Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

With her eyes closed and her chin lifted slightly, Creta Kano rocked quietly forward and back as if she were dreaming. I could see her chest rising and falling with each breath beneath the dress. A few hairs had come loose and hung over her forehead. I imagined myself floating alone in the middle of a vast sea. I closed my eyes and listened, expecting to hear the sound of little waves hitting my face. My body was bathed in lukewarm ocean water. I sensed the gradual flow of the tide. It was carrying me away. I decided to do as Creta Kano had said and not think about anything. I closed my eyes, let the strength go out of my limbs, and gave myself up to the current.

All of a sudden, I noticed that the room had gone dark. I tried to look around, but I could hardly see a thing. The wall lamps had all been extinguished. There was only the faint silhouette of Creta Kano's blue dress rocking on top of me. Just forget, she said, but it was not Creta Kano's voice. Forget about everything. You're asleep. You're dreaming. You're lying in nice, warm mud. We all come out of the warm mud, and we all go back to it.

It was the voice of the woman on the telephone. The mysterious woman on the phone was now mounted atop me and joining her body with mine. She, too, wore Kumiko's dress. She and Creta Kano had traded places without my being aware of it. I tried to speak. I did not know what I was hoping to say, but at least I tried to speak. I was too confused, though, and my voice would not work. All I could expel from my mouth was a hot blast of air. I opened my eyes wide and tried to see the face of the woman mounted on top of me, but the room was too dark.

The woman said nothing more. Instead, she began to move her hips in an even more erotically stimulating way. Her soft flesh, itself almost an independent organism, enveloped my erection with a gentle pulling motion. From behind her I heard-or thought I heard-the sound of a knob being turned. A white flash went through the darkness. The ice bucket on the table might have shone momentarily in the light from the corridor. Or the flash might have been the glint of a sharp blade. But I couldn't think anymore. There was only one thing I could do: I came.

I washed myself off in the shower and laundered my semen-stained underwear by hand. Terrific, I thought. Why did I have to be having wet dreams at such a difficult time in my life?

Once again I put on fresh clothing, and once again I sat on the veranda, looking at the garden. Splashes of sunlight danced on everything, filtered through thick green leaves. Several days of rain had promoted the powerful growth of bright-green weeds here and there, giving the garden a subtle shading of ruin and stagnation.

Creta Kano again. Two wet dreams in a short interval, and both times it had been Creta Kano. Never once had I thought of sleeping with her. The desire had not even flashed through my mind. And yet both times I had been in that room, joining my body with hers. What could possibly be the reason for this? And who was that telephone woman who had taken her place? She knew me, and I supposedly knew her. I went through the various sexual partners I had had in life, but none of them was the telephone woman. Still, there was something about her that seemed familiar. And that was what annoyed me so.

Some kind of memory was trying to find its way out. I could feel it in there, bumping around. All I needed was a little hint. If I pulled that one tiny thread, then everything would come unraveled. The mystery was waiting for me to solve it. But the one slim thread was something I couldn't find.

I gave up trying to think. Forget everything. You're asleep. You're dreaming. You're lying in nice, warm mud. We all come out of the warm mud, and we all go back to it.

Six o'clock came, and still no phone call. Only May Kasahara showed up. All she wanted, she said, was a sip of beer. I took a cold can from the refrigerator and split it with her. I was hungry, so I put some ham and lettuce between two slices of bread and ate that. When she saw me eating, May said she would like the same. I made her a sandwich too. We ate in silence and drank our beer. I kept looking up at the wall clock.

Don't you have a TV in this house? No TV, I said. She gave the edge of her lip a little bite. I kinda figured that. Don't you like TV? I don't dislike it. I get along fine without it. May Kasahara let that sink in for a while. How many years have you been married, Mr.

Wind-Up Bird? Six years, I said. And you did without TV for six years? Uh-huh. At first we didn't have the money to buy one. Then we got used to living without it. Its nice and quiet that way. The two of you must have been happy. What makes you think so? She wrinkled up her face. Well, I couldn't live a day without television. Because you're unhappy? May Kasahara did not reply to that. But now Kumiko is gone. You must not be so happy anymore, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I nodded and sipped my beer. That's about the size of it, I said. That was about the size of it. She put a cigarette between her lips and, in a practiced motion, struck a match to light it.

Now, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said, I want you to tell me the absolute truth: Do you think I'm ugly? I put my beer glass down and took another look at May Kasahara's face. All this time while talking with her, I had been vaguely thinking of other things. She was wearing an oversize black tank top, which gave a clear view of the girlish swell of her breasts.

You're not the least bit ugly, I said. That's for sure. Why do you ask? My boyfriend always used to tell me how ugly I was, that I didn't have any boobs. The boy who wrecked the bike? Yeah, him. I watched May Kasahara slowly exhaling her cigarette smoke. Boys that age will say things like that. They don't know how to express exactly what they feel, so they say and do the exact opposite. They hurt people that way, for no reason at all, and they hurt themselves too. Anyhow, you're not the least bit ugly. I think you're very cute. No flattery intended.

May Kasahara mulled that one over for a while. She dropped ashes into the empty beer can. Is Mrs. Wind-Up Bird pretty?

Hmm, thats hard for me to say. Some would say she is, and some would say not. Its a matter of taste.

I see, she said. She tapped on her glass as if bored. Whats your biker boyfriend doing? I asked. Doesn't he come to see you anymore? No, he doesn't, said May Kasahara, laying a finger on the scar by her left eye. I'll never see him again, thats for sure. Two hundred percent sure. Id bet my left little toe on it. But Id rather not talk about that right now. Some things, you know, if you say them, it makes them not true? You know what I mean, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?

I think I do, I said. Then I glanced at the phone in the living room. It sat on the table, cloaked in silence. It looked like a deep-sea creature pretending to be an inanimate object, crouching there in wait for its prey.

Someday, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, I'll tell you all about him. When I feel like it. But not now. I just don't feel like it now.

She looked at her watch. Gotta get home. Thanks for the beer.

I saw her out to the garden wall. A nearly full moon was pouring its grainy light down to the earth. The sight of the full moon reminded me that Kumiko's period was approaching. But that would probably have nothing to do with me anymore. The thought sent a sharp pain through my chest. The intensity of it caught me off guard: it resembled sorrow.

With her hand on the wall, May Kasahara looked at me. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you do love Kumiko, don't you?

I think I do.

Even though she might have gone off with a lover? If she said she wanted to come back to you, would you take her back?

I released a sigh. That's a tough question, I said. Id have to think about it once it really happened.

Sorry for sticking my nose in, said May Kasahara, with a little click of the tongue. But don't get mad. I'm just trying to learn. I want to know what it means for a wife to run away. There're all kinds of things I don't know.