The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

1 As Concrete as Possible Appetite in Literature

Kumiko never came back that night. I stayed up until midnight, reading, listening to music, and waiting for her, but finally I gave up and went to bed. I fell asleep with the light on. It was six in the morning when I woke. The full light of day shone outside the window. Beyond the thin curtain, birds were chirping. There was no sign of my wife beside me in bed. The white pillow lay there, high and fluffy. As far as I could see, no head had rested on it during the night. Her freshly washed, neatly folded summer pajamas lay atop the night table. I had washed them. I had folded them. I turned off the lamp beside my pillow and took a deep breath, as if to regulate the flow of time.

I did a tour of the house in my pajamas. I went first to the kitchen, then surveyed the living room and looked into Kumiko's room. I checked the bathroom and, just to make sure, tried the closets. There was no sign of her anywhere. The house seemed more hushed than usual. I felt as if, by moving around, I alone was to blame for disrupting the quiet harmony of the place, and for no good reason.

There was nothing more for me to do. I went to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and lit the gas. When the water boiled, I made coffee and sat at the kitchen table to take a sip. Then I made toast and ate some potato salad from the refrigerator. This was the first time in years that I had eaten breakfast alone. Come to think of it, aside from a single business trip, we had never once missed breakfast together in all the time since our marriage. We had often missed lunch, and sometimes even dinner, but never breakfast. We had a kind of tacit understanding about breakfast: it was almost a ritual for us. No matter how late we might go to bed, we would always get up early enough to fix a proper morning meal and take the time to enjoy it together.

But that morning Kumiko was gone. I drank my coffee and ate my toast alone, in silence. An empty chair was all I had to look at. I looked and ate and thought about the cologne that she had been wearing the morning before. I thought about the man who might have given it to her. I thought about her lying in a bed somewhere with him, their arms wrapped around each other. I saw his hands caressing her naked body. I saw the porcelain of her back as I had seen it in the morning, the smooth skin beneath the rising zipper.

The coffee seemed to have a soapy taste. I couldn't quite believe it. Shortly after the first sip, I sensed an unpleasant aftertaste. I wondered if my feelings were playing tricks on me, but the second sip had the same taste. I emptied the cup into the sink and poured myself more coffee, in a clean cup. Again the taste of soap. I couldn't imagine why. I had washed the pot well, and there was nothing wrong with the water. But the taste- or smell-was unmistakable: it could only have been soap-or possibly moisturizing lotion. I threw out all the coffee in the pot and started to boil some more water, but it just wasn't worth the trouble. I filled a cup with water from the tap and drank that instead. I really didn't want coffee all that much anyway.

I waited until nine-thirty and dialed Kumiko's office. A woman answered the phone. May I please speak to Kumiko Okada? I asked. I'm sorry, but she doesn't seem to be here yet. I thanked her and hung up. Then I started ironing shirts, as I always did when I felt restless. When I ran out of shirts, I tied up old newspapers and magazines, wiped down the sink and cabinet shelves, cleaned the toilet and bathtub. I polished the mirrors and windows with glass cleaner. I unscrewed the ceiling fixtures and washed the frosted glass. I stripped the sheets and threw them in the washing machine, then put on fresh ones.

At eleven o'clock I called the office again. The same girl answered, and again she told me that Kumiko had not come in.

Was she planning to miss work today? I asked.

Not to my knowledge, she said, without a trace of feeling. She was just reporting the facts.

Something was out of the ordinary if Kumiko had still not reported to work at eleven o'clock. Most publishers editorial offices kept irregular hours, but not Kumiko's company. Producing magazines on health and natural foods, they had to deal with the kind of writers and other professionals- food producers, farmers, doctors-who went to work early in the morning and home in the evening. To accommodate them, Kumiko and her colleagues reported to the company at nine o'clock sharp and left by five, unless there was some special reason to stay later.

Hanging up, I went to the bedroom and looked through her closet. If she had run off, Kumiko should have taken her clothes. I checked the dresses and blouses and skirts that were hanging there. Of course, I didn't know every piece of clothing she owned-I didn't know every piece of clothing that I owned-but I often took her things to the cleaners and picked them up for her, so I had a pretty good grasp of which items she wore most often and which were most important to her, and as far as I could tell, just about everything was there.

Besides, she had had no opportunity to take a lot of clothes with her. I tried to recall as precisely as possible her departure from the house the day before-the clothes she wore, the bag she carried. All she had had with her was the shoulder bag she always carried to work, stuffed with notebooks and cosmetics and her wallet and pens and a handkerchief and tissues. A change of clothing would never have fit inside.

I looked through her dresser drawers. Accessories, stockings, sunglasses, panties, cotton tops: everything was there, arranged in neat rows. If anything had disappeared, it was impossible for me to tell. Panties and stockings, of course, she could have managed to take in her shoulder bag, but come to think of it, why would she have bothered? Those she could have picked up anywhere.

I went back to the bathroom for another look at her vanity drawers. No sign of change there, either: just a lot of little cosmetics containers and accessories stuffed inside. I opened the bottle of Christian Dior cologne and took another sniff. It smelled the same as before: the fragrance of a white flower, perfect for a summer morning. Again I thought of her ears and her white back.

I went to the living room and stretched out on the sofa. I closed my eyes and listened. Virtually the only sound I could hear was that of the clock ticking off time. There were no car noises or birds chirping. I had no idea what to do now. I decided to call her office again and got as far as lifting the receiver and dialing the first few numbers, but the thought of having to talk to that same girl was too much for me, and I put the receiver back. There was nothing more for me to do. I could only wait. Perhaps it was true that Kumiko was leaving me-for what reason I did not know, but it was at least a possibility. Even if it was true, though, she was not the kind of person who would leave without a word. She would do her best to explain her exact reasons as precisely as possible. Of that I was one hundred percent certain.

Or, then, there might have been an accident. She might have been run down by a car and rushed to the hospital. She could be unconscious at that moment and receiving a transfusion. The thought made my heart pound, but I knew that she was carrying her license and credit cards and address book. The hospital or the police would have contacted me by now.

I went to sit on the veranda and look at the garden, but in fact, I didn't look at anything. I tried to think, but I couldn't concentrate my attention on any one thing. All that came to mind, again and again, was Kumiko's back as I raised the zipper of her dress-her back, and the smell of the cologne behind her ears.

After one o'clock, the phone rang. I stood up from the sofa and lifted the receiver.

Pardon me, but would this be Mr. Okada's home? asked a womans voice. It was Malta Kano. That's right, I said.

My name is Malta Kano. I am calling about the cat. The cat? I said with some confusion. I had forgotten all about it. Now, of course, I remembered, but it seemed like something from ages ago.

The cat that Mrs. Okada was searching for, Malta Kano explained.

Sure, sure, I said.

Malta Kano fell silent at her end, as if gauging something. My tone of voice might have put her on alert. I cleared my throat and shifted the receiver to my other hand.

After a short pause, Malta Kano said, I must tell you, Mr. Okada, I believe that the cat will almost certainly never be found. I hate to say this, but the best you can do is resign yourself to the fact. It is gone forever. Barring some major change, the cat will never come back.

Some major change? I asked. But she did not respond.

Malta Kano remained silent for a long time. I waited for her to say something, but try as I might, I could not hear the smallest breath from her end of the line. Just as I was beginning to suspect that the telephone was out of order, she began to speak again.

It may be terribly rude of me to say this, Mr. Okada, but aside from the cat, isn't there perhaps something with which I can be of help?

I could not reply to her immediately. With the receiver in my hand, I leaned back against the wall. It took some time for the words to come.

Things are still not very clear to me, I said. I don't know anything for sure. I'm trying to work it out in my own mind. But I think my wife has left me. I explained to her that Kumiko had not come home the night before or reported to work that morning.

She seemed to be mulling this over at her end. You must be very worried, she said. There is nothing I can say at this point, but things should begin to come clear before too long. Now all you can do is wait. It must be hard for you, but there is a right time for everything. Like the ebb and flow of the tides. No one can do anything to change them. When it is time to wait, you must wait.

Look, Miss Kano, I'm grateful for the trouble you've taken with the cat and all, but right now I'm not exactly in the mood for smooth-sounding generalities. I'm feeling lost. Really lost. Something awful is going to happen: I feel it. But I don't know what to do. I have absolutely no idea what I should do. Is that clear? I don't even know what I should do after I end this call. What I need right now is facts. Concrete facts. I don't care how stupid and simple they might be, I'll take any facts I can get-am I making myself clear? I need something I can see and touch.

Through the phone I heard the sound of something falling on the floor: something not very heavy-perhaps a single pearl-dropping onto a wooden floor. This was followed by a rubbing sound, as if a piece of tracing paper were being held in someones fingertips and given a vigorous yank. These movements seemed to be occurring someplace neither very close to nor far from the telephone, but they were apparently of no interest to Malta Kano.

I see, she said in a flat, expressionless voice. Something concrete. That's right. As concrete as possible. Wait for a phone call. Waiting for a phone call is all I've been doing.

You should be getting a call soon from a person whose name begins with O. Does this person know something about Kumiko? That I cant say. I'm just telling you this because you said you would take any concrete facts you could get. And here is another one: Before very long, a half-moon will last for several days.

A half-moon? I asked. You mean the moon in the sky?

Yes, Mr. Okada, the moon in the sky. In any case, the thing for you to do is wait. Waiting is everything. Goodbye, then. I'll be talking to you again soon. And she hung up.

I brought our address book from my desk and opened to the Os. There were exactly four listings, written in Kumiko's neat little hand. The first was my father, Tadao Okada. Then came an old college friend of mine named Onoda, a dentist named Otsuka, and the neighborhood Omura liquor store.

