Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

"Nakata used to be able to speak with cats."

"No kidding?"

"But not so long ago I couldn't talk with them anymore. It must be Johnnie Walker's fault."

"I see."

"I'm stupid, so I don't understand difficult things. And there have been so many difficult things happening lately. Fish and leeches falling from the sky, for instance."

"Really?"

"But I'm glad I could make your back better. If you feel good, then Nakata feels good."

"I'm really happy, too," Hoshino said.

"That's good."

"Now that you mention those leeches…"

"Yes, Nakata remembers that very well."

"Did you have something to do with that?"

Nakata thought about it for a while, a rare occurrence. "I don't really know myself. All I know is when I opened my umbrella it started to rain leeches."

"What'ya know…"

"The worst thing of all is killing other people," Nakata said, and gave a decisive nod.

"Absolutely. Killing is bad, for sure."

"That's right," Nakata said again, nodding forcefully.

The two of them got out at Takamatsu Station, then slipped inside a noodle place near the station and had udon for lunch. Outside the restaurant window there were several large cranes on the docks, covered with seagulls.

Nakata methodically enjoyed each and every noodle. "This udon is delicious," he said.

"Glad you like it," Hoshino said. "So, what do you think? Is this spot okay?"

"Yes, Nakata thinks it will do."

"So we got the right spot picked out. Now what are you going to do?"

"I've got to find the entrance stone."

"Entrance stone?"

"That's right."

"Hmm," Hoshino said. "I bet there's a long story behind that."

Nakata tilted his bowl and drained the last drop of soup. "Yes, it is a long story. But it's so long I don't understand it myself. Once we get there, though, Nakata thinks we'll understand."

"As usual, you gotta be there to get it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Until we go there I won't understand it."

"Yes. Until we go there I won't understand it either."

"Enough already. I don't like long stories. Anyway, I guess we need to find this entrance stone thing."

"That is correct," Nakata said.

"So where is it?"

"Nakata has no idea."

"Like I had to ask," Hoshino said, shaking his head.

I fall asleep for a short time, wake up, fall asleep again, wake up, over and over. I don't want to miss the moment she appears. But I do miss it-I look up and she's already seated at the desk, just like last night. The clock next to my bed shows a little past three. I'm positive I closed the curtains before going to bed, but again they're wide open. But there's no moon tonight-that's the only difference. There's a heavy cloud cover, and it might be drizzling outside. The room's much darker than last night, with only distant lamps in the garden casting a faint light between the trees. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust.

The girl is seated at the desk, head in her hands, gazing at the painting. She's wearing the same clothes as last night. Even if I squint and look hard, this time it's too dark to make out her face. Strangely enough, though, her body and silhouette stand out, floating there clearly in the darkness. The girl is Miss Saeki when she was young-I have absolutely no doubt about it.

She looks deep in thought. Or in the midst of a long, deep dream. Check that-maybe she herself is Miss Saeki's long, deep dream. At any rate, I try to breathe very quietly so as not to disturb the balance of this scene before me. I don't move an inch, just glance occasionally at the clock to check the time. Time passes slowly, regularly.

Out of the blue my heart starts beating hard, a dry sound like somebody's knocking at the door. The sound echoes through the silent, dead-of-night room, and startles me so much that I nearly leap right out of bed.

The girl's black silhouette moves ever so slightly. She looks up and listens in the dark. She's heard it-the sound of my heart. She tilts her head just a fraction, for all the world like an animal in the woods focusing on an unexpected, unknown sound. Then she turns to face me in bed. But I don't register in her eyes, I can tell. I'm not in her dream. She and I are in two separate worlds, divided by an invisible boundary.

Just as quickly as it came on, my pounding heart settles back down to normal. And so does my breathing. I'm back to being invisible, and she's no longer listening. Her gaze falls back on Kafka on the Shore. Head in hands like before, her heart is drawn once more toward the boy in that summer scene.

She's there for about twenty minutes, then vanishes. Just like last night, she stands up, barefoot, noiselessly glides toward the door, and, without opening it, disappears outside. I sit still for a while, then finally get up. Keeping the light off, I go over in the darkness and sit down on the seat she just occupied. I rest both hands on the desk and absorb the afterglow of her presence. I close my eyes, scooping up her shivering heart, letting it seep inside mine. I keep my eyes closed.

There's one thing, I discover, the girl and I have in common. We're both in love with someone who's no longer of this world.

A short time later I fall into a restless sleep. My body needs rest, but my mind won't allow it. I swing like a pendulum, back and forth between the two. Later, though-I'm not even sure if it's light out or not-birds begin making a racket in the garden, and their voices pull me completely awake.

I tug on jeans and pull a long-sleeved shirt over my T-shirt and go outside. It's after five o'clock and nobody else is up. I walk out of the old-looking town, through the pine forest set up as a windbreak, past the seawall and out onto the beach. There's barely a breeze against my skin. The sky's covered with a layer of gray clouds, but it doesn't look like it's going to rain anytime soon. It's a quiet, still morning. Like a layer of soundproofing, the clouds absorb every sound the earth sends up.

I walk for a while on a path that parallels the sea, picturing the boy in the painting walking the same path, canvas chair in hand, sitting on the shore. I'm not sure, though, what scene along this shore the painting depicts. The painting only shows the beach, the horizon, sky, and clouds. And an island. But there are a number of islands along the shore, and I can't exactly recall what the one in the painting looked like. I sit down on the sand, face the sea, and make a kind of picture frame with my hands. I imagine the boy sitting there. A single white seagull flits aimlessly across the windless sky. Small waves break against the shore at regular intervals, leaving behind a gentle curve and tiny bubbles on the sand.

All of a sudden I realize-I'm jealous of the boy in the painting.

"You're jealous of the boy in the painting," the boy called Crow whispers in my ear.

You're jealous of that pitiful, twenty-year-old boy mistaken for someone else and pointlessly murdered-what is it, thirty years ago? So insanely jealous it hurts. This is the first time you've ever been jealous in your life. Now you finally understand what it feels like. It's like a brush fire torching your heart.

You've never ever in your life envied anybody else, or ever wanted to be someone else-but right now you do. You want more than anything to be that boy. Even knowing that at age twenty he was going to be smashed over the head with an iron pipe and beaten to death, you'd still trade places with him. You'd do it, to be able to love Miss Saeki for those five years. And to have her love you with all her heart. To hold her as much as you want, to make love to her over and over. To let your fingers run over every single part of her body, and let her do the same to you. And after you die, your love will become a story etched forever in her heart. Every single night she'll love you in her memory.