Kafka on the Shore

Chapter 19

It's Monday and the library's closed. The library is quiet enough most of the time, but on a day like this when it's closed it's like the land that time forgot. Or more like a place that's holding its breath, hoping time won't stumble upon it.

Down the corridor from the reading room, past a STAFF ONLY sign, there's a sink area where you can make coffee or tea, and there's a microwave oven, too. Just past this is the door to the guest room, which includes a barebones bathroom and closet. Next to the single bed is a nightstand outfitted with a reading lamp and alarm clock. There's also a little writing desk with a lamp on it. Plus an old-fashioned set of chairs, covered in white cloth, for receiving guests, and a chest for clothes. On top of a small, bachelor-size refrigerator are some dishes and a small shelf for stowing them away. If you feel like making a simple meal, the sink area's right outside. The bathroom's outfitted with a shower, soap and shampoo, a hair dryer, and towels. Everything you need for a comfortable short stay. Through a west-facing window you can see the trees in the garden. It's getting close to evening, and the sinking sun glints past the cedar branches.

"I've stayed here a couple of times when it was too much trouble to go home," Oshima says. "But nobody else uses the room. As far as I know, Miss Saeki never uses it. It's not going to put anybody out, your staying here, is what I'm trying to say."

I set my backpack on the floor and look around my new lodgings.

"There's a clean set of sheets, and enough in the fridge to tide you over. Milk, some fruit, vegetables, butter, ham, cheese… Not enough for a decent meal, but enough for a sandwich or salad at least. If you want something more, I suggest takeout, or going out to eat. For laundry you'll have to make do with rinsing things out in the bathroom, I'm afraid. Let's see, have I forgotten anything?"

"Where does Miss Saeki usually work?"

Oshima points to the ceiling. "You remember that room on the second floor you saw on the tour? She's always there, writing. If I have to go out for a while she sometimes comes downstairs and takes over at the counter. But unless she's got something to do on the first floor, that's where you'll find her."

I nod.

"I'll be here tomorrow before ten to run through what your job involves. Until then, just relax and take it easy."

"Thanks for everything," I tell him.

"My pleasure," he replies.

After he leaves I unload my backpack. Arrange my meager assortment of clothes in the dresser, hang up my shirts and jacket, line up my notebook and pens on the desk, put my toiletries in the bathroom, and finally stow the pack itself in the closet.

The room doesn't have any decorations at all, except for a small oil painting, a realistic portrait of a young boy by the shore. Not bad, I decide-maybe done by somebody famous? The boy looks about twelve or so, and he's wearing a white sunhat and sitting on a small deck chair. His elbow's on one of the arms of the chair, his chin resting in his hand. He looks a little sad, but kind of pleased, too. A black German shepherd sits next to the boy, like he's guarding him. In the background is the sea and a couple of other people, but they're too far away to make out their faces. A small island's visible, and a few fist-shaped clouds float over the water. Most definitely a summer scene. I sit down at the desk and gaze at the painting for a while. I start to feel like I can hear the crash of waves, the salty smell of the sea.

The boy in the painting might be the boy who used to live in this room, the young man Miss Saeki loved. The one who got caught up in the student movement clashes and was pointlessly beaten to death. There's no saying for sure, but I'm betting that's who it is. The scenery looks a lot like what you see around here, for one thing. If that's the case, then it must be from about forty years ago-an eternity to somebody like me. I try imagining myself in forty years, but it's like trying to picture what lies beyond the universe.

The next morning Oshima arrives and shows me what I'm supposed to do to get the library ready to open. First I have to unlock and open the windows to air out the rooms, make a quick pass with the vacuum cleaner, wipe the desktops, change the flowers in the vases, turn on the lights, occasionally sprinkle water in the garden to keep down the dust, and, when the time comes, open the door. At closing time it's the same procedure in reverse-lock the windows, wipe the desktops again, turn off the lights, and close the front door.

