Kafka on the Shore

Chapter 49

Just after nine the next morning, I hear the sound of a car approaching and go outside. It's a small four-wheel-drive Datsun truck, the kind with massive tires and the body jacked up high. It looks like it hasn't been washed in at least a half a year. In the bed are two long, well-used surfboards. The truck grinds to a stop in front of the cabin. When the engine cuts off silence returns. The door opens and a tall young man climbs out, wearing an oversize white T-shirt, an oil-stained No Fear shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers that have seen better days. The guy looks around thirty, with wide shoulders. He's tanned all over and has three days' worth of stubble on his face. His hair's long enough to hide his ears. I'm guessing this must be Oshima's older brother, the one who runs a surf shop in Kochi.

"Hey," he says.

"Morning," I reply.

He sticks out his hand, and we shake hands on the porch. He has a strong grip. I guessed right. He does turn out to be Oshima's older brother.

"Everybody calls me Sada," he tells me. He talks slowly, choosing his words deliberately, like he's in no hurry. Like he has all the time in the world. "I got a call from Takamatsu to come pick you up and take you back," he explains. "Sounds like some urgent business came up."

"Urgent business?"

"Yeah. I don't know what, though."

"Sorry you had to go to all this trouble," I tell him.

"No need to apologize," he says. "Can you get ready to leave soon?"

"Give me five minutes."

While I'm stuffing my things in my backpack, he helps me close up the place, whistling all the while. He shuts the window, pulls the curtains, checks that the gas is off, gathers up the remaining food, does a quick scrub of the sink. I can tell from watching him that he feels like the cabin's an extension of himself.

"Seems like my brother likes you," Sada says. "He doesn't like all that many people. He's sort of a difficult person."

"He's been really kind to me."

Sada nods. "He can be pretty nice when he wants to be."

I climb into the passenger seat of the truck and toss my backpack at my feet.

Sada turns on the ignition, shifts into gear, leans out the window to check out the cabin one more time, then steps on the gas. "This cabin is one of the few things the two of us share as brothers," he says as he expertly maneuvers down the mountain road. "When the mood hits us, we sometimes come here and spend a few days alone." He mulls this over for a while, then goes on. "This was always an important place for the two of us, and still is. It's like there's a power here that recharges us. A quiet sort of power. You know what I mean?"

"I think so," I tell him.

"My brother said you would," Sada says. "People that don't get it never will."

The faded cloth seats are covered with white dog hair. The dog smell mixes with that of the sea, plus the scent of surfboard wax and cigarettes. The knob for the AC is broken off. The ashtray's full of butts, the side pocket stuffed full of random cassette tapes, minus their boxes.

"I went into the woods a few times," I say.

"Deep in there?"

"Yes," I reply. "Oshima warned me not to."

"But you went in anyway."

"Yeah," I say.

"I did the same once. Must be like ten years ago." He's silent for a time, concentrating on his driving. We're on a long curve, the thick tires spraying pebbles as we go. Every so often there're crows beside the road. They don't try to fly away, just watch intently, with curious eyes, as we pass by.

"Did you run across the soldiers?" Sada asks as casually as if he'd asked me what time it was.

"You mean those two soldiers?"

"Right," Sada responds, glancing at me. "You went in that far, huh?"

"Yeah, I did," I reply.

His hands lightly gripping the wheel as he maneuvers it, he doesn't respond, and his expression doesn't tell me anything.

"Sada?" I ask.

"Hm?" he says.

"When you met those soldiers ten years ago, what did you do?"

"What did I do when I met those soldiers?" he repeats.

I nod and wait for his answer.

He glances in the rearview mirror, then looks in front again. "I've never talked about that to anyone," he says. "Not even to my brother. Brother, sister-whatever you want to call him. Brother works for me. He doesn't know anything about those soldiers."

I nod silently.

"And I doubt I'll ever tell anybody about it. Even you. And I don't think you'll ever talk about it to anyone, either. Even to me. You know what I'm trying to say?"

"I think so," I tell him.

"What is it?"

"It's not something you can get across in words. The real response is something words can't express."

"There you go," Sada replies. "Exactly. If you can't get it across in words then it's better not to try."

"Even to yourself?" I ask.

"Yeah, even to yourself," Sada says. "Better not to try to explain it, even to yourself."

He offers me a stick of Cool Mint gum. I take one and start chewing.

