Geniuses like that don't have it easy, Hoshino thought, impressed, and laid down his book. He remembered the bronze bust of a scowling Beethoven in the music room of his school, but until now he'd had no idea of the hardships the man had endured. No wonder the guy looked so sour. I'm never gonna be a genius, that's for sure, Hoshino thought.
He looked over at Nakata, who was deep into a photo collection of traditional folk furniture, and working an imaginary chisel and plane. These photos must've made him unconsciously feel like he was back at his old job. And Nakata—who knows? He might become a great person someday, Hoshino thought. Most people can't do the kinds of things he does. The old codger's definitely in a class all his own.
After twelve, two other readers, middle-aged women, came into the reading room, so Hoshino and Nakata used the opportunity to take a breather outside. Hoshino had brought some bread along for their lunch, while Nakata was lugging around his usual thermos of hot tea. Hoshino first asked Oshima at the counter whether it was all right to eat on the library grounds.
"Of course," Oshima replied. "It's nice to sit on the veranda overlooking the garden. Afterward, feel free to come in for a cup of coffee. I've already made some, so help yourself."
"Thanks," Hoshino said. "This is quite a homey place you have here."
Oshima smiled and brushed back his hair. "It is a little different from your normal library. Homey is a good way to describe it. What we're trying to create is sort of an intimate space where people can relax and enjoy reading."
Hoshino found Oshima an appealing young man. Intelligent, well groomed, obviously from a good family. And quite kind. He's got to be gay, right? Not that Hoshino cared. To each his own, was his thinking. Some men talk with stones, and some sleep with other men. Go figure.
After lunch, Hoshino stood up, stretched his whole body, then went back to the reception area to take Oshima up on his offer of a cup of coffee. Since Nakata didn't drink coffee, he stayed on the veranda sipping his tea and gazing at the birds flitting around the garden.
"So, did you find anything interesting to read?" Oshima asked Hoshino.
"Yeah, I've been reading a biography of Beethoven," Hoshino replied. "I like it.
His life really gives you a lot to think about."
Oshima nodded. "He went through a lot—to put it mildly."
"He did have a tough time," Hoshino said, "but I think it was mainly his fault. I mean, he was so self-centered and uncooperative. All he thought about was himself and his music, and he didn't mind sacrificing whatever he had to for it. He must've been tough to get along with. Hey, Ludwig, gimme a break! That's what I would have said if I knew him. No wonder his nephew went off his rocker. But I have to admit his music is wonderful. It really gets to you. It's a strange thing."
"Absolutely," Oshima agreed.
"But why did he have to live such a hard, wild life? He would've been better off with a more normal type of life."
Oshima twirled the pencil around in his fingers. "I see your point, but by Beethoven's time people thought it was important to express the ego. Earlier, when there was an absolute monarchy, this would've been considered improper, socially deviant behavior and suppressed quite severely. Once the bourgeoisie came to power in the nineteenth century, however, that suppression came to an end and the individual ego was liberated to express itself. Freedom and the emancipation of the ego were synonymous. And art, music in particular, was at the forefront of all this. Those who came after Beethoven and lived under his shadow, so to speak—Berlioz, Wagner, Liszt, Schumann—all lived eccentric, stormy lives. Eccentricity was seen as almost the ideal lifestyle. The age of Romanticism, they called it. Though I'm sure living like that was pretty hard on them at times. So, you like Beethoven's music?"
"I can't really say if I do or not. I haven't heard that much," Hoshino admitted.
"Hardly any at all, actually. I just kind of like that piece called the Archduke Trio."
"That is nice, yes."
"The Million-Dollar Trio's great," Hoshino added.
"I prefer the Czech group, the Suk Trio, myself," Oshima said. "They have a beautiful balance. You feel like you can smell the wind wafting over a green meadow.
But I do know the Million-Dollar Trio version—Rubinstein, Heifetz, and Feuermann. It's an elegant performance."
"Um, Mr.—Oshima?" Hoshino asked, looking at the nameplate on the counter.
"You know a lot about music, I can tell."
Oshima smiled. "Not a lot. I just enjoy listening to it."
"Do you think music has the power to change people? Like you listen to a piece and go through some major change inside?"
Oshima nodded. "Sure, that can happen. We have an experience—like a chemical reaction—that transforms something inside us. When we examine ourselves later on, we discover that all the standards we've lived by have shot up another notch and the world's opened up in unexpected ways. Yes, I've had that experience. Not often, but it has happened. It's like falling in love."
Hoshino had never fallen head over heels in love himself, but he went ahead and nodded anyway. "That's gotta be a very important thing, right?" he said. "For our lives?"
"It is," Oshima answered. "Without those peak experiences our lives would be pretty dull and flat. Berlioz put it this way: A life without once reading Hamlet is like a life spent in a coal mine."
"A coal mine?"
"Just typical nineteenth-century hyperbole."
"Well, thanks for the coffee," Hoshino said. "I'm happy we could talk."
Oshima gave him a big grin in reply.
Hoshino and Nakata read books until two, Nakata going through his carpenter's motions as he leafed through the collection of furniture photographs. Besides the middle-aged ladies, three other readers had joined them after lunch. But only Hoshino and Nakata asked to join the tour of the library.