"There's not much for anybody to steal here, so maybe we don't need to be so worried about always locking the door," Oshima tells me. "But Miss Saeki and I don't like things done sloppily. So we try to do things by the book. This is our house, so we treat it with respect. And I hope you'll do the same."

I nod.

Next he shows me what to do at the reception desk, how to help out people coming to use the library.

"For the time being you should just sit next to me and watch what I do. It's not all that hard. If something ever comes up you can't handle, just go upstairs and ask Miss Saeki. She'll take care of it."

Miss Saeki shows up just before eleven. Her Volkswagen Golf makes a distinctive roar as it pulls up, and I can tell right away it's her. She parks, comes in through the back door, and greets the two of us. "Morning," she says. "Good morning," we answer back. That's the extent of our conversation. Miss Saeki has on a navy blue short-sleeved dress, a cotton coat in her arms, a shoulder bag. Nothing you could call an accessory, and hardly a hint of makeup. Still, there's something about her that's dazzling. She glances at me standing next to Oshima and looks for a moment like she wants to say something, but doesn't. She merely beams a slight smile in my direction and walks up to her office on the second floor.

"Not to worry," Oshima assures me. "She has no problem with your being here. She just doesn't go in for a lot of small talk, that's all."

At eleven Oshima and I open up the main door, but nobody comes for a while. During the interval he shows me how to use the computers to search for books. They're typical library PCs I'm already familiar with. Next he shows me how to arrange all the catalog cards. Every day the library receives copies of newly published books, and one of the other tasks is to log in these new arrivals by hand.

Around eleven-thirty two women come in together, wearing identical jeans. The shorter of the two has cropped hair like a swimmer, while the taller woman wears her hair pulled back. Both of them have on jogging shoes, one a pair of Nikes, the other Asics. The tall one looks around forty or so, with glasses and a checked shirt, the shorter woman, a decade younger, is wearing a white blouse. Both have little daypacks on, and expressions as gloomy as a cloudy day. Neither one says very much. Oshima relieves them of their packs at the entrance, and the women, looking displeased, extract notebooks and pens before leaving them.

The women go through the library, checking the stacks one by one, earnestly flipping through the card catalog, occasionally taking notes. They don't read anything or sit down. They act less like people using a library than inspectors from the tax office checking a company's inventory. Oshima and I can't figure out who they are or what they could possibly be up to. He gives me a significant look and shrugs. To put it mildly, I don't have a good feeling about this.

At noon, while Oshima goes out to the garden to eat his lunch, I fill in for him behind the counter.

"Excuse me, but I have a question," one of the women comes over and says. The tall one. Her tone of voice is hard and unyielding, like a loaf of bread someone forgot on the back of a shelf.

"Yes, what can I do for you?"

She frowns and looks at me like I'm some off-kilter picture frame. "Aren't you a high school student?"

"Yes, that's right. I'm a trainee," I answer.

"Is there one of your superiors I could talk to?"

I go out to the garden to get Oshima. He slowly takes a sip of coffee to dissolve the bite of food in his mouth, brushes the crumbs from his lap, and comes inside.

"Yes, may I help you?" Oshima asks her amiably.

"Just to let you know, we're investigating public cultural facilities in the entire country from a woman's point of view, looking at ease of use, fair access, and other issues," she says. "Our group is doing a yearlong investigation and plans to publish a public report on our findings. A large number of women are involved in this project, and the two of us happen to be in charge of this region."

"If you don't mind," Oshima says, "would you tell me the name of this organization?"

The woman whips out a business card and passes it to him.

His expression unchanged, Oshima reads it carefully, places it on the counter, then looks up with a blazing smile and gazes intently at the woman. A first-class smile guaranteed to make any red-blooded woman blush.

This woman, strangely enough, doesn't react, not even a twitch of an eyebrow. "What we've concluded is that, unfortunately, this library has several issues that need to be addressed."

"From the viewpoint of women, is what you're saying," Oshima commented.

"Correct, from the viewpoint of women," the woman answers. She clears her throat. "And we'd like to bring this up with your administration and hear their response, so if you don't mind?"

