Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

There was no light of any kind, not even the emergency lighting that was supposed to come on in hotels in case of a power failure. After tearing my way through this featureless darkness, I came to a halt, trying to catch my breath, and listened for sounds from behind me. All I could hear, though, was the wild beating of my own heart. I knelt down for a moments rest. They had probably given up the chase. If I went ahead in the darkness now, I would probably end up lost in the depths of the labyrinth. I decided to stay here, leaning against the wall, and try to calm myself.

Who could have turned out the lights? I couldn't believe it had been a coincidence. It had happened the very moment I stepped into the corridor as people were catching up with me. Probably someone there had done it to rescue me from danger. I took my wool hat off, wiped the sweat from my face with my handkerchief, and put the hat back on. I was beginning to notice pain in different parts of my body, but I didn't seem to have any injuries as such. I looked at the luminous hands of my watch in the darkness, only to remember that the watch had stopped at eleven-thirty. That was the time I climbed down into the well, and it was also the time that someone had beaten Noboru Wataya in his office with a baseball bat.

Could I have been the one who did it?

Down here in the darkness like this, that began to seem like one more theoretical possibility to me. Perhaps, up there, in the real world, I had actually struck him with the bat and injured him severely, and I was the only one who didn't know about it. Perhaps the intense hatred inside me had taken the initiative to walk over there without my knowing it and administer him a drubbing. Did I say walk? I would have had to take the Odakyu Line to Shinjuku and transfer there to the subway in order to go to Akasaka. Could I have done such a thing without being aware of it? No, certainly not-unless there existed another me.

Mr. Okada, someone said close by in the darkness.

My heart leaped into my throat. I had no idea where the voice had come from. My muscles tensed as I scanned the darkness, but of course I could see nothing.

Mr. Okada. The voice came again. A mans low voice. Don't worry, Mr. Okada, I'm on your side. We met here once before. Do you remember?

I did remember. I knew that voice. It belonged to the man with no face. But I had to be careful. I was not ready to answer.

You have to leave this place as soon as possible, Mr. Okada. They'll come to find you when the lights go on. Follow me: I know a shortcut.

The man switched on a penlight. It cast a small beam, but it was enough to show me where to step. This way, the man urged me. I scrambled up from the floor and hurried after him.

You must be the one who turned out the lights for me, is that right? I asked the man from behind.

He did not answer, but neither did he deny it. Thanks, I said. It was a close call. They are very dangerous people, he said. Much more dangerous than you think. I asked him, Was Noboru Wataya really injured in some kind of beating? That is what they said on TV, the man replied, choosing his words carefully. I didn't do it, though, I said. I was down in a well at the time, alone. If you say so, I'm sure you are right, the man said matter-of-factly. He opened a door and, shining the flashlight on his feet, he began edging his way up the flight of stairs on the other side. It was such a long stairway that, midway through the process, I lost track of whether we were climbing or descending. I was not even sure this was a stairway.

Do you have someone who can swear that you were in the well at the time? the man asked without turning around.

I said nothing. There was no such person.

In that case, the wisest thing would be for you to run away. They have decided for themselves that you are the culprit.

Who are they?

Reaching the top of the stairs, the man turned right and, after a short walk, opened a door and stepped out into a corridor. There he stopped to listen for sounds. We have to hurry. Hold on to my jacket.

I grasped the bottom edge of his jacket as ordered.

The man with no face said, Those people are always glued to the television set. That is why you are so greatly disliked here. They are very fond of your wifes elder brother.

Do you know who I am? I asked. Yes, of course I do. So, then, do you know where Kumiko is now? The man said nothing. I kept a firm grip on the tail of the mans coat, as if we were playing some kind of game in the dark, rushing around another corner, down a short staircase, through a small secret door, through a low-ceilinged hidden passageway, into yet another corridor. The strange, intricate route taken by the faceless man felt like an endless journey through the bowels of a huge bronze figure.

Let me tell you this, Mr. Okada. I don't know everything that happens here. This is a big place, and my area of responsibility centers on the lobby. There is a lot that I don't know anything about.

Do you know about the whistling waiter?

No, I don't. There are no waiters here, whistling or otherwise. If you saw a waiter in here somewhere, he wasn't really a waiter: it was something pretending to be a waiter. I failed to ask you, but you wanted to go to Room 208, is that correct?

That is correct. I'm supposed to meet a certain woman there.

The man had nothing to say to that. He pressed for no details about the woman or what my business with her might be. He continued down the corridor with the confident stride of a man who knows his way around, dragging me like a tugboat along a complicated course.

Eventually, with no warning, he came to a stop in front of a door. I bumped into him from behind, all but knocking him over. His flesh, on impact, felt strangely light and airy, as if I had bumped into an empty cicada shell. He quickly straightened himself and used his pocket flashlight to illuminate the number on the door: 208.

This door is not locked, said the man. Take this light with you. I can walk back in the dark. Lock the door when you go in, and don't open it for anyone. Whatever business you have, get it over with quickly and go back where you came from. This place is dangerous.

You are an intruder here, and I am the only one on your side. Don't forget that.

Who are you? I asked.

The faceless man handed me the flashlight as if passing a baton. I am the hollow man, he said. Faceless face toward me, he waited in the darkness for me to speak, but I could not find the right words. Eventually, without a sound, he disappeared. He was right in front of me one second, swallowed up by darkness the next. I shone the light in his direction, but only the dull white wall came out of the darkness.

As the man had said, the door to Room 208 was unlocked. The knob turned soundlessly in my hand. I took the precaution of switching the flashlight off, then stepped in as quietly as I could. As before, the room was silent, and I could sense nothing moving inside. There was the faint crack of melting ice moving inside the ice bucket. I switched on the flashlight and turned to lock the door. The dry metallic tumbling of the lock sounded abnormally loud in the room.

On the table in the center stood the unopened bottle of Cutty Sark, clean glasses, and the bucket full of fresh ice. The silver-colored tray beside the vase shot the beam of the flashlight back with a sensual gleam, as if it had been waiting for me for a very long time. In response, it seemed, the smell of the flowers pollen became stronger for a moment. The air around me grew dense, and the pull of gravity seemed to increase. With my back against the door, I watched the movement around me in the beam of the flashlight.

This place is dangerous. You are an intruder here, and I am the only one on your side.

Don't forget that.