Kafka on the Shore

Chapter 45

As advertised, the path from the "entrance" on is hard to follow. Actually, it's pretty much given up on trying to be a path. The farther we go, the deeper and more enormous the forest gets. The slope gets a whole lot steeper, the ground more overgrown with bushes and undergrowth. The sky has just about disappeared, and it's so dim that it seems like twilight. Thick spiderwebs loom up all over the place, and the air's thick with the smell of plants. The silence gets even deeper, like the forest is trying to reject this invasion of its territory by human beings. The soldiers, rifles slung across their backs, seem oblivious as they easily cut through openings in the thick foliage. They're amazingly fast as they slip past the low-hanging branches, clamber up rocks, leap over hollows, neatly avoiding all the thorns.

I scramble to keep up and not lose sight of them as they forge on ahead. They never check to see if I'm still there. It's like they're testing me, to see how much I can handle. I don't know why, but it almost feels like they're angry with me. They don't say a word, not just to me but to each other. They're totally focused on walking. Without a word between them, they take turns in the lead. The black barrels of the rifles on their backs swing back and forth in front of me, as regular as a metronome. The whole thing starts to get hypnotic after a while. My mind starts to wander, like it's slipping on ice, to somewhere else. But I still have to focus on keeping up with their relentless pace, so I march on, the sweat pouring off me now.

"We going too fast for you?" the brawny soldier finally turns around and asks. He's not out of breath at all.

"No, I'm fine," I tell him. "I'm hanging in there."

"You're young, and look like you're in good shape," the tall one comments without looking around.

"We know this path real well, so sometimes we speed up too much," the brawny one explains. "So tell me if we're going too fast. Don't be shy, okay? Just say the word and we'll slow down. But understand we don't want to go any slower than we have to. You know what I'm saying?"

"I'll let you know if I can't keep up," I tell him, forcing myself not to breathe too hard, so they won't have any idea how tired this is making me. "Do we have far to go?"

"No, not really," the tall one answers.

"We're almost there," the other one adds.

I'm not sure I really believe him. Like they said, time's not much of a factor here.

So we walk on for a while without talking, at a less blistering pace than before. It seems like they've finished testing me.

"Are there any poisonous snakes in this forest?" I ask, since it's been worrying me.

"Poisonous snakes, eh?" the tall one with the glasses says without turning around. He never turns around when he talks, always facing forward like something absolutely critical's about to leap out in front of us at any moment. "I never thought about it."

"Could be," the brawny one says, turning to look at me. "I haven't seen any, but there might be some. Not that it matters even if there are."

"What we're trying to say," the tall one adds casually, "is that the forest isn't out to harm you."

"So you don't need to worry about snakes or anything," the brawny one says. "Feel better now?"

"Yes," I reply.

"No other here-poisonous snakes or mushrooms, venomous spiders or insects-is going to do you any harm," the tall soldier says, as always without turning around.

"Other?" I ask. I can't get a mental picture of what he means. I must be tired.

"An other, no other thing," he says. "No thing's going to harm you here. We're in the deepest part of the forest, after all. And no one-not even yourself-is going to hurt you."

I try to figure out what he means. But what with the exhaustion, sweat, and hypnotic effect of this repetitive journey through the woods, my brain can't form a coherent thought.

"When we were soldiers they used to force us to practice ripping open the enemy's stomach with a bayonet," the brawny one says. "You know the best way to stab someone with a bayonet?"

"No," I reply.

"Well, first you stab your bayonet deep into his belly, then you twist it sideways. That rips the guts to ribbons. Then the guy dies a horrible, slow, painful death. But if you just stab without twisting, then your enemy can jump up and rip your guts to shreds. That's the kind of world we were in."

Guts. Oshima told me once that intestines are a metaphor for a labyrinth. My head's full of all kinds of thoughts, all intertwined and tangled. I can't tell the difference between one thing and another.

"Do you know why people have to do such cruel things like that to other people?" the tall soldier asks.

"I have no idea," I reply.

"Neither do I," he says. "I don't care who the enemy is-Chinese soldiers, Russians, Americans. I never wanted to rip open their guts. But that's the kind of world we lived in, and that's why we ran away. Don't get me wrong, the two of us weren't cowards. We were actually pretty good soldiers. We just couldn't put up with that rush to violence. I don't imagine you're a coward, either."

