Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

"Have you been surfing for a long time?" I ask him.

"Hmm," he says, and then there's silence. Finally, when I've almost forgotten the question, he answers.

"I've been surfing since high school. Then it was just for fun. Didn't really get serious about it till six years ago. I was working at a big ad agency in Tokyo. I couldn't stand it so I quit, moved back here, and started surfing. I took out a loan, borrowed some money from my folks, and opened a surf shop. I run it alone, so I can pretty much do whatever I want."

"Did you want to come back to Shikoku?"

"That was part of it," he says. "I don't know, I don't feel right unless I've got the sea and mountains nearby. People are mostly a product of where they were born and raised. How you think and feel's always linked to the lay of the land, the temperature. The prevailing winds, even. Where were you born?"

"Tokyo. In Nogata, in Nakano Ward."

"Do you want to go back there?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Why not?"

"There's no reason for me to go back."

"Okay," he says.

"I'm not very connected to the lay of the land, the prevailing winds and all that," I say.

"Yeah?" he says.

We're silent again. Silence doesn't seem to bother him a bit. Or me either. I just sit there, my mind a blank, listening to the music on the radio. He's staring at the road straight ahead. Eventually we exit the highway, turn north, and come into the Takamatsu city limits.

It's a little before one p. m. when we arrive at the Komura Library. Sada drops me off in front but doesn't get out himself. The engine's still on, and he's heading right back to Kochi.

"Thanks," I say.

"Hope we can see each other soon," he says. He sticks his hand out the window, gives a short wave, then peels out on his thick tires. Heading back to catch some big waves, to his own world, his own issues.

I put on my backpack and pass through the gate. I catch a whiff of the freshly mown lawn in the garden. It feels like I've been away for months, but it's only been four days.

Oshima's at the counter, wearing a tie, something I've never seen before. A white button-down shirt, and a mustard-yellow-and-green-striped tie. He's rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and doesn't have a jacket on. In front of him, predictably, there's a coffee cup and two neatly sharpened pencils.

"Hey," he greets me, adding his usual smile.

"Hi," I say back.

"Guess you caught a ride with my brother?"

"That's right."

"Bet he didn't talk much," Oshima says.

"Actually, we did talk a little."

"You're lucky. Depending on who he's with, sometimes he won't say a word."

"Did something happen here?" I ask. "He told me there was something urgent."

Oshima nods. "There are a couple of things you need to know about. First of all, Miss Saeki passed away. She had a heart attack. I found her collapsed facedown on her desk upstairs on Tuesday afternoon. It happened all of a sudden, and it doesn't seem like she suffered."

I set my pack on the floor and sit down in a chair. "Tuesday afternoon?" I ask. "Today's Friday, right?"

"Yes, that's right. She died after the regular Tuesday tour. I probably should've gotten in touch with you sooner, but I couldn't think straight."

Sunk back in the chair, I find I can't move. The two of us sit there in silence for a long time. I can see the stairs leading to the second floor, the well-polished black banister, the stained glass on the landing. Those stairs always held a special significance for me, because they led to her, to Miss Saeki. But now they're just empty stairs, with no meaning at all. She's no longer there.

"As I mentioned before, I think this was all predestined," Oshima says. "I knew it, and so did she. Though when it actually happens, of course, it's pretty hard to take."

When he pauses, I feel like I should say something, but the words won't come.

"According to her wishes, there won't be a funeral," Oshima continues. "She was quietly cremated. She left a will in a drawer in her desk upstairs. She left her entire estate to the foundation that runs the library. She left me her Mont Blanc pen as a keepsake. And a painting for you. The one of the boy on the shore. You'll take it, won't you?"

I nod.

"It's all wrapped up over there, ready to go."

"Thanks," I say, finally able to speak.

"Tell me something, Kafka Tamura," Oshima says. He picks up a pencil and gives it his usual twirl. "Is it okay if I ask you a question?"

I nod.

"I didn't need to tell you she died, did I? You already knew."

Again I nod. "I think I did."

"I thought so," Oshima says, and draws a deep breath. "Would you like some water or something? To tell you the truth, you look as parched as a desert."

"Thanks, I could use some." I am pretty thirsty, but hadn't realized it until he mentioned it.

I down the ice water he brings me in a single gulp, so fast my head starts to ache. I put the empty glass back on the table.

"Care for some more?"

I shake my head.

"What are your plans now?" Oshima asks.

"I'm going to go back to Tokyo," I reply.

"What are you going to do there?"

"Go to the police, first of all, and tell them what I know. If I don't, they'll be after me the rest of my life. And then I'll most likely go back to school. Not that I want to, but I have to at least finish junior high. If I just put up with it for a few months and graduate, then I can do whatever I want."

"Makes sense," Oshima says. He narrows his eyes and looks at me. "That sounds like the best plan."

"More and more I've been thinking that's the way to go."

"You can run but you can't hide?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I say.

"You've grown up."

I shake my head. I can't say a thing.

Oshima lightly taps the eraser end of a pencil against his temple a couple of times. The phone rings, but he ignores it.

"Every one of us is losing something precious to us," he says after the phone stops ringing. "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads-at least that's where I imagine it-there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library."

I stare at the pencil in his hand. It pains me to look at it, but I have to be the world's toughest fifteen-year-old, at least for a while longer. Or pretend to be. I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with air, and manage to inhale that lump of emotion. "Is it all right if I come back here someday?" I ask.

"Of course," Oshima says, and lays his pencil back on the counter. He links his hands behind his head and looks straight at me. "The word is that I'll be in charge of the library for a while. And I imagine I'll need an assistant. Once you're free of the police, school, what have you-and provided you want to, of course-I'd love to have you back. The town and I aren't going anywhere, not for the time being. People need a place they can belong."

"Thanks," I tell him.

"You're quite welcome," he says.

"Your brother said he'd teach me how to surf."

"That's great. He doesn't take to most people," he says. "He's a bit of a difficult person."

I nod, and smile. They really are quite alike, these two brothers.

"Kafka," Oshima says, looking deep into my eyes. "I could be wrong, but I think that's the first time I've ever seen you smile."

"You could be right," I say. I most definitely am smiling. And blushing.

"When are you going back to Tokyo?"