Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

A few days later I stopped by the school to observe how the children were doing. I called a few of them into the nurse's room and questioned them. Again, though, everything seemed fine. No traces remained, physically or emotionally, from their strange experience. They couldn't even remember that it had happened. Their lives were completely back to normal, unaffected by the incident. They attended class as usual, sang songs, played outside during recess, everything normal kids did. Their homeroom teacher, however, was a different story: she still seemed in shock.

But that one boy, Nakata, didn't regain consciousness, so the following day he was taken to the university hospital in Kofu. After that he was transferred to a military hospital, and never came back to our town again. I never heard what became of him.

This incident never made the newspapers. My guess is the authorities decided it would only cause unrest, so they banned any mention of it. You have to remember that during the war the military tried to squelch whatever they saw as groundless rumors. The war wasn't going well, with the military retreating on the southern front, suicide attacks one after the other, air raids on cities getting worse all the time. The military was especially afraid of any antiwar or pacifist sentiment cropping up among the populace. A few days after the incident the police came calling and warned us that under no circumstances were we to talk about what we'd seen.

The whole thing was an odd, unpleasant affair. Even to this day it's like a weight pressing down on me.

I'm asleep when our bus drives across the huge new bridge over the Inland Sea. I'd seen the bridge only on maps and had been looking forward to seeing it for real. Somebody gently taps me on the shoulder and I wake up.

"Hey, we're here," the girl says.

I stretch, rub my eyes with the back of my hand, and look out the window. Sure enough, the bus is just pulling into what looks like the square in front of a station. Fresh morning sunlight lights up the scene. Almost blinding, but gentle somehow, the light is different from what I was used to in Tokyo. I glance at my watch.6:32.

"Gosh, what a long trip," she says tiredly. "I thought my lower back was going to give out. And my neck's killing me. You aren't going to catch me on an all-night bus again. I'm taking the plane from now on, even if it's more expensive. Turbulence, hijackings-I don't care. Give me a plane any day."

I lower her suitcase and my backpack from the overhead rack. "What's your name?" I ask.

"My name?"

"Yeah."

"Sakura," she says. "What about you?"

"Kafka Tamura," I reply.

"Kafka Tamura," she muses. "Weird name. Easy to remember, though."

I nod. Becoming a different person might be hard, but taking on a different name is a cinch.

She gets off the bus, sets her suitcase on the ground, and plunks herself down on top, then pulls a notebook from a pocket in her small backpack, scribbles down something, rips the page out, and hands it to me. A phone number, by the looks of it.

"My cell phone number," she says with a wry expression. "I'm staying at my friend's place for a while, but if you ever feel like seeing somebody, give me a call. We can go out for a bite or whatever. Don't be a stranger, okay? 'Even chance meetings'… how does the rest of that go?"

"'Are the result of karma.'"

"Right, right," she says. "But what does it mean?"

"That things in life are fated by our previous lives. That even in the smallest events there's no such thing as coincidence."

She sits there on her yellow suitcase, notebook in hand, giving it some thought. "Hmm… that's a kind of philosophy, isn't it. Not such a bad way of thinking about life. Sort of a reincarnation, New Age kind of thing. But, Kafka, remember this, okay? I don't go around giving my cell phone number to just anybody. You know what I mean?"

I appreciate it, I tell her. I fold up the piece of paper and stick it in the pocket of my windbreaker. Thinking better of it, I transfer it to my wallet.

"So how long'll you be in Takamatsu?" Sakura asks.

"I don't know yet," I say. "It depends on how things go."

She gazes intently at me, her head tilted slightly to one side. Okay, whatever, she might be thinking. She climbs into a cab, gives a little wave, and takes off.

Once again I'm all alone. Sakura, I think-not my sister's name. But names are changed easily enough. Especially when you're trying to try to run away from somebody.

I have a reservation at a business hotel in Takamatsu. The YMCA in Tokyo had told me about the place, and through them I got a discount on the room. But that's only for the first three days, then it goes back to the normal room rate.

If I really wanted to save money, I could just sack out on a bench in front of the station, or since it's still warm out, I could sleep in my sleeping bag in a park somewhere. But then the cops will come and card me-the one thing I have to avoid at all costs. That's why I went for the hotel reservation, at least for three days. After that I'll figure something out.

At the station I pop into the first little diner that catches my eye, and eat my fill of udon. Born and raised in Tokyo, I haven't had much udon in my life. But now I'm in Udon Central-Shikoku-and confronted with noodles like nothing I've ever seen. They're chewy and fresh, and the soup smells great, really fragrant. And talk about cheap. It all tastes so good I order seconds, and for the first time in who knows how long, I'm happily stuffed. Afterward I plop myself down on a bench in the plaza next to the station and gaze up at the sunny sky. I'm free, I remind myself. Like the clouds floating across the sky, I'm all by myself, totally free.

I decide to kill time till evening at a library. Ever since I was little I've loved to spend time in the reading rooms of libraries, so I've come to Takamatsu armed with info on all the libraries in and around the city. Think about it-a little kid who doesn't want to go home doesn't have many places he can go. Coffee shops and movie theaters are off-limits. That leaves only libraries, and they're perfect-no entrance fee, nobody getting all hot and bothered if a kid comes in. You just sit down and read whatever you want. I always rode my bike to the local public library after school. Even on holidays that's where you'd find me. I'd devour anything and everything-novels, biographies, histories, whatever was lying around. Once I'd gone through all the children's books, I went on to the general stacks and books for adults. I might not always get much out of them, but I forged on to the very last page. When I got tired of reading I'd go into one of those listening booths with headphones and enjoy some music. I had no idea about music so I just went down the row of CDs they had there, giving them all a listen. That's how I got to know about Duke Ellington, the Beatles, and Led Zeppelin.

The library was like a second home. Or maybe more like a real home, more than the place I lived in. By going every day I got to know all the lady librarians who worked there. They knew my name and always said hi. I was painfully shy, though, and could barely reply.

Before coming to Takamatsu I found out some wealthy man from an old family in the suburbs had renovated his personal library into a private library open to the public. The place has a lot of rare books, and I heard that the building itself and the surrounding garden were worth checking out. I saw a photo of the place once in Taiyo magazine. It's a large, Japanese-style house with this really elegant reading room that looks more like a parlor, where people are sitting with their books on comfortable-looking sofas. For some reason that photo really stayed with me, and I wanted to see this in person if someday the chance came along. The Komura Memorial Library, the place was called.