I could forget about the liquor store. It was ten minutes walk from the house, and aside from those rare instances when we would order a case of beer to be delivered, we had no special connection with them. The dentist was also irrelevant. I had gone to him for work on a molar two years earlier, but Kumiko had never been there. In fact, she had never been to any dentist since she married me. My friend Onoda I hadn't seen in years. He had gone to work for a bank after college, was transferred to the Sapporo branch in his second year, and had been living in Hokkaido ever since. Now he was just one of those people I exchanged New Years cards with. I couldn't remember whether he had ever met Kumiko.

That left my father, but it was unthinkable that Kumiko would have some special relationship with him. He had remarried after my mothers death, and I had not seen him or corresponded with him or spoken with him on the telephone in the years since. Kumiko had never even met the man.

Flipping through the address book, I was reminded how little the two of us had had to do with other people. Aside from a few useful connections with colleagues, we had had almost no relationships outside the house in the six years since our marriage, but instead had lived a withdrawn sort of life, just Kumiko and me.

I decided to make spaghetti for lunch again. Not that I was the least bit hungry. But I couldn't just go on sitting on the sofa, waiting for the phone to ring. I had to move my body, to begin working toward some goal. I put water in a pot, turned on the gas, and until it boiled I would make tomato sauce while listening to an FM broadcast. The radio was playing an unaccompanied violin sonata by Bach. The performance itself was excellent, but there was something annoying about it. I didn't know whether this was the fault of the violinist or of my own present state of mind, but I turned off the music and went on cooking in silence. I heated the olive oil, put garlic in the pan, and added minced onions. When these began to brown, I added the tomatoes that I had chopped and strained. It was good to be cutting things and frying things like this. It gave me a sense of accomplishment that I could feel in my hands. I liked the sounds and the smells.

When the water boiled, I put in the salt and a fistful of spaghetti. I set the timer for ten minutes and washed the things in the sink. Even with the finished spaghetti on the plate in front of me, though, I felt no desire to eat. I barely managed to finish off half and threw out the rest. The leftover sauce I put in a container and stored in the refrigerator. Oh, well, the appetite had not been there to begin with.

Long before, I seemed to recall, I had read some kind of story about a man who keeps eating while he waits for something to happen. After thinking long and hard about it, I concluded that it was from Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. The hero (I had forgotten his name) manages to escape from Italy to Switzerland by boat, and while he's waiting in this little Swiss town for his wife to give birth, he's constantly going to the cafe across the way for something to drink or eat. I could hardly remember anything about the plot. What had stuck in my mind was this one part near the end, in which the hero goes from meal to meal while wait- ing in a foreign country for his wife to have her baby. The reason I recalled it so clearly, it seemed, was that this part of the book had an intense reality to it. It seemed far more real to me, as literature, for the characters anxiety to cause this abnormal upsurge in appetite rather than to make him incapable of eating and drinking.

In contrast to A Farewell to Arms, though, I developed no appetite at all as I watched the hands of the clock in this quiet house, waiting for something to happen. And soon the thought crossed my mind that my failure to develop an appetite might be owing to the lack within me of this kind of literary reality. I felt as if I had become part of a badly written novel, that someone was taking me to task for being utterly unreal. And perhaps it was true.

The phone finally rang, just before two in the afternoon.

Is this the Okada residence? asked an unfamiliar male voice. It was a young mans voice, low and smooth.

Yes, it is, I answered, my own voice somewhat tense. Block two, number twenty-six? That's right. This is the Omura liquor store calling. Thank you for your continued patronage. I was just about to leave to make my collections, and I wanted to check to see if this was a good time for you. Collections?

Yes, sir. I have you down for two cases of beer and a case of juice. Oh. Fine. I'll be home for a while yet, I said, bringing our conversation to a close.

After hanging up, I wondered whether that conversation had contained any information regarding Kumiko. But viewed from all possible angles, it had been nothing but a short, practical call from a liquor store about collections. I had ordered beer and juice from them, and they had delivered it, that much was certain. Half an hour later, the fellow came to the door, and I paid for two cases of beer and a case of juice. The friendly young man smiled as he filled out the receipt. By the way, Mr. Okada, did you hear about the accident by the station this morning? About half past nine.

Accident? I asked with a shock. Who was in an accident? A little girl, he said. Got run over by a van backing up. Hurt bad, too, I hear. I got there just after it happened. Its awful to see something like that first thing in the morning. Little kids scare the heck out of me: you cant see them in your rear view mirror. You know the cleaners by the station? It happened right in front of his place. People park their bikes there, and all these cartons are piled up: you cant see a thing.

After he left, I felt I couldn't stay in the house a minute longer. All of a sudden, the place felt hot and stuffy, dark and cramped. I stepped into my shoes and got out of there as fast as I could. I didn't even lock the door. I left the windows open and the kitchen light on. I wandered around the neighborhood, sucking on a lemon drop. As I replayed the words of the young liquor store employee in my mind, it slowly dawned on me that I had left some clothes at the cleaners by the station. Kumiko's blouse and skirt. The ticket was in the house, but if I just went and asked for them, the man would probably let me have them.

The neighborhood looked a little different to me. The people I passed on the street all had an unnatural, even artificial, look to them. I examined each face as I walked by, and I wondered what kind of people these could be. What kind of houses did they live in? What kind of families did they have? What kind of lives did they lead? Did they sleep with women other than their wives, or men other than their husbands? Were they happy? Did they know how unnatural and artificial they looked?

Signs of the mornings accident were still fresh outside the cleaners: on the ground, the police chalk line; nearby, a few shoppers discussing the accident, with grave expressions on their faces. Inside, the cleaners shop looked the same as ever. The same black boom box played the same kind of mood music, while in back an old-fashioned air conditioner roared along and clouds of steam rose from the iron to the ceiling. The song was Ebb Tide. Robert Maxwell, harp. I thought how wonderful it would be if I could go to the ocean. I imagined the smell of the beach and the sound of waves breaking on the shore. Seagulls. Ice-cold cans of beer.

To the owner, I said only that I had forgotten my receipt. I'm pretty sure I brought them in last Friday or Saturday: a blouse and skirt.

Okada... Okada ..., he said, and flipped through the pages of a college notebook. Sure, here it is. One blouse, one skirt. But Mrs. Okada picked them up already.

She did? I asked, taken aback.

Yesterday morning. I clearly remember handing them to her myself. I figured she was on her way to work. Brought the receipt in too.

I had no words to answer him with. I could only stare at him.

Ask the missus, he said. Shes got em, no mistake. He took a cigarette from the box on the register, put it in his mouth, and lit it with a lighter.

Yesterday morning? I asked. Not evening?

Morning for sure. Eight o'clock. Your wife was the first customer of the day. I wouldn't forget something like that. Hey, when your very first customer is a young woman, it puts you in a good mood, know what I mean?

I was unable to fake a smile for him, and the voice that came out of me didn't sound like my own. Oh, well, I guess that takes care of that. Sorry, I didn't know she picked them up.

He nodded and glanced at me, crushed out the cigarette, from which he had taken no more than two or three puffs, and went back to his ironing. He seemed to have become interested in me, as if he wanted to tell me something but decided in the end to say nothing. And I, meanwhile, had things I wanted to ask him. How had Kumiko looked when she came for her cleaning? What had she been carrying? But I was confused and very thirsty. What I most wanted was to sit down somewhere and have a cold drink. That was the only way I would ever be able to think about anything again, I felt.

I went straight from the cleaners to the coffeehouse a few doors away and ordered a glass of iced tea. The place was cool inside, and I was the only customer. Small wall-mounted speakers were playing an orchestrated version of the Beatles Eight Days a Week. I thought about the seashore again. I imagined myself barefoot and moving along the beach at the waters edge. The sand was burning hot, and the wind carried the heavy smell of the tide. I inhaled deeply and looked up at the sky. Stretching out my hands, palms upward, I could feel the summer sun burning into them. Soon a cold wave washed over my feet.

Viewed from any angle, it was odd for Kumiko to have picked things up from the cleaners on her way to work. For one thing, she would have had to squeeze onto a jam- packed commuter train holding freshly pressed clothing on hangers. Then she would have had to do it again on the way home. Not only would they be something extra to carry, but the cleaners careful work would have been reduced to a mass of wrinkles. Sensitive as Kumiko was about such things, I couldn't imagine she would have done something so pointless. All she had to do was stop by on the way home from work. Or if she was going to be late, she could have asked me to pick them up. There was only one conceivable explanation: she had known she was not coming home. Blouse and skirt in hand, she had gone off somewhere. That way, she would have at least one change of clothing with her, and anything else she needed she could buy. She had her credit cards and her ATM card and her own bank account. She could go anywhere she wanted.

And she was with someone- a man. There was no other reason for her to leave home, probably.

This was serious. Kumiko had disappeared, leaving behind all her clothes and shoes. She had always enjoyed shopping to add to her wardrobe, to which she devoted considerable care and attention. For her to have abandoned it and left home with little more than the literal clothes on her back would have taken a major act of will. And yet without the slightest hesitation-it seemed to me-she had walked out of the house with nothing more in her hand than a blouse and skirt. No, her clothing was probably the last thing on her mind.

Leaning back in my chair, half listening to the painfully sanitized background music, I imagined Kumiko boarding a crowded commuter train with her clothes on wire hangers in the cleaners plastic bags. I recalled the color of the dress she was wearing, the fragrance of the cologne behind her ears, the smooth perfection of her back. I must have been exhausted. If I shut my eyes, I felt, I would float off somewhere else; I would end up in a wholly different place.

2 No Good News in This Chapter

I left the coffeehouse and wandered through the streets. The intense heat of the afternoon began to make me feel sick, even chilled. But the one place I didn't want to go was home. The thought of waiting alone in that silent house for a phone call that would probably never come I found suffocating.