"I really don't know," I answer honestly. "But I've always tried to get stronger."

"That's very important," the brawny one says, turning in my direction again. "Very important-to do your best to get stronger."

"I can tell you're pretty strong," the tall one says. "Most kids your age wouldn't make it this far."

"Yeah, it is pretty impressive," the brawny one pipes in.

The two of them come to a halt at this point. The tall soldier takes off his glasses, rubs the sides of his nose a couple of times, then puts his glasses on again. Neither one's out of breath or has even worked up a sweat.

"Thirsty?" the tall one asks me.

"A little," I reply. Actually, my canteen gone along with my daypack, I'm dying of thirst. He unhooks the canteen from his waist and hands it to me. I take a few gulps of the lukewarm water. The liquid quenches every pore of my body. I wipe the mouth of the canteen off and hand it back. "Thanks," I say. The tall soldier nods silently.

"We've reached the ridge," the brawny soldier says.

"We're going to go straight to the bottom without stopping, so watch your footing," the tall one says.

I follow them carefully down the tricky, slippery slope. We get about halfway down, then turn a corner and cut through some trees, and all of a sudden a world opens up below us. The two soldiers stop, and turn around to look at me. They don't say a thing, but their eyes speak volumes. This is the place, they're telling me. The place you're going to enter. I stand there with them and gaze out at that world.

The whole place is a basin neatly carved out of the natural contours of the land. How many people might be living there I have no idea, but there can't be many-the place isn't big enough. There're a couple of roads, with buildings here and there along either side. Small roads, and equally small buildings. Nobody's out on the roads. The buildings are all expressionless, built less for beauty than to withstand the elements. The place is too small to be called a town. There aren't any shops as far as I can tell. No signs or bulletin boards. It's like a bunch of buildings, all the same size and shape, just happened to come together to make up a little community. None of the buildings have gardens, and not a single tree lines the roads. Like with the forest all around there's no need for any extra plants or trees.

A faint breeze is cutting through the woods, making the leaves of the trees around me tremble. That anonymous rustling forms ripples on the folds of my mind. I rest a hand against a tree trunk and close my eyes. Those ripples seem to be a sign, a signal of some sort, but it's like a foreign language I can't decipher. I give up, open my eyes, and gaze out again at this brand-new world before me. Standing there halfway down the slope, staring down at this place with two soldiers, I feel those ripples shifting inside me. These signs reconfigure themselves, the metaphors transform, and I'm drifting away, away from myself. I'm a butterfly, flitting along the edges of creation. Beyond the edge of the world there's a space where emptiness and substance neatly overlap, where past and future form a continuous, endless loop. And hovering about there are signs no one has ever read, chords no one has ever heard.

I try to calm my ragged breathing. My heart still isn't back in one piece, but at least I'm not afraid.

Without a word the soldiers start walking again, and silently I follow along. As we go farther down the slope, the town draws closer. I see a small stream running alongside a road, with a stone wall as an embankment. The beautiful clear water gurgles pleasantly. Everything here is simple, and cozy. Slim poles with wires strung between them dot the area, which means they must have electricity. Electricity? Out here?

The place is surrounded by a high, green ridge. The sky's still a mass of gray clouds. The soldiers and I walk down the road but don't pass a single person. Everything's completely still, not a sound to be heard. Maybe they're all shut up inside their homes, holding their breath, waiting for us to go.

My companions take me to one of the dwellings. Strange thing is, it's the same size and shape as Oshima's cabin. Like one was the model for the other. There's a porch out front, and a chair. The building has a flat roof with a stovepipe sticking out the top. There's a plain single bed in the bedroom, all neatly made up. The only differences are that the bedroom and living room are separate from each other, and there's a toilet inside and the place has electricity. There's even a fridge in the kitchen, a small, old-fashioned model. A light hangs down from the ceiling. And there's a TV. A TV?

"For the time being, you're supposed to stay here till you get settled," the brawny soldier says. "It won't be for that long. For the time being."

"Like I said before, time isn't much of a factor here," the tall one says.

The other one nods in agreement. "Not a factor at all."