"We don't have something as fancy as an administration, but I would be happy to listen to you."

"Well, first of all you have no restroom set aside for women. That's correct, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's right. There's no women's restroom in this library. We have one restroom for both men and women."

"Even if you are a private facility, since you're open to the public don't you think-in principle-that you should provide separate restrooms for men and women?"

"In principle?" Oshima says.

"Correct. Shared facilities give rise to all sorts of harassment. According to our survey, the majority of women are reluctant to use shared bathrooms. This is a clear case of neglect of your female patrons."

"Neglect…," Oshima says, and makes a face like he's swallowed something bitter by mistake. He doesn't much like the sound of the word, it would seem.

"An intentional oversight."

"Intentional oversight," he repeats, and gives some thought to this clumsy phrase.

"So what is your reaction to all this?" the woman asks, barely containing her irritation.

"As you can see," Oshima says, "we're a very small library. And unfortunately we don't have the space for separate restrooms. Naturally it would be better to have separate facilities, but none of our patrons have ever complained. For better or for worse, our library doesn't get very crowded. If you'd like to pursue this issue of separate restrooms further, I suggest you go to the Boeing headquarters in Seattle and address the issue of restrooms on 747s. A 747's much bigger than our little library, and much more crowded. As far as I'm aware, all restrooms on passenger jets are shared by men and women."

The tall woman frowns at him severely, her cheekbones jutting forward and her glasses riding up her nose. "We are not investigating airplanes.747s are beside the point."

"Wouldn't restrooms in both jets and in our library-in principle-give rise to the same sorts of problems?"

"We are investigating, one by one, public facilities. We're not here to argue over principles."

Oshima's supple smile never fades during this exchange. "Is that so? I could have sworn that principles were exactly what we were discussing."

The woman realizes she's blown it. She blushes a bit, though not because of Oshima's sex appeal. She tries a different tack. "At any rate, jumbo jets are irrelevant here. Don't try to confuse the issue."

"Understood. No more airplanes," Oshima promises. "We'll bring things down to earth."

The woman glares at him and, after taking a breath, forges on. "One other issue I'd like to raise is how you have authors here separated by sex."

"Yes, that's right. The person who was in charge before us cataloged these and for whatever reason divided them into male and female. We were thinking of recataloging all of them, but haven't been able to as of yet."

"We're not criticizing you for this," she says.

Oshima tilts his head slightly.

"The problem, though, is that in all categories male authors are listed before female authors," she says. "To our way of thinking this violates the principle of sexual equality and is totally unfair."

Oshima picks up her business card again, runs his eyes over it, then lays it back down on the counter. "Ms. Soga," he begins, "when they called the role in school your name would have come before Ms. Tanaka, and after Ms. Sekine. Did you file a complaint about that? Did you object, asking them to reverse the order? Does G get angry because it follows F in the alphabet? Does page 68 in a book start a revolution just because it follows 67?"

"That's not the point," she says angrily. "You're intentionally trying to confuse the issue."

Hearing this, the shorter woman, who'd been standing in front of a stack taking notes, races over.

"Intentionally trying to confuse the issue," Oshima repeats, like he's underlining the woman's words.

"Are you denying it?"

"That's a red herring," Oshima replies.

The woman named Soga stands there, mouth slightly ajar, not saying a word.

"In English there's this expression red herring. Something that's very interesting but leads you astray from the main topic. I'm afraid I haven't looked into why they use that kind of expression, though."

"Herrings or mackerel or whatever, you're dodging the issue."

"Actually what I'm doing is shifting the analogy," Oshima says. "One of the most effective methods of argument, according to Aristotle. The citizens of ancient Athens enjoyed using this kind of intellectual trick very much. It's a shame, though, that at the time women weren't included in the definition of 'citizen.'"

"Are you making fun of us?"

