrellas get bent out of shape. But what does it mean to say that you have gone bad? It doesn't give me any concrete image. You said in your letter that you had sex with somebody other than me, but could that make you go bad? Yes, of course it was a shock to me. But that is a little different from making a human being go bad, I would think.< A long pause follows. I begin to worry that Kumiko has disappeared somewhere. But then her letters begin to line up on the screen.

>You may be right, but there is more to it than that.

Another deep silence follows. She is choosing her words carefully, pulling them out of a drawer.

That is just one manifestation. Going bad is something that happens over a longer period of time. It was something decided in advance, without me, in a pitch-dark room somewhere, by someone else's hand. When I met and married you, it seemed to me that I had a whole new set of possibilities. I hoped that I might be able to escape through an opening somewhere. But I guess that was just an illusion. There are signs for everything, which is why I tried so hard to find our cat when he disappeared that time.

I keep staring at the message on the screen, but still no Send mark appears. My own machineisstillsettoReceive.Kumikoisthinkingaboutwhattowritenext.Going bad is something that happens over a longer period of time. Whatisshe trying to tell me? I concentrate my attention on the screen, but all I find there is a kind of invisible wall. Once more the letters begin to line up on the screen.

I want you to think about me this way if you can: that I am slowly dying of an incurable disease-one that causes my face and body gradually to disintegrate. This is just a metaphor, of course. My face and body are not actually disintegrating. But this is something very close to the truth. And that is why I don't want to show myself to you. I know that a vague metaphor like this is not going to help you understand everything about the situation in which I find myself. I don't expect it to convince you of the truth of what I am saying. I feel terrible about this, but there is simply nothing more I can say. All you can do is accept it.< An incurable disease. I check to be sure that I am in the Send mode and start typing. >If you say you want me to accept your metaphor, I don't mind accepting it. But there is one thing that I simply cannot understand. Even supposing that you have, as you say, gone bad and that you have an incurable disease, why of all people did you have to go to Noboru Wataya with it? Why didn't you stay here with me? Why aren't we together? Isn't that what we got married for?< Silence. I can almost feel its weight and hardness in my hands. I fold my hands on the desk and take several deep breaths. Then the answer comes.