Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

When did you see it?

When did I see it? Hmm. No more than three or four days ago. Our yard is a kind of highway for the neighborhood cats. They all cut across here from the Takitanis to the Miyawakis.

She pointed toward the vacant house, where the stone bird still spread its wings, the tall goldenrod still caught the early-summer sun, and the pigeon went on with its monotonous cooing atop the TV antenna.

I've got an idea, she said. Why don't you wait here? All the cats eventually pass through our place on their way to the Miyawakis. And somebody's bound to call the cops if they see you hanging around like that. It wouldn't be the first time.

I hesitated.

Don't worry, she said. I'm the only one here. The two of us can sit in the sun and wait for the cat to show up. I'll help. I've got twenty-twenty vision.

I looked at my watch. Two twenty-six. All I had to do today before it got dark was take in the laundry and fix dinner.

I went in through the gate and followed the girl across the lawn. She dragged her right leg slightly. She took a few steps, stopped, and turned to face me.

I got thrown from the back of a motorcycle, she said, as if it hardly mattered.

A large oak tree stood at the point where the yards lawn gave out. Under the tree sat two canvas deck chairs, one draped with a blue beach towel. Scattered on the other were a new box of Hope regulars, an ashtray and lighter, a magazine, and an oversize boom box. The boom box was playing hard-rock music at low volume. She turned the music off and took all the stuff out of the chair for me, dropping it on the grass. From the chair, I could see into the yard of the vacant house-the stone bird, the goldenrod, the chain-link fence. The girl had probably been watching me the whole time I was there.

The yard of this house was very large. It had a broad, sloping lawn dotted with clumps of trees. To the left of the deck chairs was a rather large concrete-lined pond, its empty bottom exposed to the sun. Judging from its greenish tinge, it had been without water for some time. We sat with our backs to the house, which was visible through a screen of trees.

The house was neither large nor lavish in its construction. Only the yard gave an impression of large size, and it was well manicured.

What a big yard, I said, looking around. It must be a pain to take care of. Must be. I used to work for a lawn-mowing company when I was a kid. Oh? She was obviously not interested in lawns.

Are you always here alone? I asked.

Yeah. Always. Except a maid comes mornings and evenings. During the day its just me. Alone. Want a cold drink? We've got beer.

No, thanks. Really? Don't be shy. I shook my head. Don't you go to school? Don't you go to work? No work to go to. Lost your job? Sort of. I quit a few weeks ago. What kind of job? I was a lawyers gofer. Id go to different government offices to pick up documents, put materials in order, check on legal precedents, handle court procedures-that kind of stuff. But you quit. Yeah. Does your wife have a job?

She does.

The pigeon across the way must have stopped its cooing and gone off somewhere. I suddenly realized that a deep silence lay all around me.

Right over there is where the cats go through, she said, pointing toward the far side of the lawn. See the incinerator in the Takitanis yard? They come under the fence at that point, cut across the grass, and go out under the gate to the yard across the way. They always follow exactly the same route.

She perched her sunglasses on her forehead, squinted at the yard, and lowered her glasses again, exhaling a cloud of smoke. In the interval, I saw that she had a two-inch cut next to her left eye-the kind of cut that would probably leave a scar the rest of her life. The dark sunglasses were probably meant to hide the wound. The girls face was not a particularly beautiful one, but there was something attractive about it, probably the lively eyes or the unusual shape of the lips.

Do you know about the Miyawakis? she asked. Not a thing, I said. They're the ones who lived in the vacant house. A very proper family. They had two daughters, both in a private girls school. Mr. Miyawaki owned a few family restaurants. Why'd they leave?

Maybe he was in debt. It was like they ran away-just cleared out one night. About a year ago, I think. Left the place to rot and breed cats. My mothers always complaining.

Are there so many cats in there? Cigarette in her lips, the girl looked up at the sky. All kinds of cats. Some losing their fur, some with one eye ... and where the other eye used to be, a lump of raw flesh. Yuck! I nodded.

I've got a relative with six fingers on each hand. Shes just a little older than me. Next to her pinkie shes got this extra finger, like a baby's finger. She knows how to keep it folded up so most people don't notice. Shes really pretty. I nodded again.

You think its in the family? What do you call it... part of the bloodline? I don't know much about heredity. She stopped talking. I sucked on my lemon drop and looked hard at the cat path. Not one cat had shown itself so far. Sure you don't want something to drink? she asked. I'm going to have a Coke. I said I didn't need a drink. She left her deck chair and disappeared through the trees, dragging her bad leg slightly. I picked up her magazine from the grass and leafed through it. Much to my surprise, it turned out to be a mens magazine, one of the glossy monthlies. The woman in the foldout wore thin panties that showed her slit and pubic hair. She sat on a stool with her legs spread out at weird angles. With a sigh, I put the magazine back, folded my hands on my chest, and focused on the cat path again.

A very long time went by before the girl came back, with a Coke in her hand. The heat was getting to me. Sitting under the sun, I felt my brain fogging over. The last thing I wanted to do was think.

Tell me, she said, picking up her earlier conversation. If you were in love with a girl and she turned out to have six fingers, what would you do?

Sell her to the circus, I answered. Really? No, of course not, I said. I'm kidding. I don't think it would bother me. Even if your kids might inherit it? I took a moment to think about that. No, I really don't think it would bother me. What harm would an extra finger do? What if she had four breasts? I thought about that too. I don't know. Four breasts? This kind of thing could go on forever. I decided to change the subject. How old are you? I asked. Sixteen, she said. Just had my birthday. First year in high school. Have you been out of school long? My leg hurts if I walk too much. And I've got this scar near my eye. My schools very strict. They'd probably start bugging me if they found out I hurt myself falling off a motorcycle. So I'm out sick. I could take a year off. I'm not in any hurry to go up a grade.

No, I guess not, I said.

Anyhow, what you were saying before, that you wouldn't mind marrying a girl with six fingers but not four breasts ...

I didn't say that. I said I didn't know. Why don't you know? I don't know-its hard to imagine such a thing. Can you imagine someone with six fingers? Sure, I guess so. So why not four breasts? Whats the difference? I took another moment to think it over, but I couldn't find an answer. Do I ask too many questions? Do people tell you that? Yeah, sometimes. I turned toward the cat path again. What the hell was I doing here? Not one cat had showed itself the whole time. Hands still folded on my chest, I closed my eyes for maybe thirty seconds. I could feel the sweat forming on different parts of my body. The sun poured into me with a strange heaviness. Whenever the girl moved her glass, the ice clinked inside it like a cowbell.

Go to sleep if you want, she whispered. I'll wake you if a cat shows up. Eyes closed, I nodded in silence. The air was still. There were no sounds of any kind. The pigeon had long since disappeared. I kept thinking about the woman on the telephone. Did I really know her? There had been nothing remotely familiar about her voice or her manner of speaking. But she definitely knew me. I could have been looking at a De Chirico scene: the womans long shadow cutting across an empty street and stretching toward me, but she herself in a place far removed from the bounds of my consciousness. A bell went on ringing and ringing next to my ear.