All I could think to do was go see May Kasahara. I went home, climbed the wall, and made my way down the alley to the back of her house. Leaning against the fence of the vacant house on the other side of the alley, I stared at the garden with its bird sculpture. May would notice me if I stood here like this. Aside from those few times when she was out working for the wig company, she was always at home, keeping watch over the alley from her room or while sunbathing in the yard.

But I saw no sign of May Kasahara. There was not a cloud in the sky. The summer sunlight was roasting the back of my neck. The heavy smell of grass rose from the ground, invading my lungs. I stared at the bird statue and tried to think about the stories my uncle had recently told me of the fates of those who had lived in this house. But all I could think of was the sea, cold and blue. I took several long, deep breaths. I looked at my watch. I was ready to give up for the day, when May Kasahara finally came out. She ambled slowly through her yard to where I stood. She wore denim shorts, a blue aloha shirt, and red thongs. Standing before me, she smiled through her sunglasses.

Hello there, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. Find your cat- Noboru Wataya? Not yet, I said.

What took you so long to come out today? She thrust her hands into her hip pockets and looked all around, amused. Look, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, I may have a lot of free time, but I don't live to stand guard over this alley from morning to night. I have some things to keep me busy. But anyhow, I'm sorry. Were you waiting long?

Not so long. I got hot standing out here.

May Kasahara stared hard at my face, then wrinkled her eyebrows slightly. Whats wrong, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? You look terrible- like somebody who's just been dug up out of the ground. Better come over here and rest in the shade for a while.

She took me by the hand and led me into her yard. There she moved a canvas deck chair into the shade of the oak tree and sat me down on it. The thick green branches cast cool shadows that had the fragrance of life. Don't worry, theres nobody here, as usual, she said.

You don't have to be the least bit concerned. Take your time. Stop thinking and relax.

I do have one favor to ask you, I said.

Try me, she said.

I want you to make a call for me. Instead of me. Taking out a notepad and pen, I wrote down the number of Kumiko's office. Then I tore off the page and handed it to her. The little vinyl-covered notepad was warm and damp with sweat. All I want you to do is call this place and ask if Kumiko Okada is there, and if shes not, ask if she came to work yesterday.

May Kasahara took the paper and looked at it, with pursed lips. Then she looked at me.

Fine, I'll take care of it. You just empty your head out and get horizontal. You are not allowed to move. I'll be right back. Once she was gone, I stretched out and closed my eyes as ordered. I was soaked with sweat from heat to foot. Trying to think, I felt a throbbing deep in my head, and I seemed to have a lump of string in the pit of my stomach. Every once in a while, a hint of nausea came over me. The neighborhood was absolutely silent. It suddenly occurred to me that I had not heard the wind-up bird for quite some time. When had I last heard it? Probably four or five days earlier. But my memory was uncertain. By the time I noticed, its cry had been missing too long to tell. Maybe it was a bird that migrated seasonally. Come to think of it, we had started hearing it about a month before. And for a time, the wind-up bird had continued each day to wind the spring of our little world. That had been the wind-up birds season.

After ten minutes, May Kasahara came back. She handed me a large glass. Ice clinked inside when I took it. The sound seemed to reach me from a distant world. There were several gates connecting that world with the place where I was, and I could hear the sound because they all just happened to be open at the moment. But this was strictly temporary. If even one of them closed, the sound would no longer reach my ears. Drink it, she said. Lemon juice in water. It'll clear your head.

I managed to drink half and returned the glass to her. The cold water passed my throat and made its way down slowly into my body, after which a violent wave of nausea overtook me. The decomposing lump of string in my stomach began to unravel and make its way up to the base of my throat. I closed my eyes and tried to let it pass. With my eyes closed, I saw Kumiko boarding the train, with her blouse and skirt in hand. I thought it might be better to vomit. But I did not vomit. I took several deep breaths until the feeling diminished and disappeared altogether. Are you OK? asked May Kasahara.

Yeah, I'm OK, I said. I made the call, she said. Told them I was a relative. That's OK, isn't it? Uh-huh. This person, Kumiko Okada, thats Mrs. Wind-Up Bird, isn't it? Uh-huh. They said she didn't come to work-today or yesterday. Just took off without a word. Its a real problem for them. Shes not the type to do this kind of thing, they said. Its true. Shes not the type. Shes been gone since yesterday? I nodded. Poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said. She sounded as if she really did feel sorry for me.

She put her hand on my forehead. Is there anything I can do? Not now, I said. But thanks. Do you mind if I ask more? Or would you rather I didn't? Go ahead, I said. I'm not sure I can answer, though. Did your wife run away with a man?

I'm not sure, I said. Maybe so. Its possible. But you've been living together all this time. How can you not be sure? She was right. How could I not be sure? Poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said again. I wish I had something to say to help you, but I don't know anything about married life. I got out of my chair. The effort required to stand was far greater than I would have imagined. Thanks for everything. You've been a big help. I've got to go now. I should be at home in case word comes. Somebody might call.

As soon as you get home, take a shower. First thing. OK? Then put on clean clothes. And shave.

Shave? I stroked my jaw. It was true: I had forgotten to shave. The thought hadn't crossed my mind all morning.

The little things are important, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, May Kasahara said, looking into my eyes. Go home and take a good look in the mirror.

I will, I said. Mind if I come over later?

Fine, I said. Then I added: You'd be a big help. May Kasahara nodded in silence.

At home, I looked at my face in the mirror. It was true: I looked terrible. I got undressed, showered, gave myself a good shampoo, shaved, brushed my teeth, put aftershave lotion on my face, and went to the mirror again for a close examination. A little better than before, it seemed. My nausea was gone. My head was still a little foggy, though.

I put on short pants and a fresh polo shirt. I sat on the veranda, leaning against a pillar and watching the garden while my hair dried. I tried to put the events of recent days in order. First there was the call from Lieutenant Mamiya. That had been yesterday morning? Yes, no doubt about it: yesterday morning. Then Kumiko had left the house. I had zipped up her dress. Then I had found the cologne box. Then Lieutenant Mamiya had come and told me his strange war stories: how he had been captured by Outer Mongolian troops and thrown into a well. He had left me the keepsake from Mr. Honda. An empty box. Then Kumiko had failed to come home. She had picked up her cleaning that morning by the station and afterward just disappeared somewhere. Without a word to her company. So that was what had happened yesterday.

I could hardly believe that all that had happened in the course of a single day. It was too much for one day.

As I mulled these things over, I began to feel incredibly sleepy. This was not an ordinary kind of sleepiness. It was an intense, even violent, sleepiness. Sleep was stripping me of consciousness the way the clothes might be stripped from the body of an unresisting person. I went to the bedroom without thinking, took everything off but my underwear, and got in bed. I tried to look at the clock on the night table, but I couldn't even turn my head sideways. I closed my eyes and fell instantly into a deep, bottomless sleep.

In my sleep, I was zipping up Kumiko's dress. I could see her smooth white back. But by the time I had the zipper to the top, I realized it was not Kumiko but Creta Kano. She and I were the only ones in the room.

It was the same room as in the last dream: a room in the same hotel suite. On the table was a bottle of Cutty Sark and two glasses. There was also a stainless-steel ice bucket, full of ice. In the corridor outside, someone was passing by, speaking in a loud voice. I couldn't catch the words, which seemed to be in a foreign language. An unlighted chandelier hung from the ceiling. The only illumination in this murky room came from lamps mounted on the wall. Again the windows had thick curtains that were closed tight.

Creta Kano was wearing a summer dress of Kumiko's: pale blue, with an openwork pattern of birds. The skirt came to just above her knees. As always, her makeup was in the Jacqueline Kennedy style. On her left wrist she wore a matched pair of bracelets.

How did you get that dress? I asked. Is it yours?

Creta Kano looked at me and shook her head. When she did this, the curled tips of her hair moved in a pleasant way. No, it is not mine, she said. I'm borrowing it. But don't worry, Mr. Okada, this is not causing anyone any difficulty.

Where are we? I asked.

Creta Kano didn't answer. As before, I was sitting on the edge of the bed. I wore a suit and my polka-dot tie.

You don't have to think about a thing, Mr. Okada, said Creta Kano. There is nothing to worry about. Everything is going to be fine.

And again, as before, she unzipped my fly, took out my penis, and put it in her mouth.

The one thing different from before was that she did not take off her own clothing. She wore Kumiko's dress the whole time. I tried to move, but it felt as if my body were tied down by invisible threads. I felt myself growing big and hard inside her mouth.

I saw her fake eyelashes and curled hair tips moving. Her bracelets made a dry sound against each other. Her tongue was long and soft and seemed to wrap itself around me. Just as I was about to come, she suddenly moved away and began slowly to undress me. She took off my jacket, my tie, my pants, my shirt, my underwear, and made me lie down on the bed. Her own clothes she kept on, though. She sat on the bed, took my hand, and brought it under her dress. She was not wearing panties. My hand felt the warmth of her vagina. It was deep, warm, and very wet. My fingers were all but sucked inside.

Wont Noboru Wataya be here any minute? I asked. Weren't you expecting to see him here?

Instead of answering, Creta Kano touched my forehead. You don't have to think, Mr. Okada. Well take care of all that. Leave everything to us.

To us? I asked, but there was no reply.

Then Creta Kano mounted me and used her hand to slip me inside her. Once she had me deep inside, she began a slow rotation of her hips. As she moved, the edges of the pale-blue dress caressed my naked stomach and thighs. With the skirts of the dress spread out around her, Creta Kano, riding atop me, looked like a soft, gigantic mushroom that had silently poked its face up through the dead leaves on the ground and opened under the sheltering wings of night. Her vagina felt warm and at the same time cold. It tried to envelop me, to draw me in, and at the same time to press me out. My erection grew larger and harder. I felt I was about to burst wide open. It was the strangest sensation, something that went beyond simple sexual pleasure. It felt as if something inside her, something special inside her, were slowly working its way through my organ into me.

