Haruki Murakami - Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

It was just before noon when he arrived in Hämeenlinna. Tsukuru parked his car in a parking lot and strolled for fifteen minutes around the town, then went into a café facing the main square and had coffee and a croissant. The croissant was overly sweet, but the coffee was strong and delicious. The sky in Hämeenlinna was the same as in Helsinki, veiled behind a thin layer of clouds, the sun a blurred orange silhouette halfway up the sky. The wind blowing through the town square was a bit chilly, and he tugged on a thin sweater over his polo shirt.

There were hardly any tourists in Hämeenlinna, just people in ordinary clothes, carrying shopping bags, walking down the road. Even on the main street most of the stores carried food and sundries, the kind of stores that catered to locals or people who lived in summer cottages. On the other side of the square was a large church, a squat structure with a round, green roof. Like waves on the shore, a flock of black birds busily fluttered to and from the church roof. White seagulls, their eyes not missing a thing, strolled along the cobblestones of the square.

Near the square was a line of carts selling vegetables and fruit, and Tsukuru bought a bag of cherries and sat on a bench and ate them. As he was eating, two young girls, around ten or eleven, came by and stared at him from a distance. There probably weren’t many Asians who visited this town. One of the girls was tall and lanky, with pale white skin, the other tanned and freckled. Both wore their hair in braids. Tsukuru smiled at them.

Like the cautious seagulls, the girls warily edged closer.

“Are you Chinese?” the tall girl asked in English.

“I’m Japanese,” Tsukuru replied. “It’s nearby, but different.”

The girls didn’t look like they understood.

“Are you two Russians?” Tsukuru asked.

They shook their heads emphatically.

“We’re Finnish,” the freckled girl said with a serious expression.

“It’s the same thing,” Tsukuru said. “It’s nearby, but different.”

The two girls nodded.

“What are you doing here?” the freckled one asked, sounding like she was trying out the English sentence structure. She was probably studying English in school and wanted to try it out on a foreigner.

“I came to see a friend,” Tsukuru said.

“How many hours does it take to get here from Japan?” the tall girl asked.

“By plane, about eleven hours,” Tsukuru said. “During that time I ate two meals and watched one movie.”

“What movie?”

“Die Hard 12.”

This seemed to satisfy them. Hand in hand, they skipped off down the square, skirts fluttering, like little tumbleweeds blown by the wind, leaving no reflections or witticisms about life behind. Tsukuru, relieved, went back to eating his cherries.

It was one thirty when he arrived at the Haatainens’ summer cottage. Finding it wasn’t as simple as Olga had predicted. The path leading to the cottage could barely be called a road. If a kind old man hadn’t passed by, Tsukuru might have wandered forever.

He had stopped his car by the side of the road and, Google map in hand, was unsure how to proceed, when a tiny old man on a bicycle stopped to help. The old man wore a well-worn cloth cap and tall rubber boots. White hair sprouted from his ears, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked as if he were enraged about something. Tsukuru showed him the map and said he was looking for the Haatainens’ cottage.

“It’s close by. I’ll show you.” The old man spoke first in German, then switched to English. He leaned his heavy-looking bicycle against a nearby tree and, without waiting for a reply, planted himself in the passenger seat of the Golf. With his horny fingers, like old tree stumps, he pointed out the path that Tsukuru had to take. Alongside the lake ran an unpaved road that cut through the forest. It was less a road than a trail carved out by wheel tracks. Green grass grew plentifully between the two ruts. After a while this path came to a fork, and at the intersection there were painted nameplates nailed to a tree. One on the right said Haatainen .

They drove down the right-hand path and eventually came to an open space. The lake was visible through the trunks of white birches. There was a small pier and a mustard-colored boat tied up to it, a simple fishing boat. Next to it was a cozy wooden cabin surrounded by a stand of trees, with a square brick chimney jutting out of the cabin roof. A white Renault van was parked next to the cabin.

“That’s the Haatainens’ cottage,” the old man intoned solemnly. Like a person about to step out into a snowstorm he made sure his cap was on tight, then spit a gob of phlegm onto the ground. Hard-looking phlegm, like a rock.

Tsukuru thanked him. “Let me drive you back to where you left your bicycle. I know how to get here now.”

“No, no need. I’ll walk back,” the old man said, sounding angry. At least that’s what Tsukuru imagined he said. He couldn’t understand the words. From the sound of it, though, it didn’t seem like Finnish. Before Tsukuru could even shake his hand, the man had gotten out of the car and strode away. Like the Grim Reaper having shown a dead person the road to Hades, he never looked back.

Tsukuru sat in the Golf, parked in the grass next to the path, and watched the old man walk away. He then got out of the car and took a deep breath. The air felt purer here than in Helsinki, like it was freshly made. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the white birches, and the boat made an occasional clatter as it slapped against the pier. Birds cried out somewhere, with clear, concise calls.

Tsukuru glanced at his watch. Had they finished lunch? He hesitated, but with nothing else to do, he decided it was time to visit the Haatainens. He walked straight toward the cottage, trampling the summer grass as he went. On the porch, a napping dog stood up and stared at him. A little long-haired brown dog. It let out a few barks. It wasn’t tied up, but the barks didn’t seem menacing, so Tsukuru continued his approach.

Probably alerted by the dog, a man opened the door and looked out before Tsukuru arrived. The man had a full, dark blond beard and looked to be in his mid-forties. He was of medium height, with a long neck and shoulders that jutted straight out, like an oversized hanger. His hair was the same dark blond and rose from his head in a tangled brush, and his ears stuck out. He had on a checked short-sleeved shirt and work jeans. With his left hand resting on the doorknob, he looked at Tsukuru as he approached. He called out the dog’s name to make it stop barking.

“Hello,” Tsukuru said in English.

“Konnichi wa,” the man replied.

“Konnichi wa,” Tsukuru replied. “Is this the Haatainens’ house?”

“It is. I’m Haatainen. Edvard Haatainen,” the man replied, in fluent Japanese.

Tsukuru reached the porch steps and held out his hand. The man held his out, and they shook hands.

“My name is Tsukuru Tazaki.”

“Is that the tsukuru that means to make things?”

“It is. The same.”

The man smiled. “I make things too.”

“That’s good,” Tsukuru replied. “I do too.”

The dog trotted over and rubbed its head against the man’s leg, and then, as if it had nothing to lose, did the same to Tsukuru’s leg. Its way of greeting people, no doubt. Tsukuru reached out and patted the dog’s head.

“What kind of things do you make, Mr. Tazaki?”

“I make railroad stations,” Tsukuru said.

“I see. Did you know that the first railway line in Finland ran between Helsinki and Hämeenlinna? That’s why the people here are so proud of their station. As proud as they are that it’s the birthplace of Jean Sibelius. You’ve come to the right place.”