Haruki Murakami - A Wild Sheep Chase

“Naturally. Come now, who do you think I am?”

“May I ask you something, then?”

“Certainly,” said the man, in top spirits. “But keep it short.”

“Why didn’t you tell me right from the start?”

“I wanted you to come all this way spontaneously of your own free will. And I wanted you to lure him out of his lair.”

“Lair?”

“His mental lair. When a person becomes sheeped, he is temporarily dazed out of his mind and goes into retreat. As with, say, shell shock. It was your role to coax him out of that state. Yet in order for him to trust you, you had to be a blank slate, as it were. Simple enough, is it not?”

“Quite.”

“Lay out the seeds and everything is simple. Constructing the program was the hard part. Computers can’t account for human error, after all. So much for handiwork. Ah, but it is a pleasure second to none, seeing one’s painstakingly constructed program move along exactly according to plan.”

I shrugged.

“Well then,” the man continued, “our wild sheep chase is drawing to a close. Thanks to my calculations and your innocence. I’ve got him right where I want him. True?”

“So it would seem,” I said. “He’s waiting for you up there. Says you’ve got a rendezvous at twelve o’clock sharp.”

The man and I glanced at our watches simultaneously. Ten-forty.

“I had better be going,” the man said. “Must not keep him waiting. You may ride down in the jeep, if you wish. Oh yes, here is your recompense.”

The man reached into his pocket and handed me a check. I pocketed it without looking at it.

“Should you not examine it?”

“I don’t believe there’s any need.”

The man laughed, visibly amused. “It has been a pleasure to do business with you. And by the way, your partner closed down your company. Regrettable. It had such promise too. There is a bright future for the advertising industry. You should go into it on your own.”

“You must be crazy,” I said.

“We shall meet again, I expect,” said the man. And he set off on foot around the curve toward the highlands.

“Kipper’s doing fine,” said the chauffeur, as he drove the jeep down. “Gotten nice and fat.”

I took the seat next to the chauffeur. He was a different person than the man who drove that monster of a limo. He told me in considerable detail about the Boss’s funeral and about his Kipper-sitting, but I hardly heard a word.

It was eleven-thirty when the jeep pulled up in front of the station. The town was dead still. Except for an old man shoveling away the snow from the rotary and a gangly dog sitting nearby wagging its tail.

“Thanks,” I told the chauffeur.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “By the way, have you tried God’s telephone number?”

“No, I haven’t had time.”

“Since the Boss died, I can’t get through. What do you suppose happened?”

“Probably just busy,” I suggested.

“Maybe so,” said the chauffeur. “Well now, take care.”

“Goodbye,” I said.

There was a train leaving at twelve o’clock sharp. Not a soul on the platform. On board only four passengers, including myself. Even so, it was a relief to see people after so long. One way or another, I’d made it back to the land of the living. No matter how boring or mediocre it might be, this was my world.

The departure bell sounded as I chewed on my chocolate bar. Then, as the ringing stopped and the train clanked into readiness, there came the sound of a distant explosion. I lifted the window all the way open and stuck my head out. Ten seconds later there was a second explosion. The train started moving. After three minutes, in the direction of the conical peak, a column of black smoke was slowly rising.

I stared at it until the train cut a curve to the right and the smoke was out of sight.

“It’s all over,” said the Sheep Professor, “all over.”

“Over and done.”

“I suppose I should thank you.”

“Now that I’ve lost practically everything.”

“No, you haven’t,” the Sheep Professor shook his head. “You’ve got your life.”

“As you say,” I said.

The Sheep Professor threw himself facedown on his desk, sobbing, as I left the room. I had robbed him of his obsession, woeful though it had been, and whether I was right to have done it, I was never more unsure.

“She departed for somewhere,” said the proprietor of the Dolphin Hotel. “She made no mention of any destination. She seemed kind of sick.”

“Never mind,” I said.

I picked up the bags and checked into the same room as before. With the same view of the same unfathomable company. The woman with the big breasts was nowhere to be seen. Two young male employees worked at their desks, smoking. One was reading lists of figures, one was drawing a broken-line graph with a ruler on a huge sheet of paper. Maybe it was because the big-breasted woman wasn’t there, but the office seemed like a wholly different place. Only the fact that I couldn’t figure out what kind of company it was remained the same. At six o’clock, all employees exited, and the building grew dark.

I turned on the television and watched the news. There was no report of any explosion on any mountain. But wait, did that explosion happen yesterday? What on earth had I done for one whole day? Where had I been? My brain throbbed.

Well, one day had passed in any case.

In just this way, one day at a time, I learned to distance myself from “memory.” Until that day in the uncertain future when a distant voice calls from out of the lacquer blackness.

I switched off the television and toppled over onto the bed with my shoes still on. All alone, I stared up at the stain-blotched ceiling. Reminders of persons long dead and forgotten.

The room changed colors to the pulse of neon lights. My watch ticked away by my ear. I undid the band and tossed it onto the floor. Traffic sounds came in soft chorus, layer upon layer. I tried to sleep, but without success. Who can sleep with such inexpressibleness?

I donned a sweater and headed out to town, stepping into the first discotheque I happened upon. I had three whiskeys-on-the-rocks while taking in the non-stop soul music. That helped give me a sense of the normal. And getting back to normal was everything. Everybody was counting on me to be normal.

Returning to the Dolphin Hotel, I found the three-fingered proprietor sitting on the chaise longue, watching the late night news.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning at nine,” I said.

“Back to Tokyo, is it?”

“No,” I said. “I have one place to stop off before that. Wake me at eight, please.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Thanks for everything.”

“Don’t mention it.” Then the proprietor let out a sigh. “Father refuses to eat. At this rate, he’ll die.”

“He took a great blow.”

“I know,” said the proprietor sadly. “Not that my father ever tells me anything.”

“Give it time.”

The following day I took a plane to Tokyo-Haneda, then flew off again. The sea was shining when I arrived at my destination.

J was peeling potatoes the same as ever. A young female part-timer was filling flower vases and wiping off the tables. Hokkaido had lost its autumn, but autumn still held on here. Through the windows of J’s Bar, the hills were in beautiful color.

I sat at the counter and had a beer before the bar opened. Cracking peanuts with one hand.

“It’s hard to come by peanuts that crack so nice and crisp,” said J.

“Oh?” I said, nibbling away.

“So tell me, no vacation still?”

“I quit.”

“Quit?”

“It’s a long story.”