Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

Miss Saeki smiles. "You catch on quickly."

"The strength I'm looking for isn't the kind where you win or lose. I'm not after a wall that'll repel power coming from outside. What I want is the kind of strength to be able to absorb that outside power, to stand up to it. The strength to quietly endure things-unfairness, misfortune, sadness, mistakes, misunderstandings."

"That's got to be the most difficult strength of all to make your own."

"I know…"

Her smile deepens one degree. "You seem to know everything."

I shake my head. "That's not true. I'm only fifteen, and there're plenty of things I don't know. I should know them, but I don't. I don't know anything about you, for one thing."

She picks up the coffee cup and takes a sip. "There's nothing that you have to know, nothing inside me you need to know."

"Do you remember my theory?"

"Of course," she says. "But that's your theory, not mine. So I have no responsibility for it, right?"

"Exactly. The person who comes up with the theory is the one who has to prove it," I say. "Which leads me to a question."

"About?"

"You told me you'd published a book about people who'd been struck by lightning."

"That's right."

"Is it still available?"

She shakes her head. "They didn't print that many copies to begin with. It went out of print a long time ago, and I imagine any leftover copies were destroyed. I don't even have a copy. Like I said before, nobody was interested."

"Why were you interested in that topic?"

"I'm not sure. I guess there was something symbolic about it. Or maybe I just wanted to keep myself busy, so I set a goal that kept me running around and my mind occupied. I can't recall now what the original motivation was. I came up with the idea and just started researching it. I was a writer then, with no money worries and plenty of free time, so I could mostly do whatever sparked my interest. Once I got into it, though, the topic itself was fascinating. Meeting all kinds of people, hearing all kinds of stories. If it weren't for that project, I probably would've withdrawn even further from reality and ended up completely isolated."

"When my father was young he worked as a caddy at a golf course and was hit by lightning. He was lucky to survive. The guy with him didn't make it."

"A lot of people are killed by lightning on golf courses-big, wide-open spaces, with almost nowhere to take shelter. And lightning loves golf clubs. Is your father also named Tamura?"

"Yes, and I think he was about your age."

She shakes her head. "I don't remember anybody named Tamura. I didn't interview anybody by that name."

I don't say anything.

"That's part of your theory, isn't it? That your father and I met while I was researching the book, and as a result you were born."

"Yes."

"Well, that puts an end to it, doesn't it? That never happened. Your theory doesn't stand up."

"Not necessarily," I say.

"What do you mean?"

"Because I don't believe everything you're telling me."

"Why not?"

"Well, you immediately said you'd never interviewed anybody called Tamura without even giving it any thought. Twenty years is a long time, and you must've interviewed quite a number of people. I don't think you'd be able to recall so quickly whether one of them was or wasn't named Tamura."

She shakes her head and takes another sip of coffee. A faint smile springs to her lips. "Kafka, I-" She stops, looking for the right words.

I wait for her to find them.

"I feel like things are starting to change around me," she says.

"How so?"

"I can't really say, but something's happening. The air pressure, the way sounds reverberate, the reflection of light, how bodies move and time passes-it's all transforming, bit by bit. It's like each small change is a drop that's steadily building up into a stream." She picks up her black Mont Blanc pen, looks at it, puts it back where it was, then looks straight at me. "What happened between us in your room last night is probably part of that flow. I don't know if what we did last night was right or not. But at the time I decided not to force myself to judge anything. If the flow is there, I figured I'd just let it carry me along where it wanted."

"Can I tell you what I think?"

"Go right ahead."

"I think you're trying to make up for lost time."

She thinks about it for a while. "You may be right," she says. "But how do you know that?"

"Because I'm doing the same thing."

"Making up for lost time?"

"Yes," I say. "A lot of things were stolen from my childhood. Lots of important things. And now I have to get them back."

"In order to keep on living."

I nod. "I have to. People need a place they can go back to. There's still time to make it, I think. For me, and for you."

She closes her eyes, and tents her fingers on top of her desk. Like she's resigned to it, she opens her eyes again. "Who are you?" she asks. "And why do you know so much about everything?"

You tell her she must know who you are. I'm Kafka on the Shore, you say. Your lover-and your son. The boy named Crow. And the two of us can't be free. We're caught up in a whirlpool, pulled beyond time. Somewhere, we were struck by lightning. But not the kind of lightning you can see or hear.

That night you make love again. You listen as the blank within her is filled. It's a faint sound, like fine sand on a shore crumbling in the moonlight. You hold your breath, listening. You're inside your theory now. Then you're outside. And inside again, then outside. You inhale, hold it, exhale. Inhale, hold it, exhale. Prince sings on, like some mollusk in your head. The moon rises, the tide comes in. Seawater flows into a river. A branch of the dogwood just outside the window trembles nervously. You hold her close, she buries her face in your chest. You feel her breath against your bare skin. She traces your muscles, one by one. Finally, she gently licks your swollen penis, as if healing it. You come again, in her mouth. She swallows it down, as if every drop is precious. You kiss her vagina, touching every soft, warm spot with your tongue. You become someone else there, something else. You are somewhere else.

"There's nothing inside me you need to know," she says. Until Monday morning dawns you hold each other, listening to time passing by.

The massive bank of thunderclouds crossed the city at a lethargic pace, letting loose a flurry of lightning bolts as if probing every nook and cranny for a long-lost morality, finally dwindling to a faint, angry echo from the eastern sky. And right then the violent rain came to a sudden halt, followed by an unearthly silence. Hoshino stood up and opened the window to let in some air. The storm clouds had vanished, the sky covered once more by a thin membrane of pale clouds. All the buildings were wet, the moist cracks in their walls dark, like old people's veins. Water dripped off power lines and formed puddles on the ground. Birds flew out from where they'd sought shelter, chirping loudly as they vied for the bugs that were out themselves now that the storm had abated.

Hoshino rotated his neck from side to side a couple of times, checking out his spine. He gave one big stretch, sat down beside the window, and gazed outside, then pulled out his pack of Marlboros and lit up.

"You know, though, Mr. Nakata, after all that effort to turn that stone over and open the entrance, nothing out of the ordinary happened. No frog appeared, no demons, nothing strange at all. Which is fine by me, of course… The stage was set with all that noisy thunder, but I gotta tell you I'm kind of disappointed."

He didn't get a reply, so he turned around. Nakata was leaning forward with both hands on the floor and his eyes closed. The old man looked like a feeble bug.