Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

Finally I decide on a multivolume set, with beautiful covers, of the Burton translation of The Arabian Nights, pick out one volume, and take it back to the reading room. I've been meaning to read this book. Since the library has just opened for the day, there's no one else there and I have the elegant reading room all to myself. It's exactly like in the photo in the magazine-roomy and comfortable, with a high ceiling. Every once in a while a gentle breeze blows in through the open window, the white curtain rustling softly in air that has a hint of the sea. And I love the comfortable sofa. An old upright piano stands in a corner, and the whole place makes me feel like I'm in some friend's home.

As I relax on the sofa and gaze around the room a thought hits me: This is exactly the place I've been looking for forever. A little hideaway in some sinkhole somewhere. I'd always thought of it as a secret, imaginary place, and can barely believe that it actually exists. I close my eyes and take a breath, and like a gentle cloud the wonder of it all settles over me. I slowly stroke the creamish cover of the sofa, then stand up and walk over to the piano and lift the cover, laying all ten fingers down on the slightly yellowed keys. I shut the cover and walk across the faded grape-patterned carpet to the window and test the antique handle that opens and closes it. I switch the floor lamp on and off, then check out all the paintings hanging on the walls. Finally I plop back down on the sofa and pick up reading where I left off, focusing on The Arabian Nights for a while.

At noon I take my bottle of mineral water and box lunch out to the veranda that faces the garden and sit down to eat. Different kinds of birds fly overhead, fluttering from one tree to the next or flying down to the pond to drink and groom themselves. There are some I've never seen before. A large brown cat makes an appearance, which is their signal to clear out of there, even though the cat looks like he couldn't care less about birds. All he wants is to stretch out on the stepping stones and enjoy the warm sunlight.

"Is your school closed today?" Oshima asks when I drop off my backpack on my way back to the reading room.

"No," I reply, carefully choosing my words, "I just decided to take some time off."

"Refusing to go to school," he says.

"I guess so."

Oshima looks at me with great interest. "You guess so."

"I'm not refusing to go to school. I just decided not to."

"Very calmly, all on your own, you stopped going to school?"

I merely nod. I have no idea how to reply.

"According to Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, in the ancient world of myth there were three types of people," Oshima says. "Have you heard about this?"

"No."

"In ancient times people weren't just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half."

"Why did God do that?"

"Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There's that whole wrath-of-God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the Fall and so forth."

"Original sin," I say.

"That's right, original sin." Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing the balance. "Anyway, my point is that it's really hard for people to live their lives alone."

Back in the reading room I return to "The Tale of Abu-l-Hasan, the Wag," but my mind wanders away from the book. Male/male, male/female, and female/female?

At two o'clock I lay down my book and get up from the sofa to join the tour of the building. Miss Saeki, leading the tour, is a slim woman I'd guess is in her mid-forties. She's a little on the tall side for someone of her generation. She's wearing a blue half-sleeved dress and a cream-colored cardigan, and has excellent posture. Her long hair is loosely tied back, her face very refined and intelligent looking, with beautiful eyes and a shadowy smile playing over her lips, a smile whose sense of completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place. My house back in Tokyo has one just like that in the garden, and ever since I was little I loved that bright little spot.

She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic. Wouldn't it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman. The chances that Miss Saeki's actually my mother are close to zero, I realize. Still, since I have no idea what my mother looks like, or even her name, the possibility does exist, right? There's nothing that rules it out completely.

The only other people taking the tour are a middle-aged couple from Osaka. The wife is short and pudgy with glasses as thick as a Coke bottle. The husband's a skinny guy with hair so stiff I bet he needs a wire brush to tame it. With narrow eyes and a broad forehead, he reminds me of some statue on a southern island, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wife keeps up a one-sided conversation, her husband just grunting out a monosyllable every once in a while to let her know he's still alive. Other than that, he gives the occasional nod to show he's properly impressed or else mutters some fragmentary comment I can't catch. Both of them are dressed more for mountain climbing than for visiting a library, each wearing a waterproof vest with a million pockets, sturdy lace-up boots, and hiking hats. Maybe this is how they always dress when they go on a trip, who knows. They seem okay-not that I'd want them as parents or anything-and I'm relieved not to be the only one taking the tour.

Miss Saeki begins by explaining the library's history-basically the same story Oshima told me. How they opened to the public the books and paintings the umpteenth head of the family had collected, devoting the library to the region's cultural development. A foundation was set up based on the Komura fortune and now managed the library and occasionally sponsored lectures, chamber music concerts, and the like. The building itself dated from the early Meiji period, when it was built to serve double duty as the family library and guesthouse. In the Taisho period it was completely renovated as a two-story building, with the addition of magnificent guest rooms for visiting writers and artists. From the Taisho to the early Showa period, many famous artists visited the Komuras, leaving behind mementos-poems, sketches, and paintings-in gratitude for having been allowed to stay here.

"You'll be able to view some selected items from this valuable collection in the second-floor gallery," Miss Saeki adds. "Before World War II, a vibrant local culture was established less through the efforts of local government than those of wealthy connoisseurs such as the Komura family. They were, in short, patrons of the arts. Kagawa Prefecture has produced quite a number of talented tanka and haiku poets, and one reason for this was the dedication with which the Komura family founded and supported the local art scene. Quite a number of books, essays, and reminiscences have been published on the history of these fascinating artistic circles, all of which are in our reading room. I hope you'll take the opportunity to look at them.

"The heads of the Komura family down through the years have been well versed in the arts, with an especially refined appreciation of the truly excellent. This might have run in the blood. They were very discerning patrons of the arts, supporting artists with the highest aims who produced the most outstanding works. But as you're surely aware, in the arts there is no such thing as an absolutely perfect eye. Unfortunately, some exceptional artists did not win their favor or were not received by them as they deserved to be. One of these was the haiku poet Taneda Santoka. According to the guestbook, Santoka stayed here on numerous occasions, each time leaving behind poems and drawings. The head of the family, however, called him a 'beggar and a braggart,' wouldn't have much to do with him, and in fact threw away most of these works."