Haruki Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

We stop at a town to have a bite to eat and stock up on food and mineral water at a supermarket, then drive up the unpaved road through the hills and arrive at the cabin. Inside, it's exactly as I left it a week ago. I open the window to air out the place, then stow away the food.

"I'm going to take a nap before I head back," Oshima says, nearly covering his face with his hands as he lets out a huge yawn. "I didn't sleep well last night."

He must really be exhausted, because as soon as he gets under the covers and turns toward the wall, he's out. I make some coffee and pour it in a thermos for his ride back, then head down to the brook with the aluminum pail to fill up on water. The forest hasn't changed a bit-the same smell of grasses, birdcalls, babbling water in the brook, the rush of wind through the trees, the same shadows of rustling leaves. The clouds above me look really close. I feel nostalgic to see them again, for they've become a part of me.

While Oshima sleeps I sit on the porch, sip tea, and read a book about Napoleon's 1812 invasion of Russia. Some 400,000 French soldiers lost their lives in that huge country in this massive, pointless campaign. The battles themselves were awful, of course, but there weren't enough doctors or medical supplies, so most of the severely wounded soldiers were left to die in agony. More froze to death or died of starvation, equally terrible ways to die. Seated there on the porch, sipping hot herb tea, birds whistling all around me, I tried to picture the battlefield in Russia and these men trudging through blizzards.

I get about a third of the way through the book and go check to see if Oshima's okay. I know he's exhausted, but he's so quiet it's like he's not even there, and I'm a little worried. But he's all right, wrapped in the covers, breathing quietly. I walk over next to him and notice his shoulders rising and falling slightly. Standing there, I suddenly remember that he's a woman. Most of the time I forget that, and think of him as a man. Which is exactly what he wants, of course. But when he's sleeping, he looks like he's gone back to being a woman.

I go out on the porch again and pick up where I left off in the book. Back to a road outside Smolensk lined with frozen corpses.

Oshima sleeps for a couple of hours. After he wakes up he walks out on the porch and looks at his car. The dusty, unpaved road has turned the green Miata almost white. He gives a big stretch and sits down next to me. "It's the rainy season," he says, rubbing his eyes, "but there's not much rain this year. If we don't get some soon, Takamatsu's going to run out of water."

I venture a question: "Does Miss Saeki know where I am?"

He shakes his head. "No, I didn't tell her anything. She doesn't even know I have a cabin up here. It's better to keep her in the dark, so she won't get mixed up in all this. The less she knows, the less she needs to hide."

I nod. That's exactly what I wanted to hear.

"She's gotten mixed up in enough before," Oshima says. "She doesn't need this now."

"I told her about my father dying recently," I tell him. "How somebody murdered him. I left out the part about the police looking for me."

"She's pretty smart. Even if neither of us mentioned it, I get the feeling she's figured out most of what's going on. So if I tell her tomorrow that you had something you had to do and will be gone for a while, and tell her hi from you, I doubt she'll quiz me about the details. Even if that's all I tell her, I know she'll just let it pass."

I nod.

"But you want to see her, don't you?"

I don't reply. I'm not sure how to express it, but the answer isn't hard to guess.

"I feel kind of sorry for you," Oshima says, "but like I said, I think you two shouldn't see each other for a while."

"But I might never see her again."

"Perhaps," Oshima admits, after giving it some thought. "This is pretty obvious, but until things happen, they haven't happened. And often things aren't what they seem."

"But how does Miss Saeki feel?"

Oshima narrows his eyes and looks at me. "About what?"

"I mean-if she knows she'll never see me again, does she feel the same about me as I feel about her?"

Oshima grins. "Why are you asking me this?"

"I have no idea, which is probably why I'm asking you. Loving somebody, wanting them more than anything-it's all a new experience. The same with having somebody want me."

"I imagine you're confused and don't know what to do."

I nod. "Exactly."

"You don't know if she shares the same strong, pure feelings you have for her," Oshima comments.

I shake my head. "It hurts to think about it."

Oshima's silent for a time as he gazes out at the forest, eyes narrowed. Birds are flitting from one branch to the next. His hands are clasped behind his head. "I know how you feel," he finally says. "But this is something you have to figure out on your own. Nobody can help you. That's what love's all about, Kafka. You're the one having those wonderful feelings, but you have to go it alone as you wander through the dark. Your mind and body have to bear it all. All by yourself."

It's after two when he gets ready to leave.

"If you divide up the food," he tells me, "it should last you a week. I'll be back by then. If something comes up and I can't make it, I'll send my brother here with supplies. He only lives about an hour away. I've told him about you being here. So no worries, okay?"

"Okay."

"And like I told you before, be extra cautious if you go into the woods. If you get lost, you'll never find your way out."

"I'll be careful."

"Just before World War II started, a large unit of Imperial troops carried out some training exercises here, staging mock battles with the Soviet army in the Siberian forests. Did I tell you this already?"

"No."

"Seems like I forgot the most important thing," Oshima says sheepishly, tapping his temple.

"But this doesn't look like Siberian forests," I say.

"You're right. The trees here are all broadleaf types, the ones in those forests would have to be evergreens, but I guess the military didn't worry about details. The point was to march into the forest in full battle gear and conduct their war games."

He pours out a cup of the coffee I made from the thermos, spoons in a dollop of sugar, and seems pleased with the results. "The military asked my great-grandfather to let them use the mountain for their training, and he said sure, be my guest. Nobody else was using it, after all. The unit marched up the road we drove here on, then went into the forest. But when the exercises were finished and they took roll call, they discovered two soldiers were missing. They'd just disappeared, full battle gear and all, during the training, both brand-new draftees. The army conducted a huge search, but the two soldiers never turned up." Oshima takes another sip of coffee. "To this day nobody knows if they simply got lost or ran away. The forest around here is incredibly deep, and there's hardly anything you could forage for food."

I nod.

"There's another world that parallels our own, and to a certain degree you're able to step into that other world and come back safely. As long as you're careful. But go past a certain point and you'll lose the path out. It's a labyrinth. Do you know where the idea of a labyrinth first came from?"

I shake my head.

"It was the ancient Mesopotamians. They pulled out animal intestines-sometimes human intestines, I expect-and used the shape to predict the future. They admired the complex shape of intestines. So the prototype for labyrinths is, in a word, guts. Which means that the principle for the labyrinth is inside you. And that correlates to the labyrinth outside."

"Another metaphor," I comment.

"That's right. A reciprocal metaphor. Things outside you are projections of what's inside you, and what's inside you is a projection of what's outside. So when you step into the labyrinth outside you, at the same time you're stepping into the labyrinth inside. Most definitely a risky business."