Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Noboru Wataya allowed the faintest possible smile to play over his lips-a thin, cold smile like a sliver of a moon hovering in the dawn sky. This is what they mean by letting the truth slip out, he said, in a soft but clearly audible voice.

Letting the truth slip out, I said, testing the expression for myself. I'm sure you see my point, he said. Your wife sleeps with another man. She runs out on you. And then you try to pin the blame on someone else. I've never heard of anything so stupid. Look, I didn't come here for my own pleasure. It was something I had to do. For me, its just a waste of time. I might as well be throwing my time into the gutter. When he had finished speaking, a deep silence settled over the table. Do you know the story of the monkeys of the shitty island? I asked Noboru Wataya.

He shook his head, with no sign of interest. Never heard of it. Somewhere, far, far away, theres a shitty island. An island without a name. An island not worth giving a name. A shitty island with a shitty shape. On this shitty island grow palm trees that also have shitty shapes. And the palm trees produce coconuts that give off a shitty smell. Shitty monkeys live in the trees, and they love to eat these shitty-smelling coconuts, after which they shit the worlds foulest shit. The shit falls on the ground and builds up shitty mounds, making the shitty palm trees that grow on them even shittier. Its an endless cycle. I drank the rest of my coffee.

As I sat here looking at you, I continued, I suddenly remembered the story of this shitty island. What I'm trying to say is this: A certain kind of shittiness, a certain kind of stagnation, a certain kind of darkness, goes on propagating itself with its own power in its own self-contained cycle. And once it passes a certain point, no one can stop it-even if the person himself wants to stop it.

Noboru Wataya's face wore no expression of any kind. The smile was gone, but neither was there any shadow of annoyance. All I could see was one small wrinkle between his eyebrows, and I could not recall if it was something that had been there before.

Are you catching my drift, Mr. Wataya? I went on. I know exactly the sort of man you are. You say I'm like garbage or rocks. And you think you could smash me to bits anytime you felt like it. But things are not that simple. To you, with your values, I may well be nothing but garbage and rocks. But I'm not as stupid as you think I am. I know exactly what you've got under that smooth, made-for-TV mask of yours. I know your secret. Kumiko knows and I know: we both know whats under there. If I wanted to, I could tell it to the world. I could bring it out into the light. It might take time, but I could do it. I may be a nobody, but at least I'm not a sandbag. I'm a living, breathing human being. If somebody hits me, I hit back. Make sure you keep that in mind.

Noboru Wataya went on staring at me with that expressionless face of his- a face like a chunk of rock floating in space. What I had said to him was almost pure bluff. I did not know Noboru Wataya's secret. That he had something profoundly warped inside him was not difficult to imagine. But I had no way of knowing with any concrete certainty what that might be. My words, though, seemed to have jabbed at something in there. I could read the effect on his face. He didn't respond to me the way he always did to his opponents in televised panel discussions: he didn't sneer at my words or try to trip me up or find some clever opening. He sat there in silence, without moving a muscle.

Then something very odd began to happen to Noboru Wataya's face. Little by little, it started to turn red. But it did this in the strangest way. Certain patches turned a deep red, while others reddened only slightly, and the rest appeared to have become weirdly pale. This made me think of an autumn wood of blotchy colors where deciduous and evergreen trees grew in a chaotic mix.

Eventually, without a word, Noboru Wataya stood up, took his sunglasses from his pocket, and put them on. The strange, blotchy colors still covered his face. They looked almost permanent now. Malta Kano remained perfectly still in her seat, saying nothing. I myself adopted an expression of complete indifference. Noboru Wataya began to say some- thing to me but, in the end, seemed to have decided against it. Instead, he walked away from the table and disappeared into the crowd.

For a time after Noboru Wataya left, Malta Kano and I said nothing to each other. I felt exhausted. The waiter came and offered to refill my coffee cup, but I sent him away. Malta Kano picked up her red hat from the table and stared at it for a few minutes before setting it down on the chair next to her.

I sensed a bitter taste in my mouth. I tried to wash it away by drinking some water, but this did no good.

After another short interval, Malta Kano spoke. Feelings need to be let out sometimes. Otherwise, the flow can stagnate inside. I'm sure you feel better now that you have said what you wanted to say.

A little, I said. But it didn't solve anything. It didn't bring anything to a conclusion. You don't like Mr. Wataya, do you, Mr. Okada? Every time I talk to that guy, I get this incredibly empty feeling inside. Every single object in the room begins to look as if it has no substance to it. Everything appears hollow. Exactly why this should be, I could never explain to you with any precision. Because of this feeling, I end up saying and doing things that are simply not me. And I feel terrible about it afterward. If I could manage never to see him again, nothing would make me happier.

Malta Kano shook her head. Unfortunately, you will be required to encounter Mr. Wataya any number of times again. This is something you will not be able to avoid.

She was probably right. I couldn't get him out of my life so easily.

I picked up my glass and took another drink of water. Where had that awful taste come from?

Theres just one thing I would like to ask you, I said. Whose side are you on here? Noboru Wataya's or mine?

Malta Kano put her elbows on the table and brought her palms together before her face. Neither, she said. There are no sides in this case. They simply do not exist. This is not the kind of thing that has a top and bottom, a right and left, a front and back, Mr. Okada.

Sounds like Zen, I said. Interesting enough in itself as a system of thought, but not much good for explaining anything.

She nodded her head. The palms that she was pressing together in front of her face she now pulled three inches apart, holding them at a slight angle and aiming them toward me.

They were small, well-shaped palms. I know that what I am saying does not seem to make a great deal of sense. And I don't blame you for being angry. But if I were to tell you anything now, it would serve no practical purpose. In fact, it would ruin things. You will have to win with your own strength. With your own hands.

Like on Wild Kingdom, I said with a smile. You get hit, you hit back.

That's it, said Malta Kano. Exactly. Then, with all the care of someone retrieving the belongings of a person newly dead, she picked up her handbag and put on her red vinyl hat.

When she set the hat on her head, Malta Kano conveyed a strangely tangible impression that a unit of time had now come to an end.

After Malta Kano had left, I went on sitting there alone, with nothing particular on my mind. I had no idea where I should go or what I should do if I were to stand up. But of course I couldn't stay there forever. When twenty minutes had gone by like this, I paid for the three of us and left the tearoom. Neither of the other two had paid.

At home, I found a thick letter in the mailbox. It was from Lieutenant Mamiya. My name and address had been written on the envelope in the same bold, handsome characters as before. I changed clothes, washed my face, and went to the kitchen, where I drank two glasses of cold water. Once I had had a moment to catch my breath, I cut the letter open.