Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

In the alley again, I leaned against the fence of the vacant house, watching May Kasahara's house for a time. I thought she might notice me there, as she usually did, and come out, but there was no sign of her. The surroundings were absolutely hushed-no people, no noises of any kind, not even the cry of a cicada. I passed the time digging at the surface of the ground with the toe of my shoe. Something felt different about the neighborhood, unfamiliar-as if, in the days I was down in the well, the old reality of this place had been shoved away by a new reality, which had settled in and taken over. I had been feeling this, somewhere deep down, ever since I had emerged from the well and gone home.

Walking back down the alley to my house, I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Several days worth of black stubble covered my face. I looked like a newly rescued shipwreck victim. This was the first time in my life I had ever let my beard grow so long. I toyed with the idea of really letting it grow out but after a few moments thought decided to shave it. For some reason, it just seemed better to keep the face I had had when Kumiko left.

I softened up my beard with a hot towel and covered my face with a thick layer of shaving cream. I then proceeded to shave, slowly and carefully, so as-to avoid cutting myself: first the chin, then the left cheek, then the right cheek. As I was finishing the right cheek, what I saw in the mirror made me catch my breath. It was a blue-black stain of some kind. At first I thought I might accidentally have smeared myself with something. I wiped off the remaining traces of shaving cream, gave my face a good washing with soap and water, and scrubbed at the stained area with a washcloth. But still the stain would not come off. It seemed to have penetrated deep into the skin. I stroked it with a finger. That one patch of skin felt just slightly warmer than the rest of my face, but otherwise it had no special feeling. It was a mark. I had a mark on my cheek in the exact location where, in the well, I had had the sensation of heat.

I brought my face up to the mirror and examined the mark with the utmost care. Located just beyond the right cheekbone, it was about the size of an infants palm. Its bluish color was close to black, like the blue-black Mont Blanc ink that Kumiko always used.

One possible explanation was that this was an allergic reaction. I might have come in contact with something in the well that caused an eruption of the skin, the way lacquer can do. But what could there have been down there, in the bottom of the well, to give rise to such a thing? I had examined every nook and cranny of the place with my flashlight, finding nothing there but the dirt bottom and the concrete wall. Besides, did allergies or eruptions ever leave such clearly outlined marks?

A mild panic overtook me. For a few moments, I lost all sense of direction, as when a huge wave crashes over you at the beach, dragging you in. The washcloth fell from my hand. I knocked over the wastebasket and stubbed my foot against something, mumbling meaningless syllables all the while. Then I managed to regain my composure and, leaning against the sink, began thinking calmly about how to deal with this fact.

The best thing I could do for now was to wait and see. I could always go to a doctor afterward. It might be a temporary condition, something that would heal itself, like a lacquer eruption. It had formed in a few short days, so it might disappear just as easily. I went to the kitchen and made myself some coffee. I was hungry, but whenever I actually tried to eat any- thing, my appetite would vanish like water in a mirage.

I stretched out on the sofa and watched the rain that had begun to fall. Every now and then I would go to the bathroom and look in the mirror, but I could see no change in the mark. It had dyed that area of my cheek a deep, dark-almost handsome-blue.

I could think of only one thing that might have caused this, and that Was my having passed through the wall in my predawn dreamlike illusion in the well, the telephone woman leading me by the hand. She had pulled me through the wall so that we could escape from the dangerous someone who had opened the door and was coming into the room. The moment I passed through the wall, I had had the clear sensation of heat on my cheek-in the exact spot where I now had this mark. Of course, whatever causal connection there might be between my passing through the wall and the forming of a mark on my face remained unexplained.

The man without a face had spoken to me in the hotel lobby. This is the wrong time, he had warned me. You don't belong here now. But I had ignored his warning and continued on. I was angry at Noboru Wataya, angry at my own confusion. And as a result, perhaps, I had received this mark.

Perhaps the mark was a brand that had been impressed on me by that strange dream or illusion or whatever it was. That was no dream, they were telling me through the mark: It really happened. And every time you look in the mirror now, you will be forced to remember it.

I shook my head. Too many things were being left unexplained. The one thing I understood for sure was that I didn't understand a thing. A dull throbbing started in my head. I couldn't think anymore. I felt no urge to do anything. I took a sip of lukewarm coffee and went on watching the rain.

After noon, I called my uncle for some small talk. I needed to talk to someone- it didn't matter much who-to do something about this feeling I had that I was being ripped away from the world of reality.

When he asked how Kumiko was doing, I said fine and let it go at that. She was on a short business trip at the moment, I added. I could have told him honestly what had been happening, but to put the recent events into some kind of order that would make sense to a third party would have been impossible. They didn't make much sense to me, so how could I explain them to someone else? I decided to keep the truth from my uncle for the time being.

You used to live in this house, didn't you? I asked.

Sure did, he said. Six or seven years altogether. Wait a minute ... I bought the place when I was thirty-five and lived there till I was forty-two. Seven years. Moved into this condo when I got married. I lived there alone that whole time.

I was just wondering, did anything bad happen to you while you were here? Anything bad? Like what? Like you got sick or you split up with a woman or something. My uncle gave a hearty laugh on his end of the line. I split up with more than one woman, thats for sure. But not just while I was living there. Nah, I couldn't count that as something especially bad. Nobody I hated to lose, tell you the truth. As far as getting sick goes ... hmm. No, I don't think so. I had a little growth removed from the back of my neck, but thats about all I remember. The barber found it, said I ought to have it removed just to be safe. So I went to the doctor, but it turned out to be nothing much. That was the first time I went to see the doctor while I was living in that house-and the last. I ought to get a rebate on my health insurance!

No bad memories you associate with the place, then?

Nope, none, said my uncle, after he had thought about it for a moment. But whats this about, all of a sudden?

Nothing much, I said. Kumiko saw a fortune-teller the other day and came home with an earful about this house-that its unlucky, things like that, I lied. I think its nonsense, but I promised to ask you about it.

Hmm. What do they call it? House physiognomy? I don't know anything about that stuff. You couldn't tell by me. But I've lived in the place, and my impression is that its OK, it doesn't have any problems. Miyawaki's place is another matter, of course, but you're pretty far away from there.

What kind of people lived here after you moved out? I asked.