Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

"Gentlemen," he said, gazing up at the dawn rising in the east, "it's time to light my fire!"

Just after nine the next morning, I hear the sound of a car approaching and go outside. It's a small four-wheel-drive Datsun truck, the kind with massive tires and the body jacked up high. It looks like it hasn't been washed in at least a half a year. In the bed are two long, well-used surfboards. The truck grinds to a stop in front of the cabin. When the engine cuts off silence returns. The door opens and a tall young man climbs out, wearing an oversize white T-shirt, an oil-stained No Fear shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers that have seen better days. The guy looks around thirty, with wide shoulders. He's tanned all over and has three days' worth of stubble on his face. His hair's long enough to hide his ears. I'm guessing this must be Oshima's older brother, the one who runs a surf shop in Kochi.

"Hey," he says.

"Morning," I reply.

He sticks out his hand, and we shake hands on the porch. He has a strong grip. I guessed right. He does turn out to be Oshima's older brother.

"Everybody calls me Sada," he tells me. He talks slowly, choosing his words deliberately, like he's in no hurry. Like he has all the time in the world. "I got a call from Takamatsu to come pick you up and take you back," he explains. "Sounds like some urgent business came up."

"Urgent business?"

"Yeah. I don't know what, though."

"Sorry you had to go to all this trouble," I tell him.

"No need to apologize," he says. "Can you get ready to leave soon?"

"Give me five minutes."

While I'm stuffing my things in my backpack, he helps me close up the place, whistling all the while. He shuts the window, pulls the curtains, checks that the gas is off, gathers up the remaining food, does a quick scrub of the sink. I can tell from watching him that he feels like the cabin's an extension of himself.

"Seems like my brother likes you," Sada says. "He doesn't like all that many people. He's sort of a difficult person."

"He's been really kind to me."

Sada nods. "He can be pretty nice when he wants to be."

I climb into the passenger seat of the truck and toss my backpack at my feet.

Sada turns on the ignition, shifts into gear, leans out the window to check out the cabin one more time, then steps on the gas. "This cabin is one of the few things the two of us share as brothers," he says as he expertly maneuvers down the mountain road. "When the mood hits us, we sometimes come here and spend a few days alone." He mulls this over for a while, then goes on. "This was always an important place for the two of us, and still is. It's like there's a power here that recharges us. A quiet sort of power. You know what I mean?"

"I think so," I tell him.

"My brother said you would," Sada says. "People that don't get it never will."

The faded cloth seats are covered with white dog hair. The dog smell mixes with that of the sea, plus the scent of surfboard wax and cigarettes. The knob for the AC is broken off. The ashtray's full of butts, the side pocket stuffed full of random cassette tapes, minus their boxes.

"I went into the woods a few times," I say.

"Deep in there?"

"Yes," I reply. "Oshima warned me not to."

"But you went in anyway."

"Yeah," I say.

"I did the same once. Must be like ten years ago." He's silent for a time, concentrating on his driving. We're on a long curve, the thick tires spraying pebbles as we go. Every so often there're crows beside the road. They don't try to fly away, just watch intently, with curious eyes, as we pass by.

"Did you run across the soldiers?" Sada asks as casually as if he'd asked me what time it was.

"You mean those two soldiers?"

"Right," Sada responds, glancing at me. "You went in that far, huh?"

"Yeah, I did," I reply.

His hands lightly gripping the wheel as he maneuvers it, he doesn't respond, and his expression doesn't tell me anything.

"Sada?" I ask.

"Hm?" he says.

"When you met those soldiers ten years ago, what did you do?"

"What did I do when I met those soldiers?" he repeats.

I nod and wait for his answer.

He glances in the rearview mirror, then looks in front again. "I've never talked about that to anyone," he says. "Not even to my brother. Brother, sister-whatever you want to call him. Brother works for me. He doesn't know anything about those soldiers."

I nod silently.

"And I doubt I'll ever tell anybody about it. Even you. And I don't think you'll ever talk about it to anyone, either. Even to me. You know what I'm trying to say?"

"I think so," I tell him.

"What is it?"

"It's not something you can get across in words. The real response is something words can't express."

"There you go," Sada replies. "Exactly. If you can't get it across in words then it's better not to try."

"Even to yourself?" I ask.

"Yeah, even to yourself," Sada says. "Better not to try to explain it, even to yourself."

He offers me a stick of Cool Mint gum. I take one and start chewing.

"You ever try surfing?" he asks.

"No."

"If you have the chance I'll teach you," he says. "If you'd like to learn, I mean. The waves are pretty decent along the Kochi shore, and there aren't so many surfers. Surfing's a more profound kind of sport than it looks. When you surf you learn not to fight the power of nature, even if it gets violent."

He takes out a cigarette from the pocket of his T-shirt, sticks it in his mouth, and lights it up with the dashboard lighter. "That's another thing that words can't explain. One of those things that's neither a yes or a no answer." He narrows his eyes and blows smoke out the window. "In Hawaii," he goes on, "there's a spot they call the Toilet Bowl. There're these huge whirlpools because it's where the incoming and outgoing tides meet and crash into each other. It goes around and around like when you flush a toilet. If you wipe out there, you get pulled underwater and it's hard to float up again. Depending on the waves you might never make it back to the surface. So there you are, underwater, pounded by waves, and there's nothing you can do. Flailing around's not gonna get you anywhere. You'll just use up your energy. You've never been so scared in your life. But unless you get over that fear you'll never be a real surfer. You have to face death, get to really know it, then overcome it. When you're down in that whirlpool you start thinking about all kinds of things. It's like you get to be friends with death, have a heart-to-heart talk with it."

At the gate he gets out of the truck and locks it back up, jiggling the chain a couple of times to make sure it'll hold.

After this we don't talk much. He leaves an FM station on as he drives, but I can tell he's not really listening to it. Having the radio on's just a token gesture. Even when we go into a tunnel and all we hear is static, he doesn't mind. With the AC broken, we leave the windows open when we get on the highway.

"If you ever feel like learning how to surf, stop by and see me," Sada says as the Inland Sea comes into view. "I have an extra room, and you can stay as long as you like."

"Thanks," I say. "I'll take you up on that. I don't know when, though."

"You pretty busy?"

"I have a couple of things I have to take care of."

"Same with me," Sada says.

We don't say anything for a long time. He's thinking over his problems, I'm thinking over mine. He keeps his eyes on the road, left hand on top of the steering wheel, and smokes an occasional cigarette. Unlike Oshima, he doesn't speed. With his elbow propped on the open window, he drives down the highway at a leisurely pace. The only time he passes other cars is when they're going way too slow. Then he reluctantly steps on the gas, goes around, then slips right back into his lane.