Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

If Kumiko was planning to institute divorce proceedings, that meant she had no intention of killing herself right away. That gave me some relief. But then I ran up against the fact that I had not had sex with anyone for almost two months. As she had said in her letter, Kumiko had resisted sleeping with me all that time. She had symptoms of a mild bladder infection, she said, and the doctor had told her to refrain from sex for a while. And of course I had believed her. I had no reason not to.

During those two months, I had had relations with women in my dreams- or in some world that, within the limits of my vocabulary, I could only call a dream- with Creta Kano and with the telephone woman. But now that I thought about it, two months had gone by since the last time I had slept with a real woman in the real world. Lying on the sofa, staring at my own hands atop my chest, I thought about the last time I had seen Kumiko's body. I thought about the soft curve of her back when I zipped her dress up, and the smell of cologne behind her ears. If what she said in the letter was the irrevocable truth, however, I would probably never sleep with Kumiko again. She had written it with such clarity and finality: what else could it be but the irrevocable truth?

The more I thought about the possibility that my relationship with Kumiko had become a thing of the past, the more I began to miss the gentle warmth of that body that had once belonged to me. I had enjoyed sleeping with her. Of course, I had enjoyed it before we were married, but even after some years had gone by and the initial thrill had faded somewhat, I enjoyed having sex with Kumiko. Her slender back, the nape of her neck, her legs, her breasts-I could recall the touch of every part of her with present vividness. I could recall all the things I had done for her and she had done for me in the course of our sexual union.

But now Kumiko had joined her body with that of someone I did not know-and with an intensity I could hardly imagine. She had discovered in that a pleasure she had been unable to obtain from sex with me. Probably, while she was doing it with him, she had squirmed and writhed enough to make the bed toss and had released groans loud enough to be audible in the next room. She had probably done things with him that she would never have done with me. I went and opened the refrigerator, took out a beer, and drank it. Then I ate some potato salad. Wanting to hear music, I turned on the FM radio, tuning in to a classical station at low volume. I'm so tired today, Kumiko would say. I'm just not in the mood. I'm sorry. Really.

Id answer, That's OK, no big deal. When Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings ended, a little piano piece came on that sounded like something by Schumann. It was familiar, but I couldn't recall the title. When it was over, the female announcer said it had been the seventh of Schumann's Forest Scenes, titled Bird as Prophet. I imagined Kumiko twisting her hips beneath the other man, raising her legs, planting her fingernails in his back, drooling on the sheets. The announcer explained that Schumann had created a scene of fantasy in which a mysterious bird lived in the forest, foretelling the future.

What had I ever known about Kumiko? Soundlessly, I crushed the empty beer can in my hand and threw it into the trash. Could it be true that the Kumiko I had thought I understood, the Kumiko I had held close to me and joined my body with over the years as my wife-that Kumiko was nothing but the most superficial layer of the person Kumiko herself, just as the greater part of this world belongs in fact to the realm of the jellyfish? If so, what about those six years we had spent together? What had they been? What had they meant?

I was reading Kumiko's letter yet again when the phone rang. The sound shot me out of the sofa. Who could possibly be calling at two in the morning? Kumiko? No, she would never call here. Probably May Kasahara. She had seen me leave the empty house and decided to give me a call. Or possibly Creta Kano. She wanted to explain why she had disappeared. It could be the telephone woman. She might be trying to convey some message to me. May Kasahara had been right: there were just a few too many women around me. I wiped the sweat from my face with a towel that lay nearby, and when I was ready I lifted the receiver. Hello, I said. Hello, came the voice from the other end. It did not belong to May Kasahara. Neither was it Creta Kano's voice, or the voice of the enigmatic woman. It was Malta Kano.

Hello, she said, is that Mr. Okada? My name is Malta Kano. I wonder if you remember me?

Of course. I remember you very well, I said, trying to still the pounding of my heart.

How could I not have remembered her?

I must apologize for telephoning you so late at night. This is something of an emergency, however. I fully recognized what a rude intrusion this would be and how angry it would make you, but I felt compelled to place the call nevertheless. I am terribly sorry.

She need not be concerned, I assured her: I was up, in any case, and not the least bit bothered.

The reason I am calling you so late at night, Mr. Okada, is that I felt I should reach you at the earliest possible opportunity, said Malta Kano. Listening to her speak, I had the impression that she was choosing and arranging each word into well-ordered sentences according to strict principles of logic-which was what she always did. If you have no objection, there are several questions that I wish to be permitted to ask you, Mr. Okada. May I proceed?

Receiver in hand, I lowered myself onto the sofa, Go right ahead, ask me anything you'd like, I said.

Have you by any chance been away these past two days, Mr. Okada? I tried telephoning you any number of times, but you seemed always to be out.

Well, yes, I was out. I wanted to get away from the house for a while. I needed to be alone to do some thinking. I've got lots of things I need to think about.

Yes, Mr. Okada, I am very much aware of that. I understand how you feel. A change of scene can be a very good thing when one wishes to think clearly and carefully about something. In this case, however, Mr. Okada- and I know this will sound as if I am prying- were you not somewhere very far away?

Well, not so very far away, I said, with deliberate ambiguity. I switched the receiver from my left hand to my right. How can I put this? I was in a somewhat cut-off place. I really cant go into it, though, in great detail. I have my reasons. And I just got back a little while ago. I'm too tired for long explanations.

Of course, Mr. Okada. I understand. All people have their reasons. I will not press you to explain. You must be very tired indeed: I can tell from the sound of your voice. Please do not concern yourself about me. I should not be bothering you with a lot of questions at a time like this. I am terribly sorry. We can always discuss this matter at a more appropriate time. I know it was terribly rude of me to ask such a personal question, but I did so only because I was worried that something very bad had happened to you over the past several days.

I tried to make an appropriate response, but the little noise that came out of my throat sounded less like a response than like the gasp of an aquatic animal that had breathed the wrong way. Something very bad, I thought. Of all the things that were happening to me, which were bad and which were not bad? Which were all right and which were not all right?

Thank you for being so concerned about me, I said, after getting my voice to work properly, but I'm fine at the moment. I cant say that something good happened to me, but theres been nothing especially bad, either.

I am glad to hear that. I'm just tired, thats all, I added. Malta Kano made a dainty little sound of clearing her throat. By the way, Mr. Okada, I wonder if you might have noticed some kind of major physical change during the past few days?