Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

I strip bare to the waist, and she walks behind me and grabs my left shoulder hard. Her fingers dig into my flesh, and I can't help but gasp. This girl's pretty strong.

"Does it hurt?"

"You bet it does," I say.

"You hit something pretty hard. Or something hit you."

"I don't remember a thing."

"Anyway, nothing's broken," she says. She proceeds to prod around the sore spot, and aside from the pain, her fingers feel really nice. When I tell her so she smiles.

"I've always been good at giving massages. It's a useful skill for a hairdresser."

She keeps on massaging my shoulder. "Doesn't look like anything major. Give it a good night's sleep and you should feel better."

She picks up my T-shirt, puts it in a plastic bag, and tosses it in the garbage. My dungaree shirt she gives a once-over and throws in the washing machine. She rummages around in her dresser and comes up with a white T-shirt. She hands it to me, a brand-new white shirt that says Maui Whale Watching Cruise on it, with a picture of a fluke sticking out of the water.

"This is the biggest shirt I could find. It's not mine, but don't worry about it. It's just a souvenir from somebody. Might not be your style, but give it a try."

I tug the shirt on, and it fits perfectly.

"You can keep it if you want," she says.

I thank her.

"So you never had such a total memory loss before?" she asks.

I nod, then close my eyes, feeling the T-shirt, taking in its new smell. "Sakura, I'm really scared," I tell her. "I don't know what to do. I don't have any memory of hurting anybody. Whatever it was got me covered in blood, but I can't remember anything. If I committed a crime, I'm still legally responsible, right, whether I have a memory of it or not?"

"Maybe it was just a nosebleed. Somebody was walking down the street, bumped into a telephone pole, and got a bloody nose. And all you did was help them out. See? I understand why you're worried, but let's try not to think about worst-case scenarios, okay? At least not tonight. In the morning we can look in the paper, watch the news on TV. If something terrible really happened, we'll know about it. Then we can consider our options. There're plenty of reasons why someone might get bloody, and most of the time it's not nearly as bad as it looks. I'm a girl, so I'm used to seeing blood-I see that much every month. You know what I mean?"

I nod, and feel myself blushing a little. She scoops a little Nescafé into a big cup and heats up some water in a small pan. She smokes, waiting for the water to boil. She takes a couple of puffs, then extinguishes the cigarette with tap water. I catch a whiff of menthol.

"I don't mean to pry, but there's something I want to ask you. Do you mind?"

"I don't mind," I tell her.

"Your older sister was adopted. They got her from somewhere before you were born, right?"

"That's right," I reply. "I don't know why, but my parents adopted her. After that I was born. Not exactly what they had in mind, I imagine."

"So you're definitely the child of your mother and father."

"As far I know," I tell her.

"But when your mother left, she didn't take you, but took your sister, who's unrelated to her," Sakura says. "Not what you'd normally expect a woman to do."

I don't say anything.

"Why'd she do that?"

I shake my head. "I have no idea," I tell her. "I've asked myself the same question a million times."

"That must have hurt."

Did it? "I don't know. But if I get married someday I don't think I'll have any kids. I wouldn't have any idea how to get along with them if I did."

"My situation wasn't as complicated as yours," she says, "but I didn't get along with my folks for a long time, and I got mixed up in a lot of stupid things because of it. So I know how you feel. But it's not a good idea to make decisions so soon. There's no such thing as absolutes."

She stands in front of the kitchen stove and sips her Nescafé, steam rising from the large cup. The cup has a drawing of the Moomin cartoon characters on it. She doesn't say anything, and neither do I.

"Do you have anybody, relatives or someone, who can help?" she asks after a while.

"No," I say. "My father's parents died a long time ago, and he doesn't have any brothers, sisters, uncles, or aunts. Not a one. Not that I can prove this. But I do know he never had anything to do with any relatives. And I never heard anything about relatives on my mother's side. I mean, I don't even know my mother's name-so how was I supposed to know about her relatives?"

"Your father sounds like an alien from outer space or something," Sakura says. "Like he came from some far-off planet, took on human form, kidnapped an Earth woman, and then had you. Just so he could have more descendants. Your mother found out, got frightened, and ran away. Like in some film noir science-fiction flick."

I have no idea what to say.

"All joking aside," she says, and smiles broadly to show that she means it, "my point is, in this whole wide world the only person you can depend on is you."

"I guess so."

She stands there leaning against the sink, drinking her coffee.

"I have to get some sleep," she says, as if suddenly remembering. It's past three. "I have to get up at seven-thirty so I won't get much, but a little's better than none. I hate going to work on no sleep at all. So what're you going to do?"

"I have my sleeping bag with me," I tell her, "so if it's no bother I'll just sack out in a corner." I take my tightly rolled-up sleeping bag out of my backpack, spread it out, and fluff it up.

She watches, impressed. "A regular Boy Scout," she says.

After she turns out the light and gets in bed, I climb into my sleeping bag, shut my eyes, and try to go to sleep. But I can't stop picturing that bloody white T-shirt. I still feel that burning sensation in my palm. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. A floor creaks somewhere. Somebody turns on a faucet. And again I hear an ambulance in the night, far off but echoing sharply in the darkness.

"Can't fall asleep?" she whispers in the dark.

"No," I say.

"Me neither. Shouldn't have had that coffee. That was dumb." She switches on her bedside light, checks the time, then turns the light off. "Don't get me wrong," she says, "but if you'd like to come over here you can. I can't get to sleep either."

I slip out of my sleeping bag and climb in bed with her. I'm wearing boxers and the T-shirt. She has on a pair of light pink pajamas.

"I have a steady boyfriend in Tokyo," she tells me. "He's not much to brag about, but he's my guy. So I don't have sex with anybody else. I might not look like it, but when it comes to sex I'm pretty straightlaced. Call me old-fashioned. I wasn't always that way-I used to be pretty wild-but I don't fool around anymore. So don't get any ideas, okay? Just think of us as brother and sister. You understand?"

"Gotcha," I tell her.

She puts her arms around me, hugs me close, and rests her cheek on my forehead. "You poor thing," she says.

I don't need to tell you that I get a hard-on right away. Big time. And it couldn't help rubbing up against her thigh.

"My oh my!" she says.

"Sorry," I tell her. "I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," she says. "I know what an inconvenience it is. Nothing you can do to stop it."

I nod in the darkness.

She hesitates for a moment, then lowers my boxers, pulls out my rock-hard cock, and cradles it gently in her hand. Like she's making sure of something, the way a doctor takes a pulse. With her soft hand touching me, I feel something-a stray thought, maybe-spring up in my crotch.

"How old would your sister be now?"

"Twenty-one," I say. "Six years older than me."

She thinks about this for a while. "Do you want to see her?"