Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

So thats what happened in this room about an hour ago. And now I'm sitting at my desk, writing a letter to you in pencil, Mr. Wind-Up Bird (with my clothes on, of course!).

Bye-bye, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I don't quite know how to put this, but the duck people in the woods and I are praying for you to be warm and happy. If anything happens to you, don't hesitate to call me out loud again.

Good night.

Cinnamon carried you here, said Nutmeg.

The first thing that came to me when I woke was pain, in different, twisted forms. The knife wound gave me pain, and all the joints and bones and muscles in my body gave me pain. Different parts of my body must have slammed up against things as I fled through the darkness. And yet the form of each of these different pains was still not quite right. They were somewhere close to pain, but they could not exactly be called pain.

Next I realized that I was stretched out on the fitting room sofa, wearing navy-blue pajamas that I had never seen before and covered with a blanket. The curtains were open, and bright morning sun streamed through the window. I guessed it must be around ten o'clock.

There was fresh air here, and time that moved forward, but why such things existed I could not quite comprehend.

Cinnamon brought you here, said Nutmeg. Your wounds are not that bad. The one on your shoulder is fairly deep, but it didn't hit any major blood vessels, fortunately. The ones on your face are just scrapes. Cinnamon used a needle and thread to sew up the others so you wont have scars. Hes good at that. You can take the stitches out yourself in a few days or have a doctor do it.

I tried to speak, but I couldn't make my voice work. All I could do was inhale and let the air out as a rasping sound.

You'd better not try to move or talk yet, said Nutmeg. She was sitting on a nearby chair with her legs crossed. Cinnamon says you were in the well too long- it was a very close call.

But don't ask me what happened. I don't know a thing. I got a call in the middle of the night, phoned for a taxi, and flew over here. The details of what went on before that I just don't know. Your clothes were soaking wet and bloody. We threw them away.

Nutmeg was dressed more simply than usual, as if she had indeed rushed out of the house.

She wore a cream-colored cashmere sweater over a mans striped shirt, and a wool skirt of olive green, no jewelry, and her hair was tied back. She looked a little tired but otherwise could have been a photo in a catalog. She put a cigarette between her lips and lit it with her gold lighter, making the usual clean, dry click, then inhaling with eyes narrowed. I really had not died, I reassured myself when I heard the sound of the lighter. Cinnamon must have pulled me out of the well in the nick of time.

Cinnamon understands things in a special way, said Nutmeg. And unlike you or me, he is always thinking very deeply about the potential for things to happen. But not even he imagined that water would come back to the well so suddenly. It had simply not been among the many possibilities he had considered. And because of that, you almost lost your life. It was the first time I ever saw that boy panic. She managed a little smile when she said that. He must really like you, she said. I couldn't hear what she said after that. I felt an ache deep behind my eyes, and my eyelids grew heavy. I let them close, and I sank down into darkness as if on an elevator ride.

It took two full days for my body to recover. Nutmeg stayed with me the whole time. I couldn't get up by myself, I couldn't speak, I could hardly eat. The most I could manage was a few sips of orange juice and a few slivers of canned peaches. Nutmeg would go home at night and come back in the morning. Which was fine, because I was out cold all night-and most of the day too. Sleep was obviously what I needed most for my recovery.

I never saw Cinnamon. He seemed to be consciously avoiding me. I would hear his car coming in through the gate whenever he would drop Nutmeg off or pick her up or deliver food or clothing- hear that special deep rumble that Porsche engines make, since he had stopped using the Mercedes- but he himself would not come inside. He would hand things to Nutmeg at the front door, then leave.

Well be getting rid of this place soon, Nutmeg said to me. I'll have to take care of the women again myself. Oh, well. I guess its my fate. I'll just have to keep going until I'm all used up-empty. And you: you probably wont be having anything to do with us anymore. When this is all over and you're well again, you'd better forget about us as soon as you can. Because ... Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. About your brother-in-law. Noboru Wataya.

Nutmeg brought a newspaper from the next room and unfolded it on the table. Cinnamon brought this a little while ago. Your brother-in-law collapsed last night in Nagasaki. They took him to a hospital there, but he's been unconscious ever since. They don't know if hell recover.

Nagasaki? I could hardly comprehend what she was saying. I wanted to speak, but the words would not come out. Noboru Wataya should have collapsed in Akasaka, not Nagasaki. Why Nagasaki?

He gave a speech in Nagasaki, Nutmeg continued, and he was having dinner with the organizers afterward, when he suddenly went limp. They took him to a nearby hospital. They think it was some kind of stroke-probably some congenital weakness in a blood vessel in his brain. The paper says hell be bedridden for some time, that even if he regains consciousness he probably wont be able to speak, so thats probably the end of his political career. What a shame: he was so young. I'll leave the paper here. You can read it when you're feeling better.

It took me a while to absorb these facts as facts. The images from the TV news I had seen in the hotel lobby were still too vividly burned into my brain- Noboru Wataya's office in Akasaka, the police all over the place, the front door of the hospital, the reporter grim, his voice tense. Little by little, though, I was able to convince myself that what I had seen was news that existed only in the other world. I had not, in actuality, in this world, beaten Noboru Wataya with a baseball bat. I would not, in actuality, be investigated by the police or arrested for the crime. He had collapsed in public, in full view, from a stroke. There was no crime involved, no possibility of a crime. This knowledge came to me as a great relief. After all, the assailant described on television had borne a startling resemblance to me, and I had had absolutely no alibi.

There had to be some connection between my having beaten someone to death in the other world and Noboru Wataya's collapse. I clearly killed something inside him or something powerfully linked with him. He might have sensed that it was coming. What I had done, though, had failed to take Noboru Wataya's life. He had managed to survive on the brink of death. I should have pushed him over the brink. What would happen to Kumiko now? Would she be unable to break free while he was still alive? Would he continue to cast his spell over her from his unconscious darkness?

That was as far as my thoughts would take me. My own consciousness gradually slipped away, until I closed my eyes in sleep. I had a tense, fragmentary dream. Creta Kano was holding a baby to her breast. I could not see the baby's face. Creta Kano's hair was short, and she wore no makeup. She told me that the baby's name was Corsica and that half the baby's father was me, while the other half was Lieutenant Mamiya. She had not gone to Crete, she said, but had remained in Japan to bear and raise the child. She had only recently been able to find a new name for the baby, and now she was living a peaceful life growing vegetables in the hills of Hiroshima with Lieutenant Mamiya. None of this came as a surprise to me. In my dream, at least, I had foreseen it all.