Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

At his trial he described all this, no emotion showing on his face. His recall was amazing. His life was entirely made up of these details.

At ten I put the book down, brush my teeth, and wash my face. The fire bathes the room in an orange glow, and the pleasant warmth calms my tension and fear. I snuggle into my sleeping bag dressed only in a T-shirt and boxers. Compared to last night I'm able to shut my eyes easily. Thoughts of Sakura cross my mind.

"I was thinking how nice it'd be if I was your real sister," she'd said.

None of that tonight. I've got to get some sleep. A log topples over in the stove, an owl hoots outside. And I topple down into an indistinct dream.

The next day's the same. Birds wake me up a little after six. I boil some water, make a cup of tea, and have breakfast. Read on the porch, listen to music, go fill up the water pail at the stream. And I walk down the path into the woods, this time carrying my compass, glancing at it every once in a while to get a general idea of where the cabin is. I found a hatchet in the shed and use it to chop simple hatch marks on trees. I clear out some of the underbrush to make the path easier to follow.

Just like yesterday the forest is dark and deep, the towering trees forming a thick wall on both sides. Something of the forest is hiding there, in the darkness between the trees, like some 3-D painting of an animal, watching my every move. But the fear that made me shudder isn't there anymore. I've made my own rules, and by following them I won't get lost. At least I hope not.

I come to the place where I stopped yesterday and forge on, stepping into the sea of ferns. After a while the path reemerges, and again I'm surrounded by a wall of trees, on whose trunks I hack out some markings as I go. Somewhere in the branches above me a huge bird flaps its wings, but looking up I can't spot it. My mouth is dry.

I walk on for a while and reach a round sort of clearing. Surrounded by tall trees, it looks like the bottom of a gigantic well. Sunlight shoots down through the branches like a spotlight illuminating the ground at my feet. The place feels special, somehow. I sit down in the sunlight and let the faint warmth wash over me, taking out a chocolate bar from my pocket and enjoying the sweet taste. Realizing all over again how important sunlight is to human beings, I appreciate each second of that precious light. The intense loneliness and helplessness I felt under those millions of stars has vanished. But as time passes, the sun's angle shifts and the light disappears. I stand up and retrace the path back to the cabin.

In the afternoon dark clouds suddenly color the sky a mysterious shade and it starts raining hard, pounding the roof and windows of the cabin. I strip naked and run outside, washing my face with soap and scrubbing myself all over. It feels wonderful. In my joy I shut my eyes and shout out meaningless words as the large raindrops strike me on the cheeks, the eyelids, chest, side, penis, legs, and butt-the stinging pain like a religious initiation or something. Along with the pain there's a feeling of closeness, like for once in my life the world's treating me fairly. I feel elated, as if all of a sudden I've been set free. I face the sky, hands held wide apart, open my mouth wide, and gulp down the falling rain.

Back inside the hut, I dry off with a towel, sit down on the bed, and look at my penis-a light-colored, healthy, youthful penis. The head still stings a little from the rain. For a long while I stare at this strange organ that, most of the time, has a mind of its own and contemplates thoughts not shared by my brain.

I wonder if Oshima, when he was my age and stayed here, struggled with sexual desire. He must have, but I can't picture him taking care of business on his own. He's too detached, too cool for that.

"I was different from everybody else," he'd said. I don't know what that means, but I'm sure he wasn't just spouting something off the top of his head. He didn't say it to be mysterious and coy, either.

I consider jerking off but think better of it. Being pummeled by the rain so hard made me feel strangely purified, and I want to hold on to that sensation a while longer. I pull on some boxers, take a few deep breaths, and start doing squats. A hundred squats later I do a hundred sit-ups. I focus on one muscle group at a time. Once my routine's done, my mind's clear. The rain's stopped, the sun's starting to shine through breaks in the clouds, and the birds have started chirping again.

But that calm won't last long, you know. It's like beasts that never tire, tracking you everywhere you go. They come out at you deep in the forest. They're tough, relentless, merciless, untiring, and they never give up. You might control yourself now, and not masturbate, but they'll get you in the end, as a wet dream. You might dream about raping your sister, your mother. It's not something you can control. It's a power beyond you-and all you can do is accept it.

You're afraid of imagination. And even more afraid of dreams. Afraid of the responsibility that begins in dreams. But you have to sleep, and dreams are a part of sleep. When you're awake you can suppress imagination. But you can't suppress dreams.

I lie down in bed and listen to Prince on my headphones, concentrating on this strangely unceasing music. The batteries run out in the middle of "Little Red Corvette," the music disappearing like it's been swallowed up by quicksand. I yank off my headphones and listen. Silence, I discover, is something you can actually hear.

The black dog stood up and led Nakata out of the study and down the dark corridor to the kitchen, which had only a couple of windows and was dark. Though it was neat and clean, it had an inert feel, like a science lab in school. The dog stopped in front of the doors of a large refrigerator, turned around, and drilled Nakata with a cold look Open the left door, he said in a low voice. Nakata knew it wasn't the dog talking but Johnnie Walker, speaking to Nakata through him. Looking at Nakata through the dog's eyes.

Nakata did as he was told. The avocado green refrigerator was taller than he was, and when he opened the left door the thermostat came on with a thump, the motor groaning to life. White vapor, like fog, wafted out. This side of the refrigerator was a freezer, at a very low setting.

Inside was a row of about twenty round, fruit-like objects, neatly arranged. Nothing else. Nakata bent over and looked at them fixedly. When the vapor cleared he saw it wasn't fruit at all but the severed heads of cats. Cut-off heads of all colors and sizes, arranged on three shelves like oranges at a fruit stand. The cats' faces were frozen, facing forward. Nakata gulped.

Take a good look, the dog commanded. Check with your own eyes whether Goma's in there or not.

Nakata did this, examining the cats' heads one by one. He didn't feel afraid-his mind focused on finding the missing little cat. Nakata carefully checked each head, confirming that Goma's wasn't among them. No doubt about it-not a single tortoiseshell. The faces of the bodyless cats had a strangely vacant expression, not one of them appearing to have suffered. That, at least, brought Nakata a sigh of relief. A few of the cats had their eyes closed, but most were staring out blankly at a point in space.

"I don't see Goma here," Nakata said in a flat tone. He cleared his throat and shut the refrigerator door.

Are you absolutely sure?

"Yes, I'm sure."

The dog stood up and led Nakata back to the study. Johnnie Walker was still seated in the swivel chair, waiting for him. As Nakata entered, he touched the brim of his silk hat in greeting and smiled pleasantly. Then he clapped his hands loudly, twice, and the dog left the room.

"I'm the one who cut off all those cats' heads," he said. He lifted his glass of whisky and took a drink. "I'm collecting them."