"You don't mind if it's just the two of us?" Hoshino asked. "I feel bad you have to go to all this trouble just for us."
"No trouble at all," Oshima said. "The head librarian is happy to conduct the tour, even for one person."
At two on the dot a good-looking middle-aged woman came down the stairs.
Back held straight, she had an impressive walk. She wore a dark blue suit with severe lines, black high heels, a thin silver necklace at her wide, open neckline, her hair gathered in the back. Nothing extraneous, altogether a highly refined, tasteful look.
"Hello. My name is Miss Saeki. I'm the head librarian here," the woman said, and smiled calmly.
"I'm Hoshino."
"I'm Nakata, and I'm from Nakano," the old man said, hiking hat in hand.
"We're glad you've come to visit us from so far away," Miss Saeki said.
A chill ran down Hoshino's spine at Nakata's words, but Miss Saeki didn't look suspicious.
Nakata was typically oblivious."Yes, I crossed over a very big bridge," he said.
"This is a wonderful building," Hoshino interjected, trying to cut off any talk of bridges.
"The building was built in the early Meiji period as the library and guesthouse of the Komura family," Miss Saeki began. "Many literati visited and lodged here. It's been designated a historical site by the city."
"Litter oddy?" Nakata asked.
Miss Saeki smiled. "Artists—poets, novelists, and so forth. In the past men of property in various localities helped support artists. Art was different back then, and wasn't viewed as something one should make a living at. The Komuras were men of property in this region who sponsored culture and the arts. This library was built, and is operated, to pass down that legacy to future generations."
"Man of property—Nakata knows what that means," Nakata said. "It takes a long time to become one."
Smiling, Miss Saeki nodded. "You're quite right, it does. No matter how much money you accumulate, you can't buy time. Well, we'll begin our tour on the second floor."
They toured the rooms upstairs one by one. Miss Saeki gave her usual talk about the various li
terati who had stayed there, and showed the two men the calligraphy and paintings these artists had left behind. During the tour Nakata seemed to turn a deaf ear to what she was saying, instead curiously examining each and every item. In the study Miss Saeki used as her office, a fountain pen was sitting on the desk. It was up to Hoshino to follow along and make all the appropriate noises. All the while he was on pins and needles, worried the old man would suddenly do something bizarre. But all Nakata did was continue to scrutinize the items they passed by. Miss Saeki didn't seem to care what Nakata did. Smiling all the while, she briskly showed them around.
Hoshino was impressed by how calm and collected she was.
The tour ended in twenty minutes, and the two men thanked their guide. Miss Saeki's smile never failed the entire time. The more Hoshino watched her, though, the more confused he grew. She smiles and looks at us, he told himself, but she doesn't see anything. She's looking at us, but she's seeing something else. Though all the time she was giving the tour, even if her mind was elsewhere, she was perfectly polite and kind.
Whenever he asked a question, she gave a kind, easy-to-follow response. It's not like she's doing this against her will or anything. A part of her enjoys doing a meticulous job.
But her heart isn't in it.
The two men returned to the reading room and settled down on the sofa with their books. But as he turned the pages, Hoshino couldn't get Miss Saeki out of his mind.
There was something very unusual about that beautiful woman, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He gave up and went back to reading.
At three o'clock, totally without warning, Nakata stood up. His movements were uncharacteristically decisive. He held his hat firmly in his hand.
"Hey, what's up? Where are you going?" Hoshino whispered.
But there was no response. Lips set in a determined look, Nakata was already hurrying toward the main entrance, his belongings left behind on the floor.
Hoshino shut his book and stood up. Something was definitely wrong. "Hey, wait up!" he called. Realizing the old man wasn't about to, he scrambled after him. The other readers looked up and watched him leave.
Before he got to the entrance, Nakata turned left and without hesitating started up to the second floor. A NO VISITORS ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT sign at the foot of the stairs didn't deter him, since he couldn't read. His worn tennis shoes squeaked on the floorboards as he climbed up the stairs.
"Excuse me," Oshima said, leaning over the counter to call out to the retreating figure. "That area is closed now."
Nakata didn't seem to hear him.
Hoshino ran up the stairs after him. "Gramps. It's closed. You can't go there."
Oshima came out from behind the counter and followed them up the stairs.
Undaunted, Nakata strode down the corridor and into the study. The door was open. Miss Saeki, her back to the window, was sitting at the desk reading a book. She heard the footsteps and looked up. When he got to the desk, Nakata stood there looking down at her face. Neither one of them said a word. A moment later Hoshino arrived, soon followed by Oshima.
"There you are," Hoshino said, tapping the old man on the shoulder. "You're not supposed to be here. It's off-limits. We have to leave, okay?"
"Nakata has something to say," Nakata said to Miss Saeki.
"And what would that be?" Miss Saeki asked quietly.
"I want to talk about the stone. The entrance stone."
For a while Miss Saeki silently studied the old man's face. Her eyes shone with a noncommittal light. She blinked a few times, then silently closed her book. She rested both hands on the desk and looked up again at Nakata. She looked undecided about how to proceed, but then gave a small nod.
