Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I had sweated in my sleep, and now the sweat was beginning to grow cold and chill me. I shuddered several times. The sweat made me think of that pitch-dark hotel room and the telephone woman there. Still ringing in my ears were the words she had spoken-every one of them-and the sound of the knocking. My nostrils retained the strangely heavy smell of flowers. And Noboru Wataya was still talking from the other side of the television screen. The memory of these impressions remained, undimmed by the passage of time. And this was because it had not been a dream, my memory told me.

Even after I was fully awake, I continued to feel an intense warmth in my right cheek. Mixed in now with the warmth was a mild sensation of pain, as if the skin had been chafed with rough sandpaper. I pressed my palm against the spot through my one-day stubble, but this did nothing to reduce the heat or the pain. Down in the bottom of the dark well, without a mirror, it was impossible for me to examine what was happening to my cheek.

I reached out and touched the wall, tracing the surface with my fingertips and then pressing my palm against it for a time, but I found nothing unusual: it was just an ordinary concrete wall. I made a fist and gave it a few taps. The wall was hard, expressionless, and slightly damp. I still had a clear impression of the strange, slippery sensation it had given me when I passed through it-like tunneling through a mass of gelatin.

I groped in my knapsack for the canteen and took a drink of water. I had gone a full day now without eating. The thought itself gave me intense hunger pangs, but these began to fade soon enough as they were absorbed into a limbo-like numbness. I brought my hand to my face again and tried to gauge the growth of my beard. My jaw now wore a days worth of stubble. No doubt about it: a whole day had gone by. But my one-day absence was probably not having an effect on anybody. Not one human being had noticed that I was gone, likely. I could disappear from the face of the earth, and the world would go on moving without the slightest twinge. Things were tremendously complicated, to be sure, but one thing was clear: no one needed me.

I turned upward again and looked at the stars. The sight of them gradually calmed the beating of my heart. Then it occurred to me to grope along the wall for the ladder. Where it should have been, my hand encountered nothing. I felt over a broad area, checking with the utmost care, but there was no ladder. It no longer existed in the place where it belonged. I took a deep breath, pulled the flashlight from the knapsack, and switched it on. But there was no sign of the ladder. Standing, I shone the light on the floor and then the wall above me, as far as the beam could reach. The ladder was nowhere. Cold sweat crept down my sides like some kind of living creature. The flashlight slipped from my hand, fell to the ground, and switched off from the impact. It was a sign. In that instant, my mind snapped: it was a grain of sand, absorbed into the surrounding darkness. My body stopped functioning, as if its plug had been pulled. A perfect nothingness came over me.

This lasted perhaps a few seconds, until I retrieved myself. My physical functions returned bit by bit. I bent over and picked up the flashlight lying at my feet, gave it a few taps, and switched it on again. The light returned without a problem. I needed to calm myself and put my thoughts in order. Fear and panic would solve nothing. When had I last checked the ladder? Yesterday, late at night, just before I fell asleep. I had made certain it was there and only then let myself sleep. No mistake. The ladder had disappeared while I was sleeping. It had been pulled up. Taken away. I cut the switch of the flashlight and leaned against the wall. Then I closed my eyes. The first thing I felt was hunger. It swept toward me out of the distance, like a wave, washed over me soundlessly, and glided away. Once it was gone, I stood there, hollow, empty as a gutted animal. After the initial panic had passed, I no longer felt either terror or despair. Strangely enough, all I felt at that moment was a kind of resignation.

Back from Sapporo, I held Kumiko and comforted her. She was feeling lost and confused. She had taken the day off from work. I couldn't sleep a wink last night, she said. The clinic had an opening at just the right time, so I went ahead and decided by myself. She cried a little after saying this.

Its finished now, I said. No point thinking about it anymore. We talked it over, and this was how it worked out. If theres anything else you want to talk about, better do it here and now. Then lets just put it out of our minds. Forget about it. You said on the phone you had something to tell me.

Kumiko shook her head. Never mind, she said. You're right. Lets forget about it.

We went on with our lives for a while, avoiding all mention of Kumiko's abortion. But this wasn't easy to do. We could be talking about something entirely different, when suddenly both of us would fall silent. On weekends, we'd go to movies. In the dark, we might be concentrating on the movie, but we might just as well be thinking about things that had nothing to do with the movie, or we might be resting our brains by thinking about nothing at all. I knew that Kumiko, sitting next to me, was thinking about something else. I could sense it.

After the movie, we'd go somewhere for a beer or a snack. Sometimes we wouldn't know what to talk about. This went on for six weeks-a very long six weeks, at the end of which Kumiko said to me, What do you say we take a trip tomorrow, go away for a little vacation, just the two of us? Tomorrows Friday: we can take off till Sunday. People need that kind of thing once in a while.

I know what you mean, I said, smiling, but I wonder if anybody at my office even knows what a vacation is.

Call in sick, then. Say its flu or something. I'll do the same.

We took the train to Karuizawa. I picked that destination because Kumiko said she wanted a quiet place in the mountains where we could walk all we liked. It was off-season there in April; the hotel was hushed, most of the shops were closed, but that was exactly what we wanted. We did nothing but go out for walks every day, from morning to evening.

It took a full day and a half for Kumiko to release her feelings. And once she did, she sat in the hotel room, crying, for nearly two hours. I said nothing the whole time, just held her and let her cry.

Then, little by little, in fragments, she began to tell me things. About the abortion. About her feelings at the time. About her extreme sense of loss. About how alone she had felt while I was in Hokkaido-and how she could have done what she did only while feeling so alone.

And don't get me wrong, she said finally. I'm not regretting what I did. It was the only way. I'm perfectly clear on that. What really hurts, though, is that I want to tell you everything-absolutely everything-but I just cant do it. I cant tell you exactly how I feel.

Kumiko pushed her hair up, revealing a small, shapely ear, and she gave her head a shake.

I'm not hiding it from you. I'm planning to tell you sometime. You're the only one I can tell. But I just cant do it now. I cant put it into words.

Something from the past? No, thats not it. Take all the time you need, I said. Until you're ready. Time is the one thing we've got plenty of. I'll be right here with you. Theres no rush. I just want you to keep one thing in mind: Anything of yours-anything at all, as long as it belongs to you-I will accept as my own. That is one thing you will never have to worry about.

Thank you, she said. I'm so glad I married you. But we did not have all the time I thought we had. Exactly what was it that Kumiko had been unable to put into words? Did it have something to do with her disappearance? Maybe, if I had tried dragging it out of her then, I could have avoided losing her now. But no, I concluded after mulling it over: I could never have forced her. She had said she couldn't put it into words. Whatever it was, it was more than she had the strength for.