"Where could the electricity be coming from?"

They look at each other.

"There's a small wind-power station farther on in the forest," the tall one explains. "The wind's always blowing there. Gotta have electricity, right?"

"No electricity and you can't use the fridge," the brawny one says. "No fridge and you can't keep food for long."

"You'd manage somehow without it," the tall one says. "Though it sure is a nice thing to have."

"If you get hungry," the brawny one adds, "help yourself to whatever's in the fridge. There isn't much, I'm afraid."

"There's no meat here, no fish, coffee, or liquor," the tall one says. "It's hard at first, but you'll get used to it."

"But you do have eggs and cheese and milk," the brawny soldier says. "Gotta have your protein, right?"

"They don't make those other things here," the tall one explains, "so you have to go somewhere else to get them. And swap something for them."

"Somewhere else?"

The tall one nods. "That's right. We're not cut off from the world here. There is a somewhere else. It might take a while, but you'll understand."

"Someone will be along in the evening to make dinner for you," the brawny soldier says. "If you get bored before then, you can watch TV."

"They have shows on the TV?"

"Well, I don't know what's on," the tall one replies, a bit flustered. He tilts his head and looks at his companion.

His brawny friend tilts his head too, a doubtful look on his face. "To be honest with you, I don't know much about TV. I've never watched it."

"They put the TV there for people who've just come here," the tall one says.

"But you should be able to watch something," the brawny one says.

"Just rest up for a while," the tall one says. "We have to get back to our post."

"Thanks for bringing me here."

"No problem," the brawny one says. "You have much stronger legs than the others we've brought here. Lots of people can't keep up. Some we even have to carry on our backs. So you were one of the easy ones."

"If memory serves," the tall soldier says, "you said there's somebody you want to see here."

"That's right."

"I'm sure you'll meet whoever that is before long," he says, nodding a couple of times for emphasis. "It's a small world here."

"I hope you get used to it soon," the brawny soldier says.

"Once you get used to it, the rest is easy," the tall soldier adds.

"I really appreciate it."

The two of them stand at attention and salute, then shoulder their rifles and leave, walking quickly down the road back toward their post. They must guard the entrance there day and night.

I go to the kitchen and check out what's in the fridge. There are some tomatoes, a chunk of cheese, eggs, carrots, turnips even, and a large porcelain jug of milk. Butter, too. A loaf of bread's on a shelf, and I tear off a piece and taste it. A little hard, but not bad.

The kitchen has a sink and a faucet. I turn the faucet and water comes out, clear and cold. Since they have electricity, they must pump water up from a well. I fill up a cup and drink it.

I go over to the window and look outside. The sky's still covered with gray clouds, though it doesn't look like it's going to rain anytime soon. I stare out the window a long time but still don't see any sign of other people. It's like the town's dead. Or else for some reason everybody's trying to avoid me.

I walk away from the window and sit down in a hard, straight-backed wooden chair. There're three chairs altogether, and a square dining table that's been varnished a number of times. Nothing at all's hanging on the plaster walls, no paintings, no photos, not even a calendar. Just pure white walls. A single bulb dangles from the ceiling, with a simple glass shade that's discolored by heat.

The room has been nicely cleaned. I run my finger over the tabletop and the window frame and there's no dust at all. The windows, too, are sparkling clean. The pots, plates, and various utensils in the kitchen aren't new, but it's clear they've been well cared for and are all clean. Next to the work space in the kitchen are two old electric hot plates. I switch one of them on, and right away the coil turns red.

There's an old color TV in a heavy wooden cabinet that I'm guessing is fifteen or twenty years old. There's no remote control. It looks like something that was thrown away and then retrieved. Which could be said of all the electric items, all of which look like they were saved from the trash. Not that they were dirty or anything, or didn't work, just that they're all faded and out of date.

I turn on the switch on the TV, and an old movie's playing, The Sound of Music. My teacher took us all to see it on a widescreen movie theater when I was in grade school. No adults were around to take me to the theater, so it's one of the few movies I saw when I was a kid. On TV they're at the part where the difficult, uptight father, Captain von Trapp, has gone to Vienna on business, and Maria, the children's tutor, takes them on an outing in the mountains. They all sit together on the grass and she plays guitar and they sing a couple of harmless songs. It's a famous scene. I plant myself in front of the TV, glued to the movie. Just like when I first saw it, I wonder how things would've turned out if I'd had someone like Maria with me. Needless to say, nobody like that ever showed up in my life.

I flash back to reality. Why in the world do I have to watch The Sound of Music right now? Why that movie? Maybe the people here have hooked up some sort of satellite dish and can get the signal from a station. Or is it a videotape being played somewhere and shown on this set? I'd guess it's a tape, because when I change channels the other ones show only sandstorms. A vicious sandstorm's exactly what it reminds me of, the gravelly white, inorganic static.

They're singing "Edelweiss" when I turn off the set. Quiet returns to the room. I'm thirsty, so I go to the kitchen and drink some milk from the jug. The milk's thick and fresh, and tastes a hundred times better than those packs of milk you buy in convenience stores. As I down glass after glass, I suddenly remember the scene in François Truffaut's film 400 Blows where Antoine runs away from home and, early one morning, gets hungry and steals a bottle of milk that's been delivered to somebody's front door, then drinks it as he makes his getaway. It's a large bottle, so it takes him a while to drink it all down. A sad, distressing scene-though it's hard to believe that just drinking milk could be so sad. That's another one of the few movies from my childhood. I was in fifth grade, and the title caught my attention, so I took the train to Ikebukuro alone, saw the film, then rode the train back. As soon as I got out of the theater, I bought some milk and drank it. I couldn't help it.

After drinking all that milk now I get sleepy. An overwhelming, almost nauseous sleepiness comes over me. My thoughts slow down, and finally stop, like a train pulling into a station, and I can't think straight anymore, like the core of my body's coagulating. I walk into the bedroom, make a tangle out of getting my pants and shoes off, then slump down on the bed, bury my face in the pillow, and close my eyes. The pillow smells like the sunlight, a precious smell. I quietly breathe it in, breathe it out, and fall asleep before I know it.

When I wake up it's dark all around. I open my eyes and try to figure out where I am. Two soldiers led me through the forest to a small town next to a stream, right? Slowly my memory's coming back. The scene comes into focus, and I hear a familiar melody. "Edelweiss." Out in the kitchen there's a faint, intimate clattering of pots and pans. Light spills into the bedroom through a crack in the door, forming a yellow line on the floor. Kind of an old-fashioned, powdery yellow light.

I try to get out of bed but my body's numb all over. I take a deep breath and look up at the ceiling. I hear the sound of plates, of someone scurrying busily across the floor, preparing a meal for me, I imagine. I'm finally able to stand up. Though it takes a while, I struggle into my pants, my socks and shoes. Quietly I grab the knob and open the door.

A young girl's in the kitchen cooking. Her back to me, she's leaning over a pot, tasting the food with a spoon, but when she hears the door open she looks up and turns around. It's her. The same girl who visited my room in the library and gazed at the painting on the wall. The fifteen-year-old Miss Saeki. She's wearing the same clothes, a long-sleeved, light blue dress. The only thing different is now her hair's pinned back. She gives me a small, warm smile, and a powerful emotion overwhelms me, like the whole world's been turned upside down, like everything tangible had fallen apart but has now been put back together. But this girl is no illusion, certainly no ghost. She's a living, breathing young girl, someone you can touch, standing in a real kitchen at twilight, cooking me a real meal. Her small breasts jut beneath her dress, her neck as white as porcelain fresh from the kiln. It's all real.

"Oh, you're awake?" she asks.

No voice comes out of me. I'm still trying to pull myself together.

"You seem to have slept very well," she says. She turns back to tasting the dish. "If you didn't wake up I was going to put the meal on the table and leave."

"I wasn't planning to sleep so much," I finally manage to say.

"You came all the way through the forest," she says, "so you must be hungry."

"I'm not sure. But I think I am." I want to reach out and see if I can actually touch her. But I can't. I just stand there, drinking her in. I listen to the sounds she makes as she bustles around the kitchen.

She ladles hot stew onto a plain white plate and carries it over to the table. There's a bowl of salad, too, tomatoes and greens, and a large loaf of bread. There are potatoes and carrots in the stew. The fragrance brings back fond memories. I breathe it all in deeply and realize I'm starving. I have to eat something. As I pick up a scuffed fork and spoon and begin eating, the girl sits in a chair to the side and watches me with a serious expression on her face, like watching me eat is a critical part of her job. Occasionally she brushes back her hair.

"They told me you're fifteen," she says.

"That's right," I reply, buttering a slice of bread. "I just turned fifteen."

"I'm fifteen too," she says.

I nod. I know that, I almost say. But it's too soon to say that. I take another bite.

"I'll be making the meals here for a while," she says. "The cleaning and washing as well. There are clothes in the dresser in the bedroom, so feel free to help yourself. You can just put your laundry in the basket and I'll take care of it."

"Somebody gave you these jobs?"

She looks fixedly at me but doesn't answer. It's like my question's taken a wrong turn and been sucked into some nameless space.

"What's your name?" I ask, trying a different tack.

She shakes her head slightly. "I don't have a name. We don't have names here."

"But if you don't have a name, how can I call you?"

"There's no need to call me," she says. "If you need me, I'll be here."

"I guess I don't need my name here, either."

She nods. "You're you, you see, and nobody else. You are you, right?"

"I guess so," I say. Though I'm not so sure. Am I really me?

All the while she's steadily gazing at me.

"Do you remember the library?" I come right out and ask her.

"The library?" She shakes her head. "No… There's a library far away, but not here."

"There's a library?"

"Yes, but there aren't any books in it."

"If there aren't any books, then what is there?"

She tilts her head but doesn't respond. Again my question's taken a wrong turn and vanished.

"Have you ever been there?"

"A long time ago," she says.

"But it's not for reading books?"

She nods. "There aren't any books there."

I eat in silence for a time. The stew, the salad, the bread. She doesn't say anything either, just observes me with that serious look.

"How was the food?" she asks after I finish eating.

"It was really good."

"Even without any meat or fish?"

I point to the empty plate. "Well, I didn't leave anything, right?"

"I made it."

"It was really good," I repeat. It's the truth.

Being with her I feel a pain, like a frozen knife stuck in my chest. An awful pain, but the funny thing is I'm thankful for it. It's like that frozen pain and my very existence are one. The pain is an anchor, mooring me here. The girl stands up to boil some water and make tea. While I'm sitting at the table drinking it, she carries the dirty dishes out to the kitchen and starts washing them. I watch her do all this. I want to say something, but when I'm with her words no longer function as they're supposed to. Or maybe the meaning that ties them together has vanished? I stare at my hands and think of the dogwood outside the window, glinting in the moonlight. That's where the blade that's stabbing me in the heart is.

"Will I see you again?" I ask.

"Of course," the girl replies. "Like I said before, if you need me, I'll be here."

"You're not going to suddenly disappear?"

She doesn't say anything, just gazes at me with a strange look on her face, like Where-do-you-think-I'd-go?

"I've met you before," I venture. "In another land, in another library."

"If you say so," she says, touching her hair to check that it's still pinned back. Her voice is expressionless, like she's trying to let me know the topic doesn't interest her.

"I think I've come here to meet you one more time. You, and one other woman."

She looks up and nods seriously. "Going through the deep woods to get here."

"That's right. I had to see you and that other woman again."

"And you've met me."

I nod.

"It's like I told you," she says. "If you need me, I'll be here."

After she washes up, she puts the pots and plates back on the shelf and drapes a canvas bag across her shoulder. "I'll be back tomorrow morning," she tells me. "I hope you get used to being here soon."

I stand at the door and watch as she vanishes into the gloom. I'm alone again in the little cabin, inside a closed circle. Time isn't a factor here. Nobody here has a name. She'll be here as long as I need her. She's fifteen here. Eternally fifteen, I imagine. But what's going to happen to me? Am I going to stay fifteen here? Is age, too, not a factor here?

I stand in the doorway long after she's disappeared, gazing vacantly at the scenery outside. There's no moon or stars in the sky. Lights are on in a few other buildings, spilling out of the windows. The same antique, yellowish light that illuminates this room. But I still can't see anybody else. Just the lights. Dark shadows widen their grip on the world outside. Farther in the distance, blacker than the darkness, the ridge rises up, and the forest surrounding this town like a wall.