Oshima shakes his head. "Look, what I'm trying to get across is this: I'm sure there are many more effective ways of making sure that Japanese women's rights are guaranteed than sniffing around a small library in a little town and complaining about the restrooms and the card catalog. We're doing our level best to see that this modest library of ours helps the community. We've assembled an outstanding collection for people who love books. And we do our utmost to put a human face on all our dealings with the public. You might not be aware of it, but this library's collection of poetry-related material from the 1910s to the mid-Showa period is nationally recognized. Of course there are things we could do better, and limits to what we can accomplish. But rest assured we're doing our very best. I think it'd be a whole lot better if you focus on what we do well than what we're unable to do. Isn't that what you call fair?"

The tall woman looks at the short one, who looks back up at her and opens her mouth for the first time. "You've just been evading the point, mouthing empty arguments that avoid taking responsibility," she says in a really high-pitched voice. "In reality, to use the term for the sake of convenience, what you're doing is an easygoing attempt at self-justification. You are a totally pathetic, historical example of the phallocentric, to put it mildly."

"A pathetic, historical example," Oshima repeats, obviously impressed. By his tone of voice he seems to like the sound of that phrase.

"In other words you're a typical sexist, patriarchic male," the tall one pipes in, unable to conceal her irritation.

"A patriarchic male," Oshima again repeats.

The short one ignores this and goes on. "You're employing the status quo and the cheap phallocentric logic that supports it to reduce the entire female gender to second-class citizens, to limit and deprive women of the rights they're due. You're doing this unconsciously rather than deliberately, but that makes you even guiltier. You protect vested male interests and become inured to the pain of others, and don't even try to see what evil your blindness causes women and society. I realize that problems with restrooms and card catalogs are mere details, but if we don't begin with the small things we'll never be able to throw off the cloak of blindness that covers our society. Those are the principles by which we act."

"That's the way every sensible woman feels," the tall one adds, her face expressionless.

"How could any woman of generous spirit behave otherwise, given the torments that I face," Oshima says.

The two women stand there as silent as icebergs.

"Electra, by Sophocles. A wonderful play. And by the way, the term gender was originally used to indicate grammatical gender. My feeling is the word 'sex' is more accurate in terms of indicating physical sexual difference. Using 'gender' here is incorrect. To put a linguistic fine point on it."

A frozen silence follows.

"At any rate, what you've been saying is fundamentally wrong," Oshima says, calmly yet emphatically. "I am most definitely not a pathetic, historical example of a patriarchic male."

"Then explain, simply, what's wrong with what we've said," the shorter woman says defiantly.

"Without sidestepping the issue or trying to show off how erudite you are," the tall one adds.

"All right. I'll do just that-explain it simply and honestly, minus any sidestepping or displays of brilliance," Oshima says.

"We're waiting," the tall one says, and the short one gives a compact nod to show she agrees.

"First of all, I'm not a male," Oshima announces.

A dumbfounded silence follows on the part of everybody. I gulp and shoot Oshima a glance.

"I'm a woman," he says.

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't joke around," the short woman says, after a pause for breath. Not much confidence, though. It's more like she felt somebody had to say something.

Oshima pulls his wallet out of his chinos, takes out the driver's license, and passes it to the woman. She reads what's written there, frowns, and hands it to her tall companion, who reads it and, after a moment's hesitation, gives it back to Oshima, a sour look on her face.

"Did you want to see it too?" Oshima asks me. When I shake my head, he slips the license back in his wallet and puts the wallet in his pants pocket. He then places both hands on the counter and says, "As you can see, biologically and legally I am undeniably female. Which is why what you've been saying about me is fundamentally wrong. It's simply impossible for me to be, as you put it, a typical sexist, patriarchic male."

"Yes, but-" the tall woman says but then stops. The short one, lips tight, is playing with her collar.

"My body is physically female, but my mind's completely male," Oshima goes on. "Emotionally I live as a man. So I suppose your notion of being a historical example may be correct. And maybe I am sexist-who knows. But I'm not a lesbian, even though I dress this way. My sexual preference is for men. In other words, I'm a female but I'm gay. I do anal sex, and have never used my vagina for sex. My clitoris is sensitive but my breasts aren't. I don't have a period. So, what am I discriminating against? Could somebody tell me?"