With her eyes closed and her chin lifted slightly, Creta Kano rocked quietly forward and back as if she were dreaming. I could see her chest rising and falling with each breath beneath the dress. A few hairs had come loose and hung over her forehead. I imagined myself floating alone in the middle of a vast sea. I closed my eyes and listened, expecting to hear the sound of little waves hitting my face. My body was bathed in lukewarm ocean water. I sensed the gradual flow of the tide. It was carrying me away. I decided to do as Creta Kano had said and not think about anything. I closed my eyes, let the strength go out of my limbs, and gave myself up to the current.

All of a sudden, I noticed that the room had gone dark. I tried to look around, but I could hardly see a thing. The wall lamps had all been extinguished. There was only the faint silhouette of Creta Kano's blue dress rocking on top of me. Just forget, she said, but it was not Creta Kano's voice. Forget about everything. You're asleep. You're dreaming. You're lying in nice, warm mud. We all come out of the warm mud, and we all go back to it.

It was the voice of the woman on the telephone. The mysterious woman on the phone was now mounted atop me and joining her body with mine. She, too, wore Kumiko's dress. She and Creta Kano had traded places without my being aware of it. I tried to speak. I did not know what I was hoping to say, but at least I tried to speak. I was too confused, though, and my voice would not work. All I could expel from my mouth was a hot blast of air. I opened my eyes wide and tried to see the face of the woman mounted on top of me, but the room was too dark.

The woman said nothing more. Instead, she began to move her hips in an even more erotically stimulating way. Her soft flesh, itself almost an independent organism, enveloped my erection with a gentle pulling motion. From behind her I heard-or thought I heard-the sound of a knob being turned. A white flash went through the darkness. The ice bucket on the table might have shone momentarily in the light from the corridor. Or the flash might have been the glint of a sharp blade. But I couldn't think anymore. There was only one thing I could do: I came.

I washed myself off in the shower and laundered my semen-stained underwear by hand. Terrific, I thought. Why did I have to be having wet dreams at such a difficult time in my life?

Once again I put on fresh clothing, and once again I sat on the veranda, looking at the garden. Splashes of sunlight danced on everything, filtered through thick green leaves. Several days of rain had promoted the powerful growth of bright-green weeds here and there, giving the garden a subtle shading of ruin and stagnation.

Creta Kano again. Two wet dreams in a short interval, and both times it had been Creta Kano. Never once had I thought of sleeping with her. The desire had not even flashed through my mind. And yet both times I had been in that room, joining my body with hers. What could possibly be the reason for this? And who was that telephone woman who had taken her place? She knew me, and I supposedly knew her. I went through the various sexual partners I had had in life, but none of them was the telephone woman. Still, there was something about her that seemed familiar. And that was what annoyed me so.

Some kind of memory was trying to find its way out. I could feel it in there, bumping around. All I needed was a little hint. If I pulled that one tiny thread, then everything would come unraveled. The mystery was waiting for me to solve it. But the one slim thread was something I couldn't find.

I gave up trying to think. Forget everything. You're asleep. You're dreaming. You're lying in nice, warm mud. We all come out of the warm mud, and we all go back to it.

Six o'clock came, and still no phone call. Only May Kasahara showed up. All she wanted, she said, was a sip of beer. I took a cold can from the refrigerator and split it with her. I was hungry, so I put some ham and lettuce between two slices of bread and ate that. When she saw me eating, May said she would like the same. I made her a sandwich too. We ate in silence and drank our beer. I kept looking up at the wall clock.

Don't you have a TV in this house? No TV, I said. She gave the edge of her lip a little bite. I kinda figured that. Don't you like TV? I don't dislike it. I get along fine without it. May Kasahara let that sink in for a while. How many years have you been married, Mr.

Wind-Up Bird? Six years, I said. And you did without TV for six years? Uh-huh. At first we didn't have the money to buy one. Then we got used to living without it. Its nice and quiet that way. The two of you must have been happy. What makes you think so? She wrinkled up her face. Well, I couldn't live a day without television. Because you're unhappy? May Kasahara did not reply to that. But now Kumiko is gone. You must not be so happy anymore, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. I nodded and sipped my beer. That's about the size of it, I said. That was about the size of it. She put a cigarette between her lips and, in a practiced motion, struck a match to light it.

Now, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said, I want you to tell me the absolute truth: Do you think I'm ugly? I put my beer glass down and took another look at May Kasahara's face. All this time while talking with her, I had been vaguely thinking of other things. She was wearing an oversize black tank top, which gave a clear view of the girlish swell of her breasts.

You're not the least bit ugly, I said. That's for sure. Why do you ask? My boyfriend always used to tell me how ugly I was, that I didn't have any boobs. The boy who wrecked the bike? Yeah, him. I watched May Kasahara slowly exhaling her cigarette smoke. Boys that age will say things like that. They don't know how to express exactly what they feel, so they say and do the exact opposite. They hurt people that way, for no reason at all, and they hurt themselves too. Anyhow, you're not the least bit ugly. I think you're very cute. No flattery intended.

May Kasahara mulled that one over for a while. She dropped ashes into the empty beer can. Is Mrs. Wind-Up Bird pretty?

Hmm, thats hard for me to say. Some would say she is, and some would say not. Its a matter of taste.

I see, she said. She tapped on her glass as if bored. Whats your biker boyfriend doing? I asked. Doesn't he come to see you anymore? No, he doesn't, said May Kasahara, laying a finger on the scar by her left eye. I'll never see him again, thats for sure. Two hundred percent sure. Id bet my left little toe on it. But Id rather not talk about that right now. Some things, you know, if you say them, it makes them not true? You know what I mean, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?

I think I do, I said. Then I glanced at the phone in the living room. It sat on the table, cloaked in silence. It looked like a deep-sea creature pretending to be an inanimate object, crouching there in wait for its prey.

Someday, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, I'll tell you all about him. When I feel like it. But not now. I just don't feel like it now.

She looked at her watch. Gotta get home. Thanks for the beer.

I saw her out to the garden wall. A nearly full moon was pouring its grainy light down to the earth. The sight of the full moon reminded me that Kumiko's period was approaching. But that would probably have nothing to do with me anymore. The thought sent a sharp pain through my chest. The intensity of it caught me off guard: it resembled sorrow.

With her hand on the wall, May Kasahara looked at me. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you do love Kumiko, don't you?

I think I do.

Even though she might have gone off with a lover? If she said she wanted to come back to you, would you take her back?

I released a sigh. That's a tough question, I said. Id have to think about it once it really happened.

Sorry for sticking my nose in, said May Kasahara, with a little click of the tongue. But don't get mad. I'm just trying to learn. I want to know what it means for a wife to run away. There're all kinds of things I don't know.

I'm not mad, I said. Then I looked up at the full moon again.

All right, then, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. You take care of yourself. I hope your wife comes back and everything works out. Moving with incredible lightness, May Kasahara swung herself over the wall and disappeared into the summer night.

With May Kasahara gone, I was alone again. I sat on the veranda, thinking about the questions she had raised. If Kumiko had gone off somewhere with a lover, could I take her back again? I didn't know the answer. I really didn't know. There were all kinds of things that I didn't know.

Suddenly the phone rang. My hand shot out in a conditioned reflex and picked up the receiver.

The voice at the other end belonged to a woman. This is Malta Kano, she said. Please forgive me for calling you so often, Mr. Okada, but I was wondering if you might happen to have any plans for tomorrow.

I had no plans, I said. Plans were simply something I did not have.

In that case, I wonder if it might be possible for me to see you after noon.

Does this have something to do with Kumiko?

I do believe that it does, said Malta Kano, choosing her words carefully. Noboru Wataya will also be joining us, most likely.

I almost dropped the receiver when I heard this. You mean the three of us will be getting together to talk?

Yes, I believe that is the case, said Malta Kano. The present situation makes this necessary. I am sorry, but I cannot go into any further detail on the telephone.

I see. All right, then, I said.

Shall we meet at one o'clock? In the same place we met before: the tearoom of the Shinagawa Pacific Hotel.

One o'clock in the tearoom of the Shinagawa Pacific Hotel, I said, and hung up.

May Kasahara called at ten o'clock. She had nothing in particular to say; she just wanted to talk to somebody. We chatted about harmless topics for a while. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said in the end. Have you had any good news since I was there? No good news, I said. Nothing.

3 Noboru Wataya Speaks The Story of the Monkeys of the Shitty Island

I arrived at the tearoom ten minutes early, but Noboru Wataya and Malta Kano had already found a table and were waiting for me. The lunchtime crowd was thick, but I spotted Malta Kano immediately. Not too many people wore red vinyl hats on sunny summer afternoons. It must have been the same hat she had on the day I met her, unless she owned a collection of vinyl hats, all the same style and color. She dressed with the same tasteful simplicity as before: a short-sleeved linen jacket over a collarless cotton top. Both pieces were perfectly white and perfectly free of wrinkles. No accessories, no makeup. Only the red vinyl hat clashed with the rest of the outfit, both in ambience and in material. As if she had been waiting for my arrival to do so, she removed the hat when I took my seat, placing it on the table. Beside the hat lay a small yellow leather handbag. She had ordered some sort of tonic water but had not touched it, as before. The liquid seemed vaguely uncomfortable in its tall glass, as if it had nothing better to do than produce its little bubbles.

Noboru Wataya was wearing green sunglasses. As soon as I sat down, he removed them and stared at the lenses for a while, then he put them back on. He wore what looked like a brand-new white polo shirt under a navy cotton sports coat. There was a glass of iced tea on the table in front of him, but he had apparently not touched his drink yet, either.