"You ever try surfing?" he asks.

"No."

"If you have the chance I'll teach you," he says. "If you'd like to learn, I mean. The waves are pretty decent along the Kochi shore, and there aren't so many surfers. Surfing's a more profound kind of sport than it looks. When you surf you learn not to fight the power of nature, even if it gets violent."

He takes out a cigarette from the pocket of his T-shirt, sticks it in his mouth, and lights it up with the dashboard lighter. "That's another thing that words can't explain. One of those things that's neither a yes or a no answer." He narrows his eyes and blows smoke out the window. "In Hawaii," he goes on, "there's a spot they call the Toilet Bowl. There're these huge whirlpools because it's where the incoming and outgoing tides meet and crash into each other. It goes around and around like when you flush a toilet. If you wipe out there, you get pulled underwater and it's hard to float up again. Depending on the waves you might never make it back to the surface. So there you are, underwater, pounded by waves, and there's nothing you can do. Flailing around's not gonna get you anywhere. You'll just use up your energy. You've never been so scared in your life. But unless you get over that fear you'll never be a real surfer. You have to face death, get to really know it, then overcome it. When you're down in that whirlpool you start thinking about all kinds of things. It's like you get to be friends with death, have a heart-to-heart talk with it."

At the gate he gets out of the truck and locks it back up, jiggling the chain a couple of times to make sure it'll hold.

After this we don't talk much. He leaves an FM station on as he drives, but I can tell he's not really listening to it. Having the radio on's just a token gesture. Even when we go into a tunnel and all we hear is static, he doesn't mind. With the AC broken, we leave the windows open when we get on the highway.

"If you ever feel like learning how to surf, stop by and see me," Sada says as the Inland Sea comes into view. "I have an extra room, and you can stay as long as you like."

"Thanks," I say. "I'll take you up on that. I don't know when, though."

"You pretty busy?"

"I have a couple of things I have to take care of."

"Same with me," Sada says.

We don't say anything for a long time. He's thinking over his problems, I'm thinking over mine. He keeps his eyes on the road, left hand on top of the steering wheel, and smokes an occasional cigarette. Unlike Oshima, he doesn't speed. With his elbow propped on the open window, he drives down the highway at a leisurely pace. The only time he passes other cars is when they're going way too slow. Then he reluctantly steps on the gas, goes around, then slips right back into his lane.

"Have you been surfing for a long time?" I ask him.

"Hmm," he says, and then there's silence. Finally, when I've almost forgotten the question, he answers.

"I've been surfing since high school. Then it was just for fun. Didn't really get serious about it till six years ago. I was working at a big ad agency in Tokyo. I couldn't stand it so I quit, moved back here, and started surfing. I took out a loan, borrowed some money from my folks, and opened a surf shop. I run it alone, so I can pretty much do whatever I want."

"Did you want to come back to Shikoku?"

"That was part of it," he says. "I don't know, I don't feel right unless I've got the sea and mountains nearby. People are mostly a product of where they were born and raised. How you think and feel's always linked to the lay of the land, the temperature. The prevailing winds, even. Where were you born?"

"Tokyo. In Nogata, in Nakano Ward."

"Do you want to go back there?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Why not?"

"There's no reason for me to go back."

"Okay," he says.

"I'm not very connected to the lay of the land, the prevailing winds and all that," I say.

"Yeah?" he says.

We're silent again. Silence doesn't seem to bother him a bit. Or me either. I just sit there, my mind a blank, listening to the music on the radio. He's staring at the road straight ahead. Eventually we exit the highway, turn north, and come into the Takamatsu city limits.

It's a little before one p. m. when we arrive at the Komura Library. Sada drops me off in front but doesn't get out himself. The engine's still on, and he's heading right back to Kochi.

"Thanks," I say.

"Hope we can see each other soon," he says. He sticks his hand out the window, gives a short wave, then peels out on his thick tires. Heading back to catch some big waves, to his own world, his own issues.

I put on my backpack and pass through the gate. I catch a whiff of the freshly mown lawn in the garden. It feels like I've been away for months, but it's only been four days.

Oshima's at the counter, wearing a tie, something I've never seen before. A white button-down shirt, and a mustard-yellow-and-green-striped tie. He's rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and doesn't have a jacket on. In front of him, predictably, there's a coffee cup and two neatly sharpened pencils.