The three of us listening are flabbergasted and don't say a word. One of the women clears her throat, and the jarring sound reverberates through the room. The clock on the wall loudly ticks away the seconds.

"I'm very sorry," Oshima says, "but I'm in the middle of lunch. I'm having a tuna-spinach wrap and had eaten half of it when you asked me over. If I leave it much longer the neighborhood cats will make a grab for it. People throw away kittens they don't want in the woods near the sea, so this neighborhood is full of cats. If you don't mind I'd like to get back to my lunch. So excuse me, but please take your time and enjoy the library. Our library is open to everyone. As long as you follow the rules and don't bother the other patrons, feel free to do whatever you'd like. You can look at whatever you want. Go ahead and write whatever you like in your report. We won't mind. We don't receive any funding from anywhere and pretty much do things our own way. And that's the way we like it."

After Oshima leaves the two women share a look, then they both stare at me. Maybe they figure me for Oshima's lover or something. I don't say a word and start arranging catalog cards. The two of them whisper to each other in the stacks, and before long they gather their belongings and start to pull up stakes. Frozen looks on their faces, they don't say a word of thanks when I hand back their daypacks.

After a while Oshima finishes his lunch and comes back inside. He hands me two spinach wraps made of tuna and vegetables wrapped in a kind of green tortilla with a white cream sauce on top. I have these for lunch. I boil up some water and have a cup of Earl Grey to wash it down.

"Everything I said a while ago is true," Oshima tells me when I come back from lunch.

"So that's what you meant when you told me you were a special person?"

"I wasn't trying to brag or anything," he says, "but you understand that I wasn't exaggerating, right?"

I nod silently.

Oshima smiles. "In terms of sex I'm most definitely female, though my breasts haven't developed much and I've never had a period. But I don't have a penis or testicles or facial hair. In short, I have nothing. A nice no-extra-baggage kind of feeling, if you want to put a positive spin on it. Though I doubt you can understand how that feels."

"I guess not," I say.

"Sometimes I don't understand it myself. Like, what the heck am I, anyway? Really, what am I?"

I shake my head. "Well, I don't know what I am, either."

"A classic identity crisis."

I nod.

"But at least you know where to begin. Unlike me."

"I don't care what you are. Whatever you are, I like you," I tell him. I've never said this to anybody in my whole life, and the words make me blush.

"I appreciate it," Oshima says, and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I know I'm a little different from everyone else, but I'm still a human being. That's what I'd like you to realize. I'm just a regular person, not some monster. I feel the same things everyone else does, act the same way. Sometimes, though, that small difference feels like an abyss. But I guess there's not much I can do about it." He picks up a long, sharpened pencil from the counter and gazes at it like it's an extension of himself. "I wanted to tell you all this as soon as I could, directly, rather than have you hear it from someone else. So I guess today was a good opportunity. It wasn't such a pleasant experience, though, was it?"

I nod.

"I've experienced all kinds of discrimination," Oshima says. "Only people who've been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars. So I think I'm as concerned about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people who have no imagination. The kind T. S. Eliot calls hollow men. People who fill up that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what they're doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to force you to do what you don't want to. Like that lovely pair we just met." He sighs and twirls the long slender pencil in his hand. "Gays, lesbians, straights, feminists, fascist pigs, communists, Hare Krishnas-none of them bother me. I don't care what banner they raise. But what I can't stand are hollow people. When I'm with them I just can't bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn't. With those women-I should've just let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just can't do that. I say things I shouldn't, do things I shouldn't do. I can't control myself. That's one of my weak points. Do you know why that's a weak point of mine?"

"'Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination seriously, there's no end to it," I say.

"That's it," Oshima says. He taps his temple lightly with the eraser end of the pencil. "But there's one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki's childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it's important to know what's right and what's wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They're a lost cause, and I don't want anyone like that coming in here."

Oshima points at the stacks with the tip of his pencil. What he means, of course, is the entire library.

"I wish I could just laugh off people like that, but I can't."