Miss Saeki never sang again. She locked herself in her room and wouldn't talk to anybody, even on the phone. She didn't go to his funeral, and dropped out of college.
After a few months, people suddenly realized she was no longer in town. Nobody knows where she went or what she did. Her parents refused to discuss it. Maybe even they didn't know where she'd been. She vanished into thin air. Even her best friend, Oshima's mother, didn't have a clue. Rumors flew that she'd been committed to a mental hospital after a failed suicide attempt in the deep forests surrounding Mount Fuji. Others said a friend of a friend had spotted her on the streets of Tokyo. According to this person she was working in Tokyo as a writer or something. Other rumors had it she was married and had a child. All of these, though, were groundless, with nothing to back them up.
Twenty years passed.
No matter where she was or what she was doing all this time, Miss Saeki didn't hurt for money. Her royalties for "Kafka on the Shore" were deposited in a bank account, and even after taxes still amounted to a substantial sum. She got royalties every time the song was played on the radio or included in an oldies compilation. So it was simple for her to live far away, out of the limelight. Besides, her family was rich and she was their only daughter.
Suddenly, twenty-five years later, Miss Saeki reappeared in Takamatsu. The ostensible reason was her mother's funeral. (Her father had died five years before, but she hadn't come to the funeral.) She held a small service for her mother and then, after things had quieted down, sold the house she'd been born and raised in. She moved into an apartment she'd purchased in a quiet part of the city and seemed to settle down again.
After a time she had some talks with the Komura family. (The head of the family, after the death of the eldest son, was his younger brother, three years younger. It was just the two of them, and no one knows what they talked about, exactly.) The upshot was Miss Saeki became head of the Komura Library.
Even now she's slim and beautiful and has the same neat, smart look you see on the record jacket of "Kafka on the Shore." But there's one thing missing: that lovely, innocent smile. She still smiles from time to time, definitely a charming smile, but it's always limited somehow, a smile that never goes beyond the moment. A high, invisible wall surrounds her, holding people at arm's length. Every morning she drives her gray Volkswagen Golf to the library, and drives it back home in the evening.
Back in her hometown, she had very little to do with former friends and relatives.
If they happen to meet she makes polite conversation, but this seldom goes beyond a few standard topics. If the past happens to come up-especially if it involves her—she makes a quick, smooth segue to another topic. She's always polite and kind, but her words lack the kind of curiosity and excitement you'd normally expect. Her true feelings—assuming such things exist—remain hidden away. Except for when a practical sort of decision has to be made, she never gives her personal opinion about anything.
She seldom talks about herself, instead letting others talk, nodding warmly as she listens.
But most people start to feel vaguely uneasy when talking with her, as if they suspect they're wasting her time, trampling on her private, graceful, dignified world. And that impression is, for the most part, correct.
So even after settling back into her hometown, she remained a cipher. A stylish woman wrapped in refined mystery. Something about her made it hard to approach her.
Even her nominal employers, the Komura family, kept their distance.
Eventually Oshima became her assistant and started to work in the library. At the time Oshima wasn't working or going to school, just staying at home reading and listening to music. Except for a few people he exchanged e-mails with, he hardly had any friends. Because of his hemophilia, he spent a lot of time going to see a specialist at the hospital, riding around town in his Mazda Miata, and except for his regular appointments at the University Hospital in Hiroshima and the occasional stay at the cabin in the Kochi mountains, he never left town. Not to imply that he was unhappy with this life. One day Oshima's mother happened to introduce him to Miss Saeki, who took an instant liking to him. The feeling was mutual, and the notion of working in a library intrigued him. Oshima soon became the only person Miss Saeki normally dealt with or spoke to.
"Sounds to me like Miss Saeki came back here in order to become head of the library," I say.
"I'd have to agree. Her mother's funeral was just the opportunity that brought her back. Her hometown must be so full of bittersweet memories that I imagine it was a hard decision to return."
"Why was the library so important to her?"
"Her boyfriend used to live in a building that's part of the library now. He was the eldest Komura son, and a love of reading was in his blood, I suppose. He liked to be alone—another family trait. So when he went into junior high he insisted on living apart from the main house, in a separate building, and his parents gave their okay. The whole family loved reading, so they could understand where he was coming from. If you want to be surrounded by books, it's fine with us—that kind of thing. So he lived in that annex, with nobody bothering him, coming back to the main house only for meals. Miss Saeki went to see him there almost every day. The two of them studied together, listened to music, and talked forever. And most likely made love there. The place was their own bit of paradise."
Both hands resting on top of the steering wheel, Oshima looks over at me. "That's where you'll be living now, Kafka. In that room. As I said, the library's been renovated, but it's the very same room."
Silence on my part.
"Miss Saeki's life basically stopped at age twenty, when her lover died. No, maybe not age twenty, maybe much earlier.... I don't know the details, but you need to be aware of this. The hands of the clock buried inside her soul ground to a halt then.
Time outside, of course, flows on as always, but she isn't affected by it. For her, what we consider normal time is essentially meaningless."
