Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

Nakata did as he was told and opened his eyes.

Once he was sure they were open, Johnnie Walker made a show of devouring Kawamura's heart, taking more time than before to savor it. "It's soft and warm. Just like fresh eel liver," Johnnie Walker commented. He then lifted a bloody index finger to his mouth and sucked it. "Once you've acquired a taste for this, you get hooked. Especially the sticky blood."

He wiped the blood off the scalpel, whistling cheerily as always, and sawed off Kawamura's head. The fine teeth of the blade cut through the bone and blood spurted out everywhere.

"Please, Mr. Walker, Nakata can't stand it anymore!"

Johnnie Walker stopped whistling. He halted his work and scratched an earlobe. "That won't fly, Mr. Nakata. I'm sorry you feel bad, I really am, but I can't just say, Okay, will do, and call this off. I told you. This is war. It's hard to stop a war once it starts. Once the sword is drawn, blood's going to be spilled. This doesn't have anything to do with theory or logic, or even my ego. It's just a rule, pure and simple. If you don't want any more cats to be killed, you've got to kill me. Stand up, focus your hatred, and strike me down. And you've got to do it now. Do that and it's all over. End of story."

Johnnie Walker started whistling again. He finished cutting off Kawamura's head and tossed the headless body into the garbage bag. Now there were three heads lined up on the metal tray. They'd suffered such agony, yet their faces were as strangely vacant as those of the cats lined up in the freezer.

"Next comes the Siamese." Johnnie Walker said this and then extracted a limp Siamese from his bag-which of course turned out to be Mimi. "So now we come to little 'Mi Chiamano Mimi.' The Puccini opera. This little cat really does have that elegant coquetry, doesn't she? I'm a big Puccini fan, myself. Puccini's music is kind of-what should I call it?-eternally antagonistic to the times. Mere popular entertainment, you might argue, but it never gets old. Quite an artistic accomplishment."

He whistled a bar from "Mi Chiamano Mimi."

"But I have to tell you, Mr. Nakata, it took some doing to catch Mimi. She's clever and cautious, very quick on the draw. Not the type to get suckered into anything. One tough customer. But the cat that can elude Johnnie Walker, the matchless cat-killer, has yet to be born. Not that I'm bragging or anything, I'm just trying to convey how hard it was to nab her… At any rate, voilà! Your friend Mimi! Siamese are my absolute favorites. You're not aware of this, but a Siamese cat's heart is a real gem. Sort of like truffles. It's okay, Mimi. Never fear-Johnnie Walker's here! Ready to enjoy your warm, cute little heart. Ah-you're trembling!"

"Johnnie Walker." From deep inside himself Nakata managed to force out the words in a low voice. "Please, stop it. If you don't, Nakata's going to go crazy. I don't feel like myself anymore."

Johnnie Walker laid Mimi down on the desk and as always let his fingers slowly crawl along her belly. "So you're no longer yourself," he said carefully and quietly. "That's very important, Mr. Nakata. A person not being himself anymore." He picked up a scapel he hadn't used yet and tested its sharpness with the tip of his finger. Then, as if doing a trial cut, he ran the blade along the back of his hand. A moment later blood oozed up, dripping onto the desk and Mimi's body. Johnnie Walker chuckled. "A person's not being himself anymore," he repeated. "You're no longer yourself. That's the ticket, Mr. Nakata. Wonderful! The most important thing of all. O, full of scorpions is my mind! Macbeth again."

Without a word, Nakata stood up. No one, not even Nakata himself, could stop him. With long strides he walked over to the desk and grabbed what looked like a steak knife. Grasping the wooden handle firmly, he plunged the blade into Johnnie Walker's stomach, piercing the black vest, then stabbed again in another spot. He could hear something, a loud sound, and at first didn't know what it was. But then he understood. Johnnie Walker was laughing. Stabbed in the stomach and chest, his blood spouting out, he continued to laugh.

"That's the stuff!" he yelled. "You didn't hesitate. Well done!" Laughing like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. Soon though, his laughter turned into a sob. The blood gurgling in his throat sounded like a drain coming unplugged. A terrible convulsion wracked his body, and blood gushed out of his mouth along with dark, slimy lumps-the hearts of the cats he'd eaten. The blood spewed over the desk, onto Nakata's golf shirt. Both men were drenched in blood. Mimi, too, lying on the desk, was soaked with it.

Johnnie Walker collapsed at Nakata's feet. He was on his side, curled up like a child on a cold night, and was unmistakably dead. His left hand was pressed against his throat, his right thrust straight out as though reaching for something. The convulsions had ceased and, of course, the laughter. A faint sneer still showed on his lips. Blood puddled on the wooden floor, and the silk hat had rolled off into a corner. The hair on the back of Johnnie Walker's head was thin, the skin visible beneath. Without the hat he looked much older and more feeble.

Nakata dropped the knife and it clattered on the floor as loudly as the gear of some large machine clanking away in the distance. Nakata stood next to the body for a long time. Everything in the room had come to a standstill. Only the blood continued, silently, to flow, the puddle slowly spreading across the floor.

Finally, Nakata pulled himself together and gathered Mimi up from the desk. Warm and limp in his hands, she was covered in blood but apparently unharmed. Mimi looked up as if trying to tell him something, but the drug kept her mouth from moving.

Nakata then found Goma inside the case and lifted her out. He'd only seen photos of her, but felt a wave of nostalgia like he was meeting a long-lost friend. "Goma…," he murmured. Holding the two cats, Nakata sat down on the sofa. "Let's go home," he told them, but he couldn't stand up.

The black dog had appeared from somewhere and sat down next to his dead master. He might have lapped at the pool of blood, but Nakata couldn't remember for sure. His head felt heavy and dim, and he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His mind began to fade and, before he knew it, sank down into the darkness.

It's my third night in the cabin. With each passing day I've gotten more used to the silence and how incredibly dark it is. The night doesn't scare me anymore-or at least not as much. I fill the stove with firewood, settle down in front of it, and read. When I get tired, I just space out and stare at the flames. I never grow tired of looking at them. They come in all shapes and colors, and move around like living things-they are born, connect up, part company, and die.

When it's not cloudy I go outside and gaze up at the sky. The stars don't seem as intimidating as before, and I'm starting to feel closer to them. Each one gives out its own special light. I identify certain stars and watch how they twinkle in the night. Every once in a while they blaze more brightly for a moment. The moon hangs there, pale and bright, and if I look closely it's like I can make out individual crags on the surface. I don't form any coherent thoughts, just gaze, enthralled, at the sky.

Having no music doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. There're lots of other sounds that take its place-the chirping of birds, the cries of all sorts of insects, the gurgle of the brook, the rustling of leaves. Rain falls, something scrambles across the cabin roof, and sometimes I hear indescribable sounds I can't explain. I never knew the world was full of so many beautiful, natural sounds. I've ignored them my entire life, but not now. I sit on the porch for hours with my eyes closed, trying to be inconspicuous, picking up each and every sound around me.