"Can't you wait till evening? I can drive you to the station after we close up."
I consider this, then shake my head. "Thanks. But I think it's best if I leave right away."
Oshima nods. He goes into a back room and brings out the neatly wrapped painting. He also puts a single copy of the record "Kafka on the Shore" in a bag and hands it to me. "A little present from me."
"Thanks," I say. "Is it okay if I go up and see Miss Saeki's room one more time?"
"Go right ahead."
"Would you come with me?"
"Of course."
We go upstairs to her room. I stand in front of her desk, lightly touch its surface, and think over all the things it has absorbed. I picture her slumped facedown on the desk.
How she always sat there, the window behind her, busily writing away. How I brought her coffee, when she'd glance up as I opened the door and came inside. How she always smiled at me.
"What was it she was writing here?" I ask.
"I don't know," Oshima replies. "One thing I do know for sure is she took a lot of secrets with her when she left this world."
A lot of theories as well, I silently think.
The window's open, the June breeze gently rustling the hem of the white lace curtains. A faint scent of the sea is in the air. I remember feeling the sand in my hand at the beach. I walk away from the desk and over to Oshima, and hold him tight. His slim body calls up all sorts of nostalgic memories.
He gently rubs my hair. "The world is a metaphor, Kafka Tamura," he says into my ear. "But for you and me this library alone is no metaphor. It's always just this library. I want to make sure we understand that."
"Of course," I say.
"It's a unique, special library. And nothing else can ever take its place."
I nod.
"Good-bye, Kafka," Oshima says.
"Good-bye, Oshima," I say. "You know, you look good in that necktie."
He lets go of me, looks me in the face, and smiles. "I've been waiting for you to say that."
Shouldering my backpack, I walk to the local station and take the train back to Takamatsu Station. I buy a ticket to Tokyo at the counter. The train will get in to Tokyo late at night, so the first thing I'll have to do is find a place to stay for the night, then head over to my house in Nogata the next day. I'll be all alone in that huge, vacant house.
Nobody's waiting for me to come home. But I have no other place to go back to.
I use a public phone at the station and call Sakura's cell phone. She's in the middle of work but says she can spare a couple minutes. That's fine, I tell her.
"I'm going back to Tokyo now," I tell her. "I'm at Takamatsu Station. I just wanted to tell you."
"You're finished running away from home?"
"I guess so."
"Fifteen's a little early to run away, anyway," she says. "But what are you going to do back in Tokyo?"
"Go back to school."
"That's probably a good idea," she says.
"You're going back to Tokyo too, aren't you?"
"Yeah, probably in September. I might go on a trip somewhere in the summer."
"Can I see you in Tokyo?"
"Yeah, of course," she says. "Can you tell me your number?"
I give her the number at my house, and she writes it down.
"I had a dream about you the other day," she says.
"I had one about you too."
"A pretty raunchy one, I bet?"
"Could be," I admit. "But it was just a dream. What about yours?"
"Mine wasn't raunchy. You were in this huge house that was like a maze, walking around, searching for some special room, but you couldn't find it. There was somebody else in the house, looking for you. I tried to yell a warning, but you couldn't hear me. A pretty scary dream. When I woke up I was exhausted from all that yelling. I've been worried about you ever since."
"I appreciate it," I say. "But that's just a dream too."
"Nothing bad happened to you?"
"No, nothing bad." No, nothing bad, I tell myself.
"Good-bye, Kafka," she says. "I have to get back to work, but if you ever want to talk, just call me, okay?"
"Good-bye," I say. "Sister," I add.
Over the bridge and across the water we go, and I transfer to the bullet train at Okayama Station. I sink back in my seat and close my eyes. My body gradually adjusts to the train's vibration. The tightly wrapped painting of Kafka on the Shore is at my feet.
I can feel it there.
"I want you to remember me," Miss Saeki says, and looks right into my eyes.
"If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets."
Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, trying to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won't be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there—to the edge of the world. There's something you can't do unless you get there.
It starts to rain just after we pass Nagoya. I stare at the drops streaking the dark window. It was raining the day I left Tokyo, too. I picture rain falling in all sorts of places—in a forest, on the sea, a highway, a library. Rain falling at the edge of the world.
I close my eyes and relax, letting my tense muscles go loose. I listen to the steady hum of the train. And then, without warning, a warm tear spills from my eye, runs down my cheek to my mouth, and, after a while, dries up. No matter, I tell myself. It's just one tear. It doesn't even feel like it's mine, more like part of the rain outside.
Did I do the right thing?
"You did the right thing," the boy named Crow says. "You did what was best. No one else could have done as well as you did. After all, you're the genuine article: the toughest fifteen-year-old in the world."
"But I still don't know anything about life," I protest.
"Look at the painting," he says. "And listen to the wind."
I nod.
"I know you can do it."
I nod again.
"You'd better get some sleep," the boy named Crow says. "When you wake up, you'll be part of a brand-new world."
You finally fall asleep. And when you wake up, it's true.
You are part of a brand-new world.
* * * * *
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
(Series: # )
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