I ordered coffee and took a sip of ice water.

No one said anything. Noboru Wataya appeared not to have even noticed that I had arrived. In order to make sure that I had not suddenly turned transparent, I put a hand on the table and watched it as I turned it over and back a few times. Eventually, the waiter came, set a cup in front of me, and filled it with coffee. After he left, Malta Kano made little throat- clearing sounds as if testing a microphone, but still she said nothing.

The first to speak was Noboru Wataya. I have very little time to spare, so lets make this as simple and straightforward as possible. He seemed to be talking to the stainless-steel sugar bowl in the middle of the table, but of course he was speaking to me. The sugar bowl was just a convenient midpoint between us, toward which he could direct his speech.

Make what as simple and straightforward as possible? I asked straightforwardly.

At last Noboru Wataya took off his sunglasses, folded them, placed them on the table, and looked directly at me. More than three years had gone by since I had last met and spoken to the man, but I felt no sense of the intervening time- thanks, I assumed, to having had his face thrust in front of me so often by the media. Certain kinds of information are like smoke: they work their way into peoples eyes and minds whether sought out or not, and with no regard to personal preference.

Forced now to see the man in person, I couldn't help but notice how much the three years had changed the impression his face made. That almost stagnant, muddy look of his had been pushed into the background, to be covered over by something slick and artificial. Noboru Wataya had managed to find for himself a new, more sophisticated mask-a very well-made mask, to be sure: perhaps even a new skin. Whatever it was, mask or skin, I had to admit-yes, even I had to admit-that it had a certain kind of attractive power. And then it hit me: looking at this face was like looking at a television image. He talked the way people on television talked, and he moved the way people on television moved. There was always a layer of glass between us. I was on this side, and he was on that side.

As I am sure you must realize, we are here today to talk about Kumiko, said Noboru Wataya. About Kumiko and you. About your future. What you and she are going to do.

Going to do? I said, lifting my coffee cup and taking a sip. Can you be a little more concrete?

Noboru Wataya looked at me with strangely expressionless eyes. A little more concrete? Kumiko has taken a lover. Shes left you. Surely you are not suggesting that anyone involved in the present situation wants it to continue indefinitely. That would not be good for anyone.

Taken a lover? I asked.

Now please, wait just a moment. Malta Kano chose at this point to intervene. A discussion such as this has its own proper order. Mr. Wataya, Mr. Okada, it is important to proceed with this discussion in an orderly fashion.

I don't see that, said Noboru Wataya, without any sense of life in his voice. Theres no order to this. What kind of order do you mean? This discussion doesn't have any.

Let him speak first, I said to Malta Kano. We can add the proper order afterward- assuming there is one.

Malta Kano looked at me for a few seconds with her lips lightly pursed, then gave a little nod. All right, then, she said. Mr. Wataya first. Please.

Kumiko has had another man in her life, he began. And now shes gone off with him.

This much is clear. Which means there would be no point in your continuing to stay married. Fortunately, there are no children involved, and in view of the circumstances, no money need change hands. Everything can be settled quickly. She simply pulls out of your family register. You just have to sign and put your seal on forms prepared by a lawyer, and that takes care of that. And let me add this to avoid any misunderstanding: What I am saying now is the final view of the entire Wataya family.

I folded my arms and mulled over his words for a time. I have a few questions, I said. First of all, how do you know that Kumiko has another man?

She told me so herself, said Noboru Wataya.

I did not know what to say to that. I put my hands on the table and remained silent. It was hard for me to imagine Kumiko going to Noboru Wataya with such a personal matter.

She called me a week ago and said she had something to discuss, continued Noboru Wataya. We met and talked. Face-to-face. That's when Kumiko told me she was seeing a man.

For the first time in months, I felt like a smoke. Of course, I had no cigarettes with me. Instead, I took a sip of coffee and put the cup back in the saucer with a loud, dry clash.

Then she left home, he said.

I see, I said. If you say so, it must be true. Kumiko must have had a lover. And she went to you for advice. Its still hard for me to believe, but I cant imagine your lying to me about such a thing.

No, of course I'm not lying, said Noboru Wataya, with the hint of a smile on his lips.

So is that all you have to tell me? Kumiko left me for another man, so I should agree to a divorce?

Noboru Wataya responded with a single small nod, as if he were trying to conserve energy. I suppose you realize that I was not in favor of Kumiko's marrying you, to begin with. I took no positive steps to interfere, on the assumption that it was a matter that did not concern me, but now I almost wish I had. He took a sip of water and quietly set his glass on the table again. Then he continued: From the first day I met you I knew better than to hope you might amount to anything. I saw no sign of promise, nothing in you that suggested you might accomplish something worthwhile or even turn yourself into a respectable human being: nothing there to shine or to shed light on anything. I knew that whatever you set your hand to would end up half-baked, that you would never see anything through to the end. And I was right. You have been married to my sister for six years, and what have you done in all that time? Nothing, right? All you've accomplished in six long years is to quit your job and ruin Kumiko's life. Now you're out of work and you have no plans for the future. Theres nothing inside that head of yours but garbage and rocks. Why Kumiko ever got together with the likes of you I'll never understand. Maybe she thought the garbage and rocks in your head were interesting. But finally, garbage is garbage and rocks are rocks. You were wrong for her from the start. Which is not to say that Kumiko was all perfection, either. Shes had her own oddities since childhood, for one reason or another. I suppose thats why she was momentarily attracted to you. But thats all over now. In any case, the best thing will be to finish this business as quickly as possible. My parents and I will watch out for Kumiko. We want you to back off. And don't try to find her. You've got nothing to do with her anymore. All you can do is cause trouble if you try to get involved. The best thing you can do is begin a new life in a new place-a life that is better suited to you. That would be best for you and best for us.

To signal that he was finished, Noboru Wataya drained the water remaining in his glass, called the waiter, and ordered more.

Do you have anything else to say? I asked. Noboru Wataya responded this time with a single small shake of the head. In that case, I said to Malta Kano, where does the proper order come into this discussion?

Malta Kano took a small white handkerchief from her bag and used it to wipe the corners of her mouth. Then she picked up her red vinyl hat from the table and set it on top of the bag.

I'm certain this is all very shocking to you, Mr. Okada, she said. And for my part, I find it extremely painful to be speaking about such things with you face-to-face, as you can imagine.

Noboru Wataya glanced at his watch in order to ascertain that the world was still spinning on its axis and costing him precious time.

I see now, Malta Kano continued, that I must tell you this as simply and straightforwardly as possible. Mrs. Okada came to see me first. She came to me for advice.

On my recommendation, interjected Noboru Wataya. Kumiko came to talk to me about the cat, and I introduced her to Ms. Kano.

Was that before I met you or after? I asked Malta Kano. Before, she said. In that case, I said, to put things in their proper order, it went something like this.

Kumiko learned about your existence from Noboru Wataya, and she went to see you about the lost cat. Then, for some reason that is still not clear to me, she hid from me the fact that she had already met you, and arranged for me to see you-which I did, in this very place. Am I right?

That is approximately correct, said Malta Kano, with some difficulty. My first discussion with Mrs. Okada was strictly about the cat. I could tell there was something more to it than that, however, which is why I wanted to meet you and speak with you directly. Then it became necessary for me to meet with Mrs. Okada one more time and to ask about deeper, personal matters.

Which is when Kumiko told you she had a lover.

Yes. In summary, I believe that is the case. Given my position, it is not possible for me to go into any greater detail than that, said Malta Kano.

I released a sigh. Not that sighing was going to accomplish anything, but it was something I had to do. So, then, Kumiko had been involved with this man for some time?

Two and a half months or thereabouts, I believe.

Two and a half months, I said. How could it have been going on for two and a half months and I didn't notice a thing?

Because, Mr. Okada, you had absolutely no doubts about your wife, said Malta Kano.

I nodded. That's true. It never once crossed my mind. I never imagined Kumiko could lie to me like that, and I still cant really believe it.

Results aside, the ability to have complete faith in another human being is one of the finest qualities a person can possess.

Not an easy ability to come by, said Noboru Wataya.

The waiter approached and refilled my coffee cup. A young woman at the next table was laughing out loud.

So, then, I said to Noboru Wataya, what is the ultimate purpose of this gathering? Why are the three of us together here? To get me to agree to divorce Kumiko? Or is there some deeper objective? There did seem to be a kind of logic to what you said earlier, but all the important parts are vague. You say Kumiko has a man and has left the house. So where did she go? What is she doing there? Is she by herself or is she with him? Why hasn't Kumiko gotten in touch with me? If its true she has another man, thats the end of that. But I wont believe its true until I hear it directly from her. Do you see what I mean? The only ones who count here are Kumiko and me. Were the ones who have to talk to each other and decide things. You've got nothing to do with this.

Noboru Wataya pushed his untouched glass of iced tea aside. We are here to inform you of the situation, he said. I asked Ms. Kano to accompany me, thinking it would be better to have a third party present. I don't know who Kumiko's other man is, and I don't know where she is now. Kumiko is all grown up. She can do as she pleases. But even if I knew where she was, I certainly wouldn't tell you. She hasn't gotten in touch with you because she doesn't want to talk to you.

She did want to talk to you, apparently. How much could she have told you? You and she are not very close, as I understand it.

Well, if you and she were so damn close, why did she sleep with another man? said Noboru Wataya.

Malta Kano gave a little cough.

Noboru Wataya went on: Kumiko told me she has a relationship with another man. She said she wants to settle everything once and for all. I advised her to divorce you. She said she would think about it.

Is that all? I asked. What else is there? I just don't get it, I said. I don't believe that Kumiko would go to you with something so important. You're the last person she would consult on such a matter. She would either think it out for herself or speak to me directly. She must have said something else to you. If she had to talk to you in person, it must have been about something else.

