Haruki Murakami - Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

At this point Tsukuru awoke. The green numbers on his bedside clock read 2:35. His body was covered in sweat, his heart still beating out the dry cadence of time passing. He got up, tugged off his pajamas, wiped himself down with a towel, put on a new T-shirt and boxers, and sat down on the sofa in the living room. In the darkness, he thought about Sara. He agonized over every word he’d spoken to her earlier on the phone. He should never have said what he did.

He wanted to call her and take back everything that he’d said. But he couldn’t call anyone at nearly 3 a.m. And asking her to forget what he’d already said was all the more impossible. At this rate I might well lose her, he thought.

His thoughts turned to Eri. Eri Kurono Haatainen. The mother of two small girls. He pictured the blue lake beyond the stand of white birch trees, and the little boat slapping against the pier. The pottery with its lovely designs, the chirps of the birds, the dog barking. And Alfred Brendel’s meticulous rendition of Years of Pilgrimage . The feel of Eri’s breasts pressed against him. Her warm breath, her cheeks wet with tears. All the lost possibilities, all the time that was never to return.

At one point, seated across from each other at the table, they were silent, not even searching for words, their ears drawn to the sounds of the birds outside the window. The cries of the birds made for an unusual melody. The same melody pierced the woods, over and over.

“The parent birds are teaching their babies how to chirp,” Eri said. And she smiled. “Until I came here I never knew that. That birds have to be taught how to chirp.”

Our lives are like a complex musical score, Tsukuru thought. Filled with all sorts of cryptic writing, sixteenth and thirty-second notes and other strange signs. It’s next to impossible to correctly interpret these, and even if you could, and then could transpose them into the correct sounds, there’s no guarantee that people would correctly understand, or appreciate, the meaning therein. No guarantee it would make people happy. Why must the workings of people’s lives be so convoluted?

Make sure you hang on to Sara , Eri had told him. You really need her. You don’t lack anything. Be confident and be bold. That’s all you need .

And don’t let the bad elves get you.

He thought of Sara, imagined her lying naked in someone else’s arms. No, not someone . He’d actually seen the man. Sara had looked so very happy then, her beautiful white teeth showing in a broad smile. He closed his eyes in the darkness and pressed his fingertips against his temples. He couldn’t go on feeling this way, he decided. Even if it was only for three more days.

Tsukuru picked up the phone and dialed Sara’s number. It was just before four. The phone rang a dozen times before Sara picked up.

“I’m really sorry to call you at this hour,” Tsukuru said. “But I had to talk to you.”

“ This hour ? What time is it?”

“Almost 4 a.m.”

“Goodness, I’d forgotten such a time actually existed,” Sara said. Her voice sounded still half awake. “So, who died?”

“Nobody died,” Tsukuru said. “Nobody’s died yet. But I just have something I need to tell you tonight.”

“What sort of thing?”

“I love you, Sara, and I want you more than anything.”

Over the phone he heard a rustling sound, as if she were fumbling for something. She gave a small cough, then made a sound he took to be an exhalation.

“Is it okay to talk with you about it now?” Tsukuru asked.

“Of course,” Sara said. “I mean, it’s not even four yet. You can say whatever you want. Nobody’s listening in. They’re all sound asleep.”

“I truly love you, and I want you,” Tsukuru repeated.

“That’s what you wanted to call me at not quite 4 a.m. to tell me?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“No, not a drop.”

“I see,” Sara said. “For a science type, you certainly can get pretty passionate.”

“It’s the same as building a station.”

“How so?”

“It’s simple. If there’s no station, no trains will stop there. The first thing I have to do is picture a station in my mind, and give it actual color and substance. That comes first. Even if I find a defect, that can be corrected later on. And I’m used to that kind of work.”

“Because you’re an outstanding engineer.”

“I’d like to be.”

“And you’re building a specially made station, just for me, until nearly dawn?”

“That’s right,” Tsukuru said. “Because I love you, and I want you.”

“I’m fond of you, too, very much. I’m more attracted to you each time we meet,” Sara said. Then she paused, as if leaving a space on the page. “But it’s nearly 4 a.m. now. Even the birds aren’t up yet. It’s too early to think straight. So can you wait three more days?”

“Alright. But only three,” Tsukuru said. “I think that’s my limit. That’s why I called you at this hour.”

“Three days is plenty, Tsukuru. I’ll keep to the construction completion date, don’t worry. I’ll see you on Wednesday evening.”

“I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“It’s all right. I’m glad to know that time still keeps on flowing at four in the morning. Is it light out yet?”

“Not yet. But it will be in a little while. The birds will start chirping.”

“The early bird catches the worm.”

“In theory.”

“But I don’t think I’ll be able to stay up to see that.”

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Tsukuru?” Sara said.

“Mmm?”

“Goodnight,” Sara said. “Relax, and get some rest.”

And with that, she hung up.

Shinjuku Station is enormous. Every day nearly 3.5 million people pass through it, so many that the Guinness Book of World Records officially lists JR Shinjuku Station as the station with the “Most Passengers in the World.” A number of railroad lines cross there, the main ones being the Chuo line, Sobu line, Yamanote line, Saikyo line, Shonan–Shinjuku line, and the Narita Express. The rails intersect and combine in complex and convoluted ways. There are sixteen platforms in total. In addition, there are two private rail lines, the Odakyu line and the Keio line, and three subway lines plugged in, as it were, from the side. It is a total maze. During rush hour, that maze transforms into a sea of humanity, a sea that foams up, rages, and roars as it surges toward the entrances and exits. Streams of people changing trains become entangled, giving rise to dangerous, swirling whirlpools. No prophet, no matter how righteous, could part that fierce, turbulent sea.

It’s hard to believe that every morning and evening, five days a week, this overwhelming crush of human beings is dealt with efficiently, without any major problems, by a staff of station employees that no one would ever accuse of being adequate, in terms of numbers, to the task. The morning rush hour is particularly problematic. Everyone is scurrying to get to where they need to be, to punch their time clock, and no one’s in a great mood. They’re still tired, half asleep, and riding the bursting-at-the-seams trains is physically and emotionally draining. Only the very lucky manage to find a seat. Tsukuru was always amazed that riots don’t break out, that there are no tragic, bloody disasters. If a fanatical band of terrorists did happen to target one of these jam-packed stations or trains, it would be lethal, with a horrific loss of life. For the people working on the rail lines, and the police, and, of course, the passengers, this remained the one unimaginable, nightmare scenario. And there was no way to prevent it, even now, after such a nightmare actually did take place in Tokyo in the spring of 1995.