Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

I come up with an alternative. I sit down where nobody can spot me and take the cell phone from my backpack. I check to see it's still connected, then take Sakura's phone number from my wallet and punch in the numbers. My fingers still aren't working well, and it takes a few times before I get the whole number right. I don't get her voice mail, thank God. Twelve rings later she answers. I tell her my name.

"Kafka Tamura," she repeats, not exactly thrilled. "Do you have any idea how late it is? I've got to get up early tomorrow."

"I know, I'm sorry to call so late," I tell her. My voice sounds tense. "But I had no choice. I'm sort of in trouble, and you're the only one I could think of."

No response on the other end. Seems like she's checking my tone of voice, weighing it in her mind.

"Is it something… serious?" she finally asks.

"I can't tell you right now, but I think so. You've got to help me. Just this once. I promise I won't be a bother."

She gives it some thought. Not like she's confused or anything, just thinking it over. "So where are you?"

I tell her the name of the shrine.

"Is that in Takamatsu City?"

"I'm not totally sure, but I think so."

"You don't even know where you are?" she says, dumbfounded.

"It's a long story."

She lets out a sigh. "Grab a cab and come to the Lawson's convenience store on the corner near my apartment. They have a big sign and you can't miss it." She gives me the directions. "Do you have money for a cab?"

"I'm good," I say.

"All right," she says and hangs up.

I go out the torii gate at the entrance to the shrine and head for the main road to flag down a cab. It doesn't take long. I ask the driver if he knows the Lawson's on that corner, and he says he does. When I ask if it's far, he says no, about a ten-dollar ride.

The cab stops outside the Lawson's and I pay the driver, my hands still unsteady. I pick up my backpack and go inside the store. I got there so fast Sakura hasn't arrived yet. I buy a small carton of milk, heat it up in the microwave, and sip it slowly. The warm milk slips down my throat and calms my stomach a little. When I went inside the store the clerk glanced at my backpack, keeping an eye out for shoplifters, but after that nobody pays any attention to me. I stand at the magazine rack, pretending to be picking one out, and check out my reflection in the window. Though my hair's still a bit of a mess, you can barely see the blood on my dungaree shirt. If anybody noticed it they'd think it was just a stain. Now all I have to do is stop trembling.

Ten minutes later Sakura strolls in. It's nearly one a. m. She has on a plain gray sweatshirt and faded jeans. Her hair's in a ponytail and she's wearing a navy blue New Balance cap. The moment I spot her, my teeth finally stop chattering. She sidles up beside me and looks me over carefully, like she's checking out the teeth of some dog she's about to buy. She lets out a sound halfway between a sigh and actual words, then lightly pats me twice on the shoulder. "Come on," she says.

Her apartment's two blocks from the Lawson's. A tacky, two-story building. She walks upstairs, takes the keys out of her pocket, and opens the green paneled door. The apartment consists of two rooms plus a kitchen and a bathroom. The walls are thin, the floors creak, and probably the only natural light the place gets during the day is when the blinding sunset shines in. I hear a toilet flush in some other unit, the scrape of a cabinet being shut somewhere. Seedy, all right, but at least it has the feel of real people living real lives. Dishes piled up in the kitchen sink, empty plastic bottles, half-read magazines, past-their-prime potted tulips, a shopping list taped to the fridge, stockings hanging over the back of a chair, newspaper on the table opened to the TV schedule, an ashtray, a thin box of Virginia Slims. For some strange reason this scene relaxes me.

"This is my friend's apartment," she explains. "She used to work with me at a salon in Tokyo, but last year she had to come back to Takamatsu, where she's from. But then she said she wanted to travel to India for a month and asked me to watch the place. I'm taking over her job while she's gone. She's a hairdresser too. I figured it's a good change of pace to get out of Tokyo for a while. She's one of those New Age types, so I doubt she'll be able to pull herself away from India in a month."

She has me sit down at the dining table, and brings me a can of Pepsi from the fridge. No glass, though. Normally I don't drink colas-way too sweet and bad for your teeth. But I'm dying of thirst and down the whole can.

"You want anything to eat? All I've got is Cup Noodle, if that'll do."

I'm okay, I tell her.

"You look awful. You know that?"

I nod.

"So what happened?"

"I wish I knew."

"You have no idea what happened. You didn't even know where you were. And it's a long story," she says, pinning down the facts. "But you're definitely in trouble?"

"Definitely," I reply. I hope that, at least, gets through.

Silence. All the while, she's bathing me in a deep frown. "You don't really have any relatives in Takamatsu, do you? You ran away from home."

Again I nod.

"Once, when I was your age, I ran away from home. I think I understand what you're going through. That's why I gave you my cell phone number. I figured it might come in handy."

"I really appreciate it," I say.

"I lived in Ichikawa, in Chiba. I never got along with my parents and hated school, so I stole some money from my folks and took off, trying to get as far away as I could. I was sixteen. I got as far as Abashiri, up in Hokkaido. I stopped by a farm I happened to see and asked them to let me work there. I'll do anything, I told them, and I'll work hard. I don't need any pay, as long as there's a roof over my head and you feed me. The lady there was nice to me, had me sit down and have some tea. Just wait here, she said. The next thing I knew a patrol car pulled up outside and the police were hauling me back home. This wasn't the first time the lady had gone through this sort of thing. The thought hit me hard then that I had to learn a trade, so no matter where I went I could always find work. So I quit high school, went to a trade school, and became a hairdresser." The edges of her lips rise a bit in a faint smile. "A pretty sound approach to things, don't you think?"

I agree with her.

"Hey, would you tell me the whole story, from the beginning?" she says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "I don't think I'm going to get much more sleep tonight, so I might as well hear it all."

I explain everything to her, from the time I left home. I leave out the omen part, though. That, I know, I can't tell just anyone.

Is it all right, then, if Nakata calls you Kawamura?" He repeated the question to the striped brown cat, enunciating his words slowly, making it as easy to understand as he could.

This particular cat had said he thought he had run across Goma, the missing one-year-old tortoiseshell, in this vicinity. But from Nakata's viewpoint, he spoke very strangely. The feeling was mutual, for the cat seemed to be having its own problems following him. Their conversation was at cross purposes.

"I don't mind at all, the tallest of heads."

"Pardon me, but Nakata doesn't understand what you're saying. Forgive me, but I'm not so bright."

"It's a tuna, to the very end."

"Are you perhaps saying you'd like to eat a tuna?"

"No. The hands tied up, before."

Nakata never went into these conversations with cats expecting to be able to easily communicate everything. You have to anticipate a few problems when cats and humans try to speak to each other. And there was another factor to consider: Nakata's own basic problems with talking-not just with cats, but also with people. His easy conversation with Otsuka the previous week was more the exception than the rule, for invariably getting across even a simple message took a great deal of effort. On bad days it was more like two people on the opposite shores of a canal yelling to each other on a windy day. And today was one of those days.