She looked over at Hoshino, then at Oshima. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a while?" she said to Oshima. "We're going to have a talk. Please close the door on your way out."
Oshima hesitated, then nodded. He gently took Hoshino's arm, led him out to the corridor, and shut the door.
"Are you sure it's okay?" Hoshino asked.
"Miss Saeki knows what she's doing," Oshima said as he escorted Hoshino back down the stairs. "If she says it's all right, it's all right. No need to worry about her. So, Mr. Hoshino, why don't we go have a cup of coffee while we're waiting?"
"Well, when it comes to Mr. Nakata, worrying's a total waste of time," Hoshino said, shaking his head. "That I can guarantee."
Chapter 41
When I go into the woods this time I've outfitted myself with everything I might need: compass, knife, canteen, some emergency food, work gloves, a can of yellow spray paint, and the small hatchet I'd used before. I stuff all this into a small nylon daypack that was also in the tool shed, and head off into the forest. I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt, a towel wrapped around my neck, and the cap Oshima gave me, and I've sprayed insect repellent over all the exposed parts of my body. The sky's overcast, and it's hot and sticky like it could rain any minute, so I throw a poncho into the pack just in case. A flock of birds screech at each other as they cut across the low, leaden sky.
I make it easily to that round clearing in the forest. Checking my compass to make sure I'm generally heading north, I step deeper into the woods. This time I spray yellow markings on tree trunks to mark the route. Unlike Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs, spray paint's safe from hungry birds.
I'm better prepared, so I'm not as afraid. I'm nervous, sure, but my heart's not pounding. Curiosity's what's leading me on. I want to know what lies down this path.
Even if there's nothing there, I want to know that. I have to know. Memorizing the scenery as I pass by, I move steadily forward, step by careful step.
Occasionally there's some weird sound. A thud like something hitting the ground, a creak like floorboards groaning under weight, and others I can't even describe. I have no idea what these mean, since there's no knowing what they are. Sometimes they sound far away, sometimes right near by—the sense of distance expanding and contracting.
Bird wings echo above me, sounding louder, more exaggerated, than they should. Every time I hear this I stop and listen intently, holding my breath, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does, and I walk on.
Besides these sudden, unexpected sounds, everything else is still. There's no wind, no rustle of leaves in the treetops, just my own footsteps as I push through the brush.
When I step on a fallen branch, the snap reverberates through the air.
I grasp the hatchet, which I'd sharpened, and it feels rough in my gloveless hands.
Up to this point it hasn't come in handy, but its heft is comforting, and makes me feel protected. But from what? There aren't any bears or wolves in this forest. A few poisonous snakes, perhaps. The most dangerous creature here would have to be me. So maybe I'm just scared of my own shadow.
Still, as I walk along I get the feeling something, somewhere, is watching me, listening to me, holding its breath, blending into the background, watching my every move. Somewhere far off, something's listening to all the sounds I make, trying to guess where I'm headed and why. I try not to think about it. The more you think about illusions, the more they'll swell up and take on form. And no longer be an illusion.
I try whistling to fill in the silence. The soprano sax from Coltrane's "My Favorite Things," though of course my dubious whistling doesn't come anywhere near the complex, lightning-quick original. I just add bits so what I hear in my head approximates the sound. Better than nothing, I figure. I glance at my watch—it's ten-thirty. Oshima must be getting the library ready to open. Today would be... Wednesday.
I picture him sprinkling water in the garden, wiping off the desks with a cloth, boiling water and brewing up some coffee. All the tasks I normally take care of. But now I'm here, deep in the forest, heading even deeper. Nobody has any idea I'm here. The only ones who do are me, and them.
I continue down the path. Calling it a path, though, isn't quite right. It's more like some natural kind of channel that water's car
ved out over time. When there's a downpour in the forest, rushing water gouges out the dirt, sweeping the grasses before it, exposing the roots of trees. When it hits a boulder it makes a detour around it. Once the rain lets up you're left with a dry riverbed that's something like a path. This pseudo-path is covered with ferns and green grass, and if you don't pay attention you'll lose it entirely.
It gets steep every once in a while, and I scramble up by grabbing hold of tree trunks.
Somewhere along the line Coltrane's soprano sax runs out of steam. Now it's McCoy Tyner's piano solo I hear, the left hand carving out a repetitious rhythm and the right layering on thick, forbidding chords. Like some mythic scene, the music portrays somebody's—a nameless, faceless somebody's—dim past, all the details laid out as clearly as entrails being dragged out of the darkness. Or at least that's how it sounds to me. The patient, repeating music ever so slowly breaks apart the real, rearranging the pieces. It has a hypnotic, menacing smell, just like the forest.
I hike along, spraying marks on the trees as I go, sometimes turning to make sure these yellow marks are still visible. It's okay—the marks that lead me home are like an uneven line of buoys in the sea. Just to be doubly sure, every once in a while I hack out a notch in a tree trunk. My little hatchet isn't very sharp, so I pick out the thinner, softer-looking trunks to hack. The trees receive these blows in silence.