"Meaningless?"
Oshima nods. "Like it doesn't exist."
"What you're saying is Miss Saeki still lives in that frozen time?"
"Exactly. I'm not saying she's some living corpse or anything. When you get to know her better you'll understand."
Oshima reaches out and lays a hand on my knee in a totally natural gesture.
"Kafka, in everybody's life there's a point of no return. And in a very few cases, a point where you can't go forward anymore. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That's how we survive."
We're about to merge onto the main highway. Before we do, Oshima stops the car, puts up the top, and slips a Schubert sonata into the CD player.
"There's one other thing I'd like you to be aware of," he goes on. "Miss Saeki has a wounded heart. To some extent that's true of all of us, present company included. But Miss Saeki has a special individual wound that goes beyond the usual meaning of the term. Her soul moves in mysterious ways. I'm not saying she's dangerous—don't get me wrong. On a day-to-day level she's definitely got her act together, probably more than anybody else I know. She's charming, deep, intelligent. But just don't let it bother you if you notice something odd about her sometimes."
"Odd?" I can't help asking.
Oshima shakes his head. "I really like Miss Saeki, and respect her. I'm sure you'll come to feel the same way."
This doesn't really answer my question, but Oshima doesn't say anything. With perfect timing he shifts gears, steps on the gas, and passes a small van just before we enter a tunnel.
Chapter 18
Nakata found himself faceup in a clump of weeds. As he awakened he slowly opened his eyes. It was night, but he couldn't see any stars or the moon. Still, the sky was faintly light. He could smell the strong scent of summer grasses and hear insects buzzing around. Somehow he was back in the vacant lot he'd been staking out every day. Feeling something rough and warm brush against his face, he turned and saw two cats eagerly licking both his cheeks wi
th their tiny tongues. It was Goma and Mimi. Nakata slowly sat up, reached out, and petted them. "Was Nakata asleep?" he asked.
The cats cried out like they were complaining about something, but Nakata couldn't catch the words. He had no idea what they were trying to tell him. They were just two cats meowing.
"I beg your pardon, but I can't understand what you're trying to say." He stood up and checked his body to make sure there was nothing out of the ordinary. He felt no pain, and his arms and legs were working fine. His eyes took some time to adjust to the darkness, but once they did he saw that there wasn't any blood on his arms or clothes.
His clothes weren't rumpled or messed up, either, and looked the same as when he'd left his apartment. His canvas bag was right beside him, lunch and thermos inside, and his hat was inside his trouser pocket where it belonged. Everything was in order. Nakata couldn't figure out what was going on.
In order to save the two cats, he'd stabbed Johnnie Walker—the cat-killer—to death.
That much he remembered all too clearly. He could still feel the knife in his hands. It wasn't a dream—blood had spurted out of Johnnie Walker and he'd collapsed to the floor, curled up, and died. Then Nakata had sunk back on the couch and lost consciousness.
And the next thing he knew, here he was lying among the weeds in the vacant lot. But how did he get back here? He didn't even know the road back. And his clothes had no blood on them at all. Seeing Mimi and Goma beside him proved it wasn't a dream, but for some strange reason now he couldn't understand a word they said.
Nakata sighed. He couldn't think straight. But never mind—he'd figure it all out later. He slung the bag over his shoulder, picked up the two cats, and left the vacant lot.
Once outside the fence, Mimi started to squirm as if she wanted to be let down.
Nakata lowered her to the ground. "Mimi, you can go back home on your own, I imagine. It's nearby."
That's right, Mimi's wagging tail seemed to say.
"Nakata doesn't understand what's happened, but for some reason I can't talk with you anymore. But I was able to find Goma, and I'd better take her back to the Koizumis.
Everyone's waiting for her. Thank you so much for everything, Mimi."
Mimi meowed, wagged her tail again, then scurried off and disappeared around the corner. There was no blood on her, either. Nakata decided to remember that.
The Koizumis were overjoyed by Goma's return. It was past ten p. m. but the children were still up, brushing their teeth before bed. Their parents were drinking tea and watching the news on TV, and they welcomed Nakata warmly. The two little girls, in pajamas, jostled each other to be the first to hug their precious pet. They quickly gave Goma some milk and cat food, which she eagerly tucked into.
"My apologies for stopping by so late at night. It would be much better to come earlier, but Nakata couldn't help it."
"That's all right," Mrs. Koizumi said. "Please don't worry about it."
"Don't worry about the time," her husband said. "That cat is like a member of the family. I can't tell you how happy we are you could find her. How about coming in and having a cup of tea?"
"No thank you, Nakata must be going. I just wanted to get Goma back to you as soon as possible."
Mrs. Koizumi went to another room and returned with Nakata's pay in an envelope, which her husband handed to Nakata. "It's not much, but please accept this token for all you've done. We're very grateful."
"Thank you very much. Much obliged," Nakata said, and bowed.
"I'm surprised, though, you could find her in the dark like this."
"Yes, it's a long story. Nakata can't tell the whole thing. I'm not too bright, and not so good at giving long explanations."