Noboru Wataya allowed the faintest possible smile to play over his lips-a thin, cold smile like a sliver of a moon hovering in the dawn sky. This is what they mean by letting the truth slip out, he said, in a soft but clearly audible voice.

Letting the truth slip out, I said, testing the expression for myself. I'm sure you see my point, he said. Your wife sleeps with another man. She runs out on you. And then you try to pin the blame on someone else. I've never heard of anything so stupid. Look, I didn't come here for my own pleasure. It was something I had to do. For me, its just a waste of time. I might as well be throwing my time into the gutter. When he had finished speaking, a deep silence settled over the table. Do you know the story of the monkeys of the shitty island? I asked Noboru Wataya.

He shook his head, with no sign of interest. Never heard of it. Somewhere, far, far away, theres a shitty island. An island without a name. An island not worth giving a name. A shitty island with a shitty shape. On this shitty island grow palm trees that also have shitty shapes. And the palm trees produce coconuts that give off a shitty smell. Shitty monkeys live in the trees, and they love to eat these shitty-smelling coconuts, after which they shit the worlds foulest shit. The shit falls on the ground and builds up shitty mounds, making the shitty palm trees that grow on them even shittier. Its an endless cycle. I drank the rest of my coffee.

As I sat here looking at you, I continued, I suddenly remembered the story of this shitty island. What I'm trying to say is this: A certain kind of shittiness, a certain kind of stagnation, a certain kind of darkness, goes on propagating itself with its own power in its own self-contained cycle. And once it passes a certain point, no one can stop it-even if the person himself wants to stop it.

Noboru Wataya's face wore no expression of any kind. The smile was gone, but neither was there any shadow of annoyance. All I could see was one small wrinkle between his eyebrows, and I could not recall if it was something that had been there before.

Are you catching my drift, Mr. Wataya? I went on. I know exactly the sort of man you are. You say I'm like garbage or rocks. And you think you could smash me to bits anytime you felt like it. But things are not that simple. To you, with your values, I may well be nothing but garbage and rocks. But I'm not as stupid as you think I am. I know exactly what you've got under that smooth, made-for-TV mask of yours. I know your secret. Kumiko knows and I know: we both know whats under there. If I wanted to, I could tell it to the world. I could bring it out into the light. It might take time, but I could do it. I may be a nobody, but at least I'm not a sandbag. I'm a living, breathing human being. If somebody hits me, I hit back. Make sure you keep that in mind.

Noboru Wataya went on staring at me with that expressionless face of his- a face like a chunk of rock floating in space. What I had said to him was almost pure bluff. I did not know Noboru Wataya's secret. That he had something profoundly warped inside him was not difficult to imagine. But I had no way of knowing with any concrete certainty what that might be. My words, though, seemed to have jabbed at something in there. I could read the effect on his face. He didn't respond to me the way he always did to his opponents in televised panel discussions: he didn't sneer at my words or try to trip me up or find some clever opening. He sat there in silence, without moving a muscle.

Then something very odd began to happen to Noboru Wataya's face. Little by little, it started to turn red. But it did this in the strangest way. Certain patches turned a deep red, while others reddened only slightly, and the rest appeared to have become weirdly pale. This made me think of an autumn wood of blotchy colors where deciduous and evergreen trees grew in a chaotic mix.

Eventually, without a word, Noboru Wataya stood up, took his sunglasses from his pocket, and put them on. The strange, blotchy colors still covered his face. They looked almost permanent now. Malta Kano remained perfectly still in her seat, saying nothing. I myself adopted an expression of complete indifference. Noboru Wataya began to say some- thing to me but, in the end, seemed to have decided against it. Instead, he walked away from the table and disappeared into the crowd.

For a time after Noboru Wataya left, Malta Kano and I said nothing to each other. I felt exhausted. The waiter came and offered to refill my coffee cup, but I sent him away. Malta Kano picked up her red hat from the table and stared at it for a few minutes before setting it down on the chair next to her.

I sensed a bitter taste in my mouth. I tried to wash it away by drinking some water, but this did no good.

After another short interval, Malta Kano spoke. Feelings need to be let out sometimes. Otherwise, the flow can stagnate inside. I'm sure you feel better now that you have said what you wanted to say.

A little, I said. But it didn't solve anything. It didn't bring anything to a conclusion. You don't like Mr. Wataya, do you, Mr. Okada? Every time I talk to that guy, I get this incredibly empty feeling inside. Every single object in the room begins to look as if it has no substance to it. Everything appears hollow. Exactly why this should be, I could never explain to you with any precision. Because of this feeling, I end up saying and doing things that are simply not me. And I feel terrible about it afterward. If I could manage never to see him again, nothing would make me happier.

Malta Kano shook her head. Unfortunately, you will be required to encounter Mr. Wataya any number of times again. This is something you will not be able to avoid.

She was probably right. I couldn't get him out of my life so easily.

I picked up my glass and took another drink of water. Where had that awful taste come from?

Theres just one thing I would like to ask you, I said. Whose side are you on here? Noboru Wataya's or mine?

Malta Kano put her elbows on the table and brought her palms together before her face. Neither, she said. There are no sides in this case. They simply do not exist. This is not the kind of thing that has a top and bottom, a right and left, a front and back, Mr. Okada.

Sounds like Zen, I said. Interesting enough in itself as a system of thought, but not much good for explaining anything.

She nodded her head. The palms that she was pressing together in front of her face she now pulled three inches apart, holding them at a slight angle and aiming them toward me.

They were small, well-shaped palms. I know that what I am saying does not seem to make a great deal of sense. And I don't blame you for being angry. But if I were to tell you anything now, it would serve no practical purpose. In fact, it would ruin things. You will have to win with your own strength. With your own hands.

Like on Wild Kingdom, I said with a smile. You get hit, you hit back.

That's it, said Malta Kano. Exactly. Then, with all the care of someone retrieving the belongings of a person newly dead, she picked up her handbag and put on her red vinyl hat.

When she set the hat on her head, Malta Kano conveyed a strangely tangible impression that a unit of time had now come to an end.

After Malta Kano had left, I went on sitting there alone, with nothing particular on my mind. I had no idea where I should go or what I should do if I were to stand up. But of course I couldn't stay there forever. When twenty minutes had gone by like this, I paid for the three of us and left the tearoom. Neither of the other two had paid.

4 Divine GraceLost Prostitute of the Mind

At home, I found a thick letter in the mailbox. It was from Lieutenant Mamiya. My name and address had been written on the envelope in the same bold, handsome characters as before. I changed clothes, washed my face, and went to the kitchen, where I drank two glasses of cold water. Once I had had a moment to catch my breath, I cut the letter open.

Lieutenant Mamiya had used a fountain pen to fill some ten thin sheets of letter paper with tiny characters. I flipped through the pages and put them back into the envelope. I was too tired to read such a long letter; I didn't have the powers of concentration just then. When my eyes scanned the rows of handwritten characters, they looked like a swarm of strange blue bugs. And besides, the voice of Noboru Wataya was still echoing faintly in my mind.

I stretched out on the sofa and closed my eyes for a long time, thinking of nothing. It was not hard for me to think of nothing, the way I felt at the moment. In order not to think of any one thing, all I had to do was think of many things, a little at a time: just think about something for a moment and fling it into space.

It was nearly five o'clock in the evening when I finally decided to read Lieutenant Mamiya's letter. I went out to the veranda, sat leaning against a pillar, and took the pages from the envelope.

The whole first page was filled with conventional phrases: extended seasonal greetings, thanks for my having invited him to my home the other day, and profound apologies for having bored me with his endless stories. Lieutenant Mamiya was certainly a man who knew the civilities. He had survived from an age when such civilities occupied a major portion of daily life. I skimmed through those and turned to the second page.

Please forgive me for having gone on at such length with these preliminary matters [it began]. My sole purpose in writing this letter today, knowing full well that my presumptuousness in doing so can only burden you with an unwanted task, is to inform you that the events I recently told you about were neither a fabrication of mine nor the dubious reminiscences of an old man, but are the complete and solemn truth in every particular. As you know, the war ended a very long time ago, and memory naturally degenerates as the years go by. Memories and thoughts age, just as people do. But certain thoughts can never age, and certain memories can never fade.

Up to and including this very day, I have never told any of these things to anyone but you, Mr. Okada. To most people, these stories of mine would sound like the most incredible fabrications. The majority of people dismiss those things that lie beyond the bounds of their own understanding as absurd and not worth thinking about. I myself can only wish that my stories were, indeed, nothing but incredible fabrications. I have stayed alive all these years clinging to the frail hope that these memories of mine were nothing but a dream or a delusion. I have struggled to convince myself that they never happened. But each time I tried to push them into the dark, they came back stronger and more vivid than ever. Like cancer cells, these memories have taken root in my mind and eaten into my flesh.

Even now I can recall each tiny detail with such terrible clarity, I feel I am remembering events that happened yesterday. I can hold the sand and the grass in my hands; I can even smell them. I can see the shapes of the clouds in the sky. I can feel the dry, sandy wind against my cheeks. By comparison, it is the subsequent events of my life that seem like delusions on the borderline of dream and reality.

The very roots of my life-those things that I can say once truly belonged to me alone-were frozen stiff or burned away out there, on the steppes of Outer Mongolia, where there was nothing to obstruct ones vision as far as the eye could see. Afterward, I lost my hand in that fierce battle with the Soviet tank unit that attacked across the border; I tasted unimaginable hardships in a Siberian labor camp in the dead of winter; I was repatriated and served for thirty uneventful years as a social studies teacher in a rural high school; and I have since lived alone, tilling the land. But all those subsequent months and years to me feel like nothing but an illusion. It is as if they never happened. In an instant, my memory leaps across that empty shell of time and takes me back to the wilds of Hulunbuir.