"Hey," he greets me, adding his usual smile.

"Hi," I say back.

"Guess you caught a ride with my brother?"

"That's right."

"Bet he didn't talk much," Oshima says.

"Actually, we did talk a little."

"You're lucky. Depending on who he's with, sometimes he won't say a word."

"Did something happen here?" I ask. "He told me there was something urgent."

Oshima nods. "There are a couple of things you need to know about. First of all, Miss Saeki passed away. She had a heart attack. I found her collapsed facedown on her desk upstairs on Tuesday afternoon. It happened all of a sudden, and it doesn't seem like she suffered."

I set my pack on the floor and sit down in a chair. "Tuesday afternoon?" I ask. "Today's Friday, right?"

"Yes, that's right. She died after the regular Tuesday tour. I probably should've gotten in touch with you sooner, but I couldn't think straight."

Sunk back in the chair, I find I can't move. The two of us sit there in silence for a long time. I can see the stairs leading to the second floor, the well-polished black banister, the stained glass on the landing. Those stairs always held a special significance for me, because they led to her, to Miss Saeki. But now they're just empty stairs, with no meaning at all. She's no longer there.

"As I mentioned before, I think this was all predestined," Oshima says. "I knew it, and so did she. Though when it actually happens, of course, it's pretty hard to take."

When he pauses, I feel like I should say something, but the words won't come.

"According to her wishes, there won't be a funeral," Oshima continues. "She was quietly cremated. She left a will in a drawer in her desk upstairs. She left her entire estate to the foundation that runs the library. She left me her Mont Blanc pen as a keepsake. And a painting for you. The one of the boy on the shore. You'll take it, won't you?"

I nod.

"It's all wrapped up over there, ready to go."

"Thanks," I say, finally able to speak.

"Tell me something, Kafka Tamura," Oshima says. He picks up a pencil and gives it his usual twirl. "Is it okay if I ask you a question?"

I nod.

"I didn't need to tell you she died, did I? You already knew."

Again I nod. "I think I did."

"I thought so," Oshima says, and draws a deep breath. "Would you like some water or something? To tell you the truth, you look as parched as a desert."

"Thanks, I could use some." I am pretty thirsty, but hadn't realized it until he mentioned it.

I down the ice water he brings me in a single gulp, so fast my head starts to ache. I put the empty glass back on the table.

"Care for some more?"

I shake my head.

"What are your plans now?" Oshima asks.

"I'm going to go back to Tokyo," I reply.

"What are you going to do there?"

"Go to the police, first of all, and tell them what I know. If I don't, they'll be after me the rest of my life. And then I'll most likely go back to school. Not that I want to, but I have to at least finish junior high. If I just put up with it for a few months and graduate, then I can do whatever I want."

"Makes sense," Oshima says. He narrows his eyes and looks at me. "That sounds like the best plan."

"More and more I've been thinking that's the way to go."

"You can run but you can't hide?"

"Yeah, I guess so," I say.

"You've grown up."

I shake my head. I can't say a thing.

Oshima lightly taps the eraser end of a pencil against his temple a couple of times. The phone rings, but he ignores it.

"Every one of us is losing something precious to us," he says after the phone stops ringing. "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads-at least that's where I imagine it-there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library."

I stare at the pencil in his hand. It pains me to look at it, but I have to be the world's toughest fifteen-year-old, at least for a while longer. Or pretend to be. I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with air, and manage to inhale that lump of emotion. "Is it all right if I come back here someday?" I ask.

"Of course," Oshima says, and lays his pencil back on the counter. He links his hands behind his head and looks straight at me. "The word is that I'll be in charge of the library for a while. And I imagine I'll need an assistant. Once you're free of the police, school, what have you-and provided you want to, of course-I'd love to have you back. The town and I aren't going anywhere, not for the time being. People need a place they can belong."

"Thanks," I tell him.

"You're quite welcome," he says.

"Your brother said he'd teach me how to surf."

"That's great. He doesn't take to most people," he says. "He's a bit of a difficult person."

I nod, and smile. They really are quite alike, these two brothers.

"Kafka," Oshima says, looking deep into my eyes. "I could be wrong, but I think that's the first time I've ever seen you smile."

"You could be right," I say. I most definitely am smiling. And blushing.

"When are you going back to Tokyo?"

"Right now, I think."

"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.