"That's quite all right. We are so grateful to you, Mr. Nakata," Mrs. Koizumi said.
"I'm sorry it's just leftovers, but we have some grilled eggplant and vinegared cucumbers we'd like you to take home with you."
"I'd be happy to. Grilled eggplant and vinegared cucumbers are some of Nakata's favorites."
Nakata stowed the Tupperware container of food and the envelope in his bag. He walked quickly toward the station and went to a police box near the shopping district. A young officer was seated at a desk inside, intently working on some paperwork. His hat was on top of the desk.
Nakata slid the glass door open. "Good evening. Sorry to bother you," he said.
"Good evening," the policeman replied. He looked up from the paperwork and gave Nakata a once-over. Basically a nice, harmless old man, was his professional assessment, most likely stopping by to ask directions.
Standing at the entrance, Nakata removed his hat and stuffed it in his pocket, then took a handkerchief from the other pocket and blew his nose. He folded up the handkerchief and put it back.
"Is there something I can do for you?" the policeman asked.
"Yes, there is. Nakata just murdered somebody."
The policeman dropped his pen on the desk and stared openmouthed at the old man. For a moment he was speechless. What the—?
"Here, why don't you sit down," he said dubiously, pointing to a chair opposite him. He reached out and checked that he had his pistol, baton, and handcuffs on him.
"Thank you," Nakata said, and sat down. Back held straight, hands resting in his lap, he looked straight at the officer.
"So what you're saying is... you killed somebody?"
"Yes. Nakata killed a person with a knife. Just a little while ago," Nakata admitted frankly.
The young officer took out a form, glanced at the clock on the wall, and noted down the time and the statement about a knifing. "I'll need your name and address."
"My name is Satoru Nakata, and my address is—"
"Just a moment. What characters do you write your name with?"
"I don't know about characters. I'm sorry, but I can't write. Or read, either."
The officer frowned. "You're telling me you can't read at all? You can't even write your name?"
"That's right. Until I was nine I could read and write, but then there was an accident and after that I can't. Nakata's not too bright."
The officer sighed and laid down his pen. "I can't fill out the form if I don't know how your name is written."
"I apologize."
"Do you have any family?"
"Nakata's all alone. I have no family. And no job. I live on a sub city from the Governor."
"It's pretty late, and I suggest you go on home. Go home and get a good night's sleep, and then tomorrow if you remember something come and see me again. We can talk then."
The policeman was nearing the end of his shift and wanted to finish up all his paperwork before he went off duty. He'd promised to meet a fellow officer for a drink at a nearby bar when he got off, so the last thing he wanted to do was waste time talking to some crazy old coot.
But Nakata gave him a harsh look and shook his head. "No, sir, Nakata wants to tell everything while he still remembers it. If I wait until tomorrow I might forget something important. Nakata was in the empty lot in the 2-chome section. The Koizumis had asked me to find their missing cat, Goma. Then a huge black dog suddenly appeared and took me to a house. A big house with a big gate and a black car. I don't know the address. I've never been to that part of town before. But I'm pretty sure it's in Nakano Ward. Inside the house was a man named Johnnie Walker who had on a funny kind of black hat. A very high sort of hat. Inside the refrigerator in the kitchen there were rows of cats' heads. About twenty or so, I'd say. He collects cats, cuts off their heads with a saw, and eats their hearts. He's collecting the cats' souls to make a special kind of flute.
And then he's going to use that flute to collect people's souls. Right in front of Nakata, Johnnie Walker killed Mr. Kawamura with a knife. And several other cats. He cut open their stomachs with a knife. He was going to kill Goma and Mimi, too. But then Nakata used a knife to kill Johnnie Walker.
"Johnnie Walker said he wanted Nakata to kill him. But I didn't plan to kill him.
/> I've never killed anybody before. I just wanted to stop Johnnie Walker from killing any more cats. But my body wouldn't listen. It did what it wanted. I picked up one of the knives there and stabbed Johnnie Walker two times. Johnnie Walker fell down, all covered with blood, and died. Nakata got all bloody then, too. I sat down over on the sofa and must have fallen asleep. When I woke up it was the middle of the night and I was back in the empty lot. Mimi and Goma were beside me. That was just a little while ago. Nakata took Goma back, got some grilled eggplant and vinegared cucumbers from Mrs. Koizumi, and came directly here. And I thought I'd better report to the Governor right away. Tell him what happened."
Nakata sat up straight through this whole recitation, and when he'd finished he took a deep breath. He'd never spoken this much in one spurt in his life. He felt completely drained. "So please report this to the Governor," he added.
The young policeman had listened to the entire story with a vacant look, and didn't understand much of what the old man was getting at. Goma? Johnnie Walker? "I understand," he replied. "I'll make sure the Governor hears of this."
"I hope he doesn't cut off my sub city."
Looking displeased, the policeman pretended to fill out a form. "I understand. I'll write it down just like that: The person in question desires that his subsidy not be cut off. Is that all right then?"