What cost me my life, what turned it into that empty shell, I believe, was something in the light I saw at the bottom of the well-that intense light of the sun that penetrated straight down to the very bottom of the well for ten or twenty seconds. It would come without warning, and disappear just as suddenly. But in that momentary flood of light I saw something-saw something once and for all-that I could never see again as long as I lived. And having seen it, I was no longer the same person I had been.

What happened down there? What did it mean? Even now, more than forty years later, I cannot answer those questions with any certainty. Which is why what I am about to say is strictly a hypothesis, a tentative explanation that I have fashioned for myself without the benefit of any logical basis. I do believe, however, that this hypothesis of mine is, for now, the closest that anyone can come to the truth of what it was that I experienced.

Outer Mongolian troops had thrown me into a deep, dark well in the middle of the steppe, my leg and shoulder were broken, I had neither food nor water: I was simply waiting to die. Before that, I had seen a man skinned alive. Under these special circumstances, I believe, my consciousness had attained such a viscid state of concentration that when the intense beam of light shone down for those few seconds, I was able to descend directly into a place that might be called the very core of my own consciousness. In any case, I saw the shape of something there. Just imagine: Everything around me is bathed in light. I am in the very center of a flood of light. My eyes can see nothing. I am simply enveloped in light. But something begins to appear there. In the midst of my momentary blindness, something is trying to take shape. Some thing. Some thing that possesses life. Like the shadow in a solar eclipse, it begins to emerge, black, in the light. But I can never quite make out its form. It is trying to come to me, trying to confer upon me something very much like heavenly grace. I wait for it, trembling. But then, either because it has changed its mind or because there is not enough time, it never comes to me. The moment before it takes full shape, it dissolves and melts once again into the light. Then the light itself fades. The time for the light to shine down into the well has ended.

This happened two days in a row. Exactly the same thing. Something began to take shape in the overflowing light, then faded before it could reach a state of fullness. Down in the well, I was suffering with hunger and thirst-suffering terribly. But finally, this was not of major importance. What I suffered with most down there in the well was the torture of being unable to attain a clear view of that something in the light: the hunger of being unable to see what I needed to see, the thirst of being unable to know what I needed to know. Had I been able to see it clearly, I would not have minded dying right then and there. I truly felt that way. I would have sacrificed anything for a full view of its form.

Finally, though, the form was snatched away from me forever. The grace came to an end before it could be given to me. And as I said earlier, the life I led after emerging from that hole in the ground was nothing but a hollow, empty shell. Which is why, when the Soviet Army invaded Manchuria just before the end of the war, I volunteered to be sent to the front. In the Siberian labor camp, too, I purposely strove to have myself placed in the most difficult circumstances. No matter what I did, however, I could not die. Just as Corporal Honda had predicted that night, I was fated to return to Japan and live an amazingly long life. I remember how happy that news made me when I first heard it. But it turned out to be, if any- thing, a curse. It was not that I would not die: I could not die. Corporal Honda had been right about that too: I would have been better off not knowing.

When the revelation and the grace were lost, my life was lost. Those living things that had once been there inside me, that had been for that reason of some value, were dead now. Not one thing was left. They had all been burned to ashes in that fierce light. The heat emitted by that revelation or grace had seared away the very core of the life that made me the person I was. Surely I had lacked the strength to resist that heat. And so I feel no fear of death. If anything, my physical death would be, for me, a form of salvation. It would liberate me forever from this hopeless prison, this pain of being me.

Again I have burdened you with an overlong tale. I beg your forgiveness. But what I want to convey to you, Mr. Okada, is this: I happened to lose my life at one particular moment in time, and I have gone on living these forty years or more with my life lost. As a person who finds himself in such a position, I have come to think that life is a far more limited thing than those in the midst of its maelstrom realize. The light shines into the act of life for only the briefest moment-perhaps only a matter of seconds. Once it is gone and one has failed to grasp its offered revelation, there is no second chance. One may have to live the rest of ones life in hopeless depths of loneliness and remorse. In that twilight world, one can no longer look forward to anything. All that such a person holds in his hands is the withered corpse of what should have been.

In any case, I am grateful for the chance to have met you, Mr. Okada, and to have told you my story. Whether it will ever be of any use to you, I cannot be certain. But by telling it to you, I feel that I have attained a kind of salvation. Frail and tenuous though it may be, to me any kind of salvation is a treasure. Nor can I but sense the presence of the subtle threads of fate to think that Mr. Honda was the one who guided me to it. Please remember, Mr. Okada, that there is someone here sending his best wishes to you for a happy life in the years to come.

I read through the letter one more time, with care, and returned it to its envelope. Lieutenant Mamiya's letter moved my heart in strange ways, but to my mind it brought only vague and distant images. Lieutenant Mamiya was a man I could trust and accept, and I could also accept as fact those things that he declared to be facts. But the very concept of fact or truth had little power to persuade me just then. What most moved me in his letter was the sense of frustration that permeated the lieutenants words: the frustration of never quite being able to depict or explain anything to his full satisfaction.

I went to the kitchen for a drink of water. Then I wandered around the house. In the bedroom, I sat on the bed and looked at Kumiko's dresses lined up in the closet. And I thought, What has been the point of my life until now? I saw what Noboru Wataya had been talking about. My first reaction to his words had been anger, but I had to admit that he was right. You have been married to my sister for six years, he had said, and what have you done in all that time? Nothing, right? All you've accomplished in six long years is to quit your job and ruin Kumiko's life. Now you're out of work and you have no plans for the future. Theres nothing inside that head of yours but garbage and rocks. I had no choice but to admit the accuracy of his remarks. Objectively speaking, I had done nothing meaningful in these six years, and what I had in my head was indeed something very like garbage and rocks. I was a zero. Just as he had said.

But was it true that I had ruined Kumiko's life?

For a long time, I looked at her dresses and blouses and skirts in the closet. They were the shadows Kumiko had left behind. Bereft of their owner, these shadows could only hang where they were, limp. I went to the bathroom and took out the bottle of Christian Dior cologne that someone had given to Kumiko. I opened it and smelled it. It was the fragrance I had smelled behind Kumiko's ears the morning she had left the house. I slowly poured the entire contents into the sink. As the liquid flowed down the drain, a strong smell of flowers (the exact name of which I tried but failed to recall) hung over the sink, stirring up memories with brutal intensity. In the midst of this intense aroma, I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Then I decided to go to May Kasahara's.

As always, I stood in the alley at the back of the Miyawaki house, waiting for May Kasahara to appear, but this time it didn't work. I leaned against the fence, sucked on a lemon drop, looked at the bird sculpture, and thought about Lieutenant Mamiya's letter. Soon, however, it began to grow dark. After waiting close to half an hour, I gave up. May Kasahara was probably out somewhere.

I made my way back down the alley to the rear of my house and scaled the wall. Inside, I found the place filled with the hushed, pale darkness of a summer evening. And Creta Kano was there. For one hallucinatory moment, I felt I was dreaming. But no, this was the continuation of reality. A subtle trace of the cologne I had spilled still floated in the air. Creta Kano was sitting on the sofa, her hands on her knees. I drew closer to her, but as if time itself had stopped inside her, she made not the slightest movement. I turned on the light and sat in the chair facing her. The door was unlocked, she said at last. I let myself in.

That's all right, I said. I usually leave the door unlocked when I go out. She wore a lacy white blouse, flouncy mauve skirt, and large earrings. On her left wrist she wore a large pair of matching bracelets. The sight of them sent a shock through me. They were virtually identical to the bracelets I had seen her wearing in my dream. Her hair and makeup were both done in the style she always used. Hair spray held the hair perfectly in place as usual, as if she had just arrived from the beauty parlor.

There is not much time, she said. I have to return home right away. But I wanted to be sure I had a chance to talk with you, Mr. Okada. You saw my sister and Mr. Wataya today, I believe.

Sure did. Not that it was the most fun little gathering.

Isn't there something you would like to ask me in connection with that? she asked. All kinds of people were coming to me with all kinds of questions. Id like to know more about Noboru -Wataya, I said. I cant help thinking that I have to know more about him. She nodded. I would like to know more about Mr. Wataya myself. I believe that my sister has already told you that he defiled me once, a very long time ago. I don't have time to go into that today, but I will, on some future occasion. In any case, it was something done to me against my will. It had originally been arranged for me to have relations with him. Which is why it was not rape in the ordinary sense of the word. But he did defile me, and that changed me as a person in many important ways. In the end, I was able to recover from the experience. Indeed, it enabled me (with the help of Malta Kano, of course) to bring myself to a whole new, higher level. Whatever the end results may have been, the fact remains that Noboru Wataya violated and defiled me at that time against my will. What he did to me was wrong-and dangerous. The potential was there for me to have been lost forever. Do you see what I mean? I did not see what she meant.

Of course, I had relations with you too, Mr. Okada, but it was something done in the correct way, with a correct purpose. I was in no way defiled by that.

I looked directly at her for several seconds, as if staring at a wall with colored blotches. You had relations with me?

Yes, she said. The first time I only used my mouth, but the second time we had relations. In the same room both times. You remember, of course? We had so little time on the first occasion, we had to hurry. There was more time to spare on the second occasion. It was impossible for me to reply to her.

I was wearing your wifes dress the second time. The blue one. And bracelets like these on my left arm. Isn't that true? She held her left wrist, with the pair of bracelets, out toward me. I nodded.

Creta Kano then said, Of course, we did not have relations in reality. When you ejaculated, it was not into me, physically, but in your own consciousness. Do you see? It was a fabricated consciousness. Still, the two of us share the consciousness of having had relations with each other.

Whats the point of doing something like that? To know, she said. To know more-and more deeply. I released a sigh. This was crazy. But she had been describing the scene of my dream with incredible accuracy. Running my finger around my mouth, I stared at the two bracelets on her left wrist.

Maybe I'm not very smart, I said, my voice dry, but I really cant claim to have understood everything you've been telling me.

In your second dream, when I was in the midst of having relations with you, another woman took my place. Isn't that true? I have no idea who she was. But that event was probably meant to suggest something to you, Mr. Okada. This is what I wanted to convey to you. I said nothing in return.

You should have no sense of guilt about having had relations with me, said Creta Kano. You see, Mr. Okada, I am a prostitute. I used to be a prostitute of the flesh, but now I am a prostitute of the mind. Things pass through me.

At this point, Creta Kano left her seat and went down on her knees beside me, clutching my hand in both of hers. She had soft, warm, very small hands. Please hold me, Mr. Okada. Right here and now.

We stood, and I put my arms around her. I honestly had no idea whether I should be doing this. But holding Creta Kano just then, just there, did not seem to be a mistake. I could not have explained it, but that was how I felt. I wrapped my arms around her slender body as if I were taking my first lesson in ballroom dancing. She was a small woman. The top of her head came just past the bottom of my chin. Her breasts pressed against my stomach. She held her cheek against my chest. And although she made no sound the whole time, she was crying- I could feel the warmth of her tears through my T-shirt. I looked down, to see her perfectly set hair trembling. I felt I was having a well-made dream. But it was not a dream.

After we had stayed in that position without moving for a very long time, she pulled away from me as if she had suddenly remembered something. Maintaining a distance, she looked at me.

Thank you so much, Mr. Okada, she said. I will be going home now. She had supposedly just been crying with some intensity, but her makeup had hardly been disturbed.

The sense of reality was now strangely absent.

Are you going to be coming into my dreams again sometime? I asked.

I don't know, she said, with a gentle shake of the head. Not even I can tell you that.

But please have faith in me. Whatever might happen, please don't be afraid of me or feel you must be on your guard where I am concerned. Will you promise me that, Mr. Okada? I answered with a nod. Soon afterward, Creta Kano went home.

The darkness of night was thicker than ever. The front of my T-shirt was soaking wet. I stayed up until dawn, unable to sleep. I didn't feel sleepy, for one thing, and in fact, I was afraid to sleep- I had the feeling that if I were to go to sleep, I would be enveloped in a flow of shifting sand that would carry me off to another world, from which I would never be able to return. I stayed on the sofa until morning, drinking brandy and thinking about Creta Kano's story. Even after the night had ended, the presence of Creta Kano and the fragrance of Christian Dior eau de cologne lingered in the house like captive shadows.

5 Views of Distant Towns Eternal Half - Moon Ladder in Place

The telephone rang at almost the exact moment I was falling asleep. I tried to ignore it, but as if it could read my mind, it kept up its stubborn ringing: ten times, twenty times-it was never going to stop. Finally, I opened one eye and looked at the clock. Just after six in the morning. Beyond the window shone the full light of day. The call might be from Kumiko. I got out of bed, went to the living room, and picked up the receiver.

Hello, I said, but the caller said nothing. Somebody was obviously there, but the person did not try to speak. I, too, kept silent. Concentrating on the earpiece, I could just make out the sound of breathing.

Who is it? I asked, but the silence continued at the other end.

If this is the person who's always calling, do me a favor and make it a little later, I said.

No sex talk before breakfast, please.

The person who's always calling? blurted out the voice of May Kasahara. Who do you talk about sex with?

Nobody, I said.

The woman you were holding in your arms last night? Do you talk about sex with her on the telephone? No, shes not the one. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, just how many women do you have hanging around you- aside from your wife? That would be a very long story, I said. Anyhow, its six in the morning and I haven't had much sleep. So you came to my house last night, huh? And I saw you with her-holding each other. That didn't mean a thing, I said. How can I put it? It was a kind of little ceremony. You don't have to make excuses to me, said May Kasahara. I'm not your wife. Its none of my business, but let me just say this: You've got a problem. You may be right, I said. You're having a tough time now, I know that. But I cant help thinking its something you brought on yourself. You've got some really basic problem, and it attracts trouble like a magnet. Any woman with any sense would get the hell away from you.

You may be right, I said again.

May Kasahara maintained a brief silence on her end of the line. Then she cleared her throat once and said, You came to the alley last night, didn't you? Standing for a long time at the back of my house, like some amateur burglar ... Don't worry, I saw you there.

So why didn't you come out?

A girl doesn't always want to go out, you know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. Sometimes she feels like being nasty-like, if the guys gonna wait, let him really wait.

I grunted.

But I still felt bad, she went on. So I dragged myself all the way to your house later- like an idiot.

And I was holding the woman.

Yeah, but isn't she kinda cuckoo? Nobody dresses like that anymore. And that makeup of hers! Shes, like, in a time warp or something. She should go get her head examined.

Don't worry, I said, shes not cuckoo. Different people have different tastes.

Well, sure. People can have any taste they want. But ordinary people don't go that far just for taste. Shes like-what?-right out of an old magazine: everything about her, from head to foot.

To that I did not reply. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, did you sleep with her? I hesitated a moment and said, No, I didn't. Really? Really. I don't have that kind of physical relationship with her. So why were you holding her? Women feel that way sometimes: they want to be held. Maybe so, said May Kasahara, but an idea like that can be a little dangerous. Its true, I said. Whats her name? Creta Kano. May Kasahara fell silent at her end. You're kidding, right? she said at last. Not at all. And her sisters name is Malta Kano.

Malta?! That cant be her real name. No, it isn't. Its her professional name. What are they, a comedy team? Or do they have some connection with the Mediterranean Sea? Actually, there is some connection with the Mediterranean.

Does the sister dress like a normal person? Pretty much, I said. Her clothing is a lot more normal than Cretas, at least. Except she always wears this red vinyl hat.

Something tells me shes not exactly normal, either. Why do you always have to go out of your way to hang around with such off-the-wall people?

Now, that really would be a long story. If everything settles down sometime, I may be able to tell you. But not now. My head is too messed up. And things are even more messed up.

Yeah, sure, she said, with a note of suspicion in her voice. Anyway, your wife hasn't come back yet, has she?

No, not yet.

You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you're a grown man. Why don't you use your head a little bit? If your wife had changed her mind and come home last night, she would have seen you with your arms locked around this woman. Then what?

True, that was a possibility.

And if she had been the one making this call, not me, and you started talking about telephone sex, what would she have thought about that?

You're right, I said. I'm telling you, you've got a problem, she said, with a sigh. Its true, I do have a problem. Stop agreeing with everything I say! Its not as if you're going to solve everything by admitting your mistakes. Whether you admit them or not, mistakes are mistakes. Its true, I said. It was true. I cant stand it anymore! said May Kasahara. Anyway, tell me, what did you want last night? You came to my house looking for something, right? Oh, that. Never mind. Never mind? Yeah. Finally, its ... never mind.

In other words, she gave you a hug, so you don't need me anymore. No, thats not it. It just seemed to me- At which point May Kasahara hung up. Terrific. May Kasahara, Malta Kano, Creta Kano, the telephone woman, and Kumiko. May Kasahara was right: I had just a few too many women around me these days. And each one came packaged with her own special, inscrutable problem.

But I was too tired to think. I had to get some sleep. And there was something I would have to do when I woke up.

I went back to bed and fell asleep.

When I did wake up, I took a knapsack from the drawer. It was the one we kept for earthquakes and other emergencies that might require evacuation. Inside was a water bottle, crackers, a flashlight, and a lighter. The whole was a set that Kumiko had bought when we moved into this house, just in case the Big One should hit. The water bottle was empty, though, the crackers were soggy, and the flashlights batteries were dead. I filled the bottle with water, threw away the crackers, and put new batteries in the flashlight. Then I went to the neighborhood hardware store and bought one of those rope ladders they sell as emergency fire escapes. I thought about what else I might need, but nothing came to mind- besides lemon drops. I went through the house, shutting windows and turning off lights. I made sure the front door was locked, but then I reconsidered. Somebody might come looking for me while I was gone. Kumiko might come back. And besides, there was nothing here worth stealing. I left a note on the kitchen table: Gone for a while. Will return. T.

I wondered what it would be like for Kumiko to find this note. How would she take it? I crumpled it up and wrote a new one: Have to go out for a while on important business. Back soon. Please wait. T. Wearing chinos, a short-sleeved polo shirt, and the knapsack, I stepped down into the yard from the veranda. All around me were the unmistakable signs of summer-the genuine article, without reservations or conditions. The glow of the sun, the smell of the breeze, the blue of the sky, the shape of the clouds, the whirring of the cicadas: everything . announced the authentic arrival of summer. And there I was, a pack on my back, scaling the garden wall and dropping down into the alley.

Once, as a kid, I had run away from home on a beautiful summer morning just like this. I couldn't recall what had led up to my decision to go. I was probably mad at my parents. I left home with a knapsack on my back and, in my pocket, all the money I had saved. I told my mother I would be hiking with some friends and got her to make a lunch for me. There were good hills for hiking just above our house, and kids often went climbing in them without adult supervision. Once I was out of the house, I got on the bus that I had chosen for myself and rode it to the end of the line. To me, this was a strange and distant town. Here I transferred to another bus and rode it to yet another strange and distant-still more distant-town. Without even knowing the name of the place, I got off the bus and wandered through the streets. There was nothing special about this particular town: it was a little more lively than the neighborhood where I lived, and a little more run-down. It had a street lined with shops, and a commuter train station, and a few small factories. A stream ran through the town, and facing the stream stood a movie house. A signboard out front announced they were showing a western. At noon I sat on a park