Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I was utterly amazed to hear that you had spent time down in a well, for I, too, continue to feel myself strongly attracted to wells. Considering my own close call, one would think that I would never have wanted to see another well, but quite the contrary, even to this day, whenever I see a well, I cant help looking in. And if it turns out to be a dry well, I feel the urge to climb down inside. I probably continue to hope that I will encounter something down there, that if I go down inside and simply wait, it will be possible for me to encounter a certain something. Not that I expect it to restore my life to me. No, I am far too old to hope for such things. What I hope to find is the meaning of the life that I have lost. By what was it taken away from me, and why? I want to know the answers to these questions with absolute certainty. And I would go so far as to say that if I could have those answers, I would not mind being even more profoundly lost than I am already. Indeed, I would gladly accept such a burden for whatever years of life may be left to me.

I was truly sorry to hear that your wife had left you, but that is a matter on which I am unable to offer you any advice. I have lived far too long a time without the benefit of love or family and am thus unqualified to speak on such matters. I do believe, however, that if you feel the slightest willingness to wait a while longer for her to come back, then you probably should continue to wait there as you are now. That is my opinion, for what it is worth. I realize full well how hard it must be to go on living alone in a place from which someone has left you, but there is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.

If possible, I would like to come to Tokyo sometime in the near future and see you again, but unfortunately I am having a little problem with one leg, and the treatment for it will take some time. Please take care and be well.

Sometimes I climbed the garden wall and went down the winding alley to where the vacant Miyawaki house had stood. Dressed in a three-quarter-length coat, a scarf wrapped under my chin, I trod the alleys dead winter grass. Short puffs of frozen winter wind whistled through the electric lines overhead. The house had been completely demolished, the yard now surrounded by a high plank fence. I could look in through the gaps in the fence, but there was nothing in there to see- no house, no paving stones, no well, no trees, no TV antenna, no bird sculpture: just a flat, black stretch of cold-looking earth, compacted by the treads of a bulldozer, and a few scattered clumps of weeds. I could hardly believe there had once been a deep well in the yard and that I had climbed down into it.

I leaned against the fence, looking up at May Kasahara's house, to where her room was, on the second floor. But she was no longer there. She wouldn't be coming out anymore to say, Hi, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.

On a bitter-cold afternoon in mid-February, I dropped in at the real estate office by the station that my uncle had told me about, Setagaya Dai-ichi Realtors. When I walked in, the first person I saw was a middle-aged female receptionist. Several desks were lined up near the entrance, but their chairs were empty, as if all the brokers were out on appointments. A large gas heater glowed bright red in the middle of the room. On a sofa in a small reception area toward the back sat a slightly built old man, engrossed in a newspaper. I asked the receptionist if a Mr. Ichikawa might be there. That's me, said the old man, turning in my direction. Can I help you?

I introduced myself as my uncles nephew and mentioned that I lived in one of the houses that my uncle owned.

Oh, I see, said the old man, laying his paper down. So you're Mr. Tsuruta's nephew! He folded his reading glasses and gave me a head-to-toe inspection. I couldn't tell what kind of impression I was making on him. Come in, come in. Can I offer you a cup of tea?

I told him not to bother, but either he didn't hear me or he ignored my refusal. He had the receptionist make tea. It didn't take her long to bring it to us, but by the time he and I were sitting opposite each other, drinking tea, the stove had gone out and the room was getting chilly. A detailed map showing all the houses in the area hung on the wall, marked here and there in pencil or felt-tip pen. Next to it hung a calendar with van Gogh's famous bridge painting: a bank calendar.

I haven't seen your uncle in quite a while. How is he doing? the old man asked after a sip of tea.

I think he's fine, busy as ever. I don't see him much myself, I said.

I'm glad to hear he's doing well. How many years has it been since I last saw him? I wonder. At least it seems like years. He took a cigarette from his jacket pocket, and after apparently taking careful aim, he struck a match with a vigorous swipe. I was the one who found that house for him, and I managed it for him for a long time too. Anyhow, its good to hear he's keeping busy.

Old Mr. Ichikawa himself seemed anything but busy. I imagined he must be half retired, showing up at the office now and then to take care of longtime clients.

So how do you like the house? No problems? No, none at all, I said. The old man nodded. That's good. Its a nice place. Maybe on the small side, but a nice place to live. Things have always gone well for the people who lived there. For you too? Not bad, I said to him. At least I'm alive, I said to myself. I had something I wanted to ask you about, though. My uncle says you know more than anybody about this area. The old man chuckled. This area is one thing I do know, he said. I've been dealing in real estate here for close to forty years. The thing I want to ask you about is the Miyawaki place behind ours. They've bulldozed it, you know.

Yes, I know, said the old man, pursing his lips as though rummaging through the drawers in his mind. It sold last August. They finally got all the mortgage and title and legal problems straightened out and put it on the market. A speculator bought it, to tear down the house and sell the land. Leave a house vacant that long, I don't care how good it is, its not going to sell. Of course, the people who bought it are not local. Nobody local would touch the place. Have you heard some of the stories?

Yes, I have, from my uncle.

Then you know what I'm talking about. I suppose we could have bought it and sold it to somebody who didn't know any better, but we don't do business that way. It just leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

I nodded in agreement. So who did buy it, then?

The old man knit his brow and shook his head, then told me the name of a well-known real estate corporation. They probably didn't do any research, just snapped it up when they saw the location and the price, figured they'd turn a quick profit. But its not going to be so easy.

They haven't been able to sell it? They came close a few times, the old man said, folding his arms. Its not cheap, buying a piece of land. Its a lifetime investment. People are careful. When they start looking into things, any stories come out, and in this case, not one of them is good. You hear stories like that, and the ordinary person is not going to buy. Most of the people who live around here know the stories about that place.

What are they asking?

Asking? The price of the land where the Miyawaki house was. Old Mr. Ichikawa looked at me as if to say I had aroused his curiosity. Well, lets see. The lot is a little over thirty-five hundred square feet. Not quite a hundred tsubo. The market price would be one and a half million yen per tsubo. I mean, thats a first-rate lot-wonderful setting, southern exposure. A million and a half, no problem, even with the market as slow as it is. You might have to wait a little while, but you'd get your price at that location. Ordinarily. But theres nothing ordinary about the Miyawaki place. That's not going to move, no matter how long you wait. So the price has to go down. Its already down to a million ten per tsubo, so with a little more bargaining you could probably get the whole place for an even hundred million.