Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

"As long as your name's Kafka Tamura."

I blush, get to my feet, and take the cordless phone from him.

It's the girl at the front desk at the hotel, most likely checking to see if I'm really doing research at the library. She sounds relieved to find out I hadn't lied to her. "I talked with the manager," she says, "and he said they've never done this before, but seeing as how you're young and there are special circumstances, he'll make an exception and let you stay at the rate the YMCA arranged for you. We're not so busy right now, he said, so we can bend the rules a bit. He also said that library's supposed to be really nice, so he hopes you'll be able to take your time and do as much research as you need to."

I breathe a sigh of relief and thank her. I feel a little bad about lying, but there's not much I can do about it. I've got to bend some rules myself if I want to survive. I hang up and hand the phone back to Oshima.

"You're the only high school student who comes here, so I figured it must be for you," he says. "I told her you're here from morning till night, your nose stuck in a book. Which is true."

"Thanks," I tell him.

"Kafka Tamura?"

"That's my name."

"Kind of strange."

"Well, that's my name," I insist.

"I assume you've read some of Kafka's stories?"

I nod. "The Castle, and The Trial, 'The Metamorphosis,' plus that weird story about an execution device."

"'In the Penal Colony,'" Oshima says. "I love that story. Only Kafka could have written that."

"That's my favorite of his short stories."

"No kidding?"

I nod.

"Why's that?"

It takes me a while to gather my thoughts. "I think what Kafka does is give a purely mechanical explanation of that complex machine in the story, as sort of a substitute for explaining the situation we're in. What I mean is…" I have to give it some more thought. "What I mean is, that's his own device for explaining the kind of lives we lead. Not by talking about our situation, but by talking about the details of the machine."

"That makes sense," Oshima says and lays a hand on my shoulder, the gesture natural, and friendly. "I imagine Franz Kafka would agree with you."

He takes the cordless phone and disappears back into the building. I stay on the veranda for a while, finishing my lunch, drinking my mineral water, watching the birds in the garden. For all I know they're the same birds from yesterday. The sky's covered with clouds, not a speck of blue in sight.

Oshima most likely found my explanation of the Kafka story convincing. To some extent at least. But what I really wanted to say didn't get across. I wasn't just giving some general theory of Kafka's fiction, I was talking about something very real. Kafka's complex, mysterious execution device wasn't some metaphor or allegory-it's actually here, all around me. But I don't think anybody would get that. Not Oshima. Not anybody.

I go back to the reading room, where I sink down in the sofa and into the world of The Arabian Nights. Slowly, like a movie fadeout, the real world evaporates. I'm alone, inside the world of the story. My favorite feeling in the world.

When at five I'm about to leave Oshima's still behind the counter, reading the same book, his shirt still without a single wrinkle. Like always, a couple strands of hair have fallen across his face. The hands of the electric clock on the wall behind him soundlessly tick forward. Everything around him is silent and clean. I doubt the guy ever sweats or hiccups. He looks up and hands me my backpack. He frowns a bit, like it's too heavy for him. "Do you take the train here from town?"

I nod.

"If you're going to come every day, you should have this." He hands me a sheet of paper, the train schedule, it turns out, between Takamatsu Station and the station where I get off for the library. "They usually run on time."

"Thanks," I say, slipping the sheet in my backpack.

"Kafka-I don't have any idea where you came from, or what your plans are, but you can't stay in a hotel forever, right?" he says, choosing his words carefully. With the fingers of his left hand he checks the tips of his pencils. Not that it's necessary, since they're all as sharp as can be.

I don't say anything.

"I'm not trying to butt in, believe me. I just thought I might as well ask. A boy your age in a place you've never been before-I can't imagine it's easy going."

I nod again.

"Are you headed someplace else after here? Or are you going to be here for a while?"

"I haven't decided yet, but I think I'll be here for a while. No other place to go," I admit.

Maybe I should tell Oshima everything. I'm pretty sure he won't put me down, give me a lecture, or try to force some common sense on me. But right now I'm trying to keep my words to a minimum. Plus I'm not exactly used to telling people how I feel.

"For the time being, then, you think you can manage?" Oshima asks.

I give a short nod.

"Good luck, then," he says.

Except for a few minor details, I spend the next seven days in the same way. (Except for Monday, of course, when the library's closed, and I spend the day at a big public library.) The alarm clock gets me up at six-thirty every morning, and I gulp down the hotel's pseudo-breakfast. If the chestnut-haired girl's behind the front desk, I give her a little wave. She always nods and repays me with a smile. I think she likes me, and I kind of like her, too. Could she be my sister? The thought does cross my mind.

Every morning I do some easy stretching exercises in my room, and when the time rolls around I go to the gym and run through the usual circuit training. Always the same amount of weight, the same number of reps. No more, no less. I take a shower and wash every inch of me. I weigh myself, to make sure my weight's staying steady. Before noon I take the train to the Komura Library. Exchange a few words with Oshima when I give him my backpack, and when I pick it up. Eat lunch out on the veranda. And read. When I finish The Arabian Nights I tackle the complete works of Natsume Soseki-there're still a couple of his novels I haven't read yet. At five I exit the library. So most of the day I'm in the gym or the library. As long as I'm in one of those two, nobody seems to worry about me. Chances are pretty slim a kid skipping school would hang out in either one. I eat dinner at the diner in front of the station. I try to eat as many vegetables as I can, and occasionally buy fruit from a stand and peel it using the knife I took from my father's desk. I buy cucumbers and celery, wash them in the sink at the hotel, and eat them with mayonnaise. Sometimes I pick up a container of milk from the mini-mart and have a bowl of cereal.

Back in my room I jot down what I did that day in my diary, listen to Radiohead on my Walkman, read a little, and then it's lights out at eleven. Sometimes I masturbate before going to sleep. I think about the girl at the front desk, putting any thoughts of her potentially being my sister out of my head, for the time being. I hardly watch any TV or read any newspapers.

But on the evening of the eighth day-as had to happen sooner or later-this simple, centripetal life is blown to bits.

U.S. ARMY INTELLIGENCE SECTION (MIS) REPORT Dated: May 12, 1946 Title: Report on the Rice Bowl Hill Incident, 1944 Document Number: PTYX-722-8936745-42216-WWN T he following is a taped interview with Doctor Shigenori Tsukayama (52), professor in the Department of Psychiatry in the School of Medicine, Tokyo Imperial University, which took place over a three-hour span at the GHQ of the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers. Documentation related to the interview can be accessed using application number PTYX-722-SQ-267 to 291. [Note: Documents 271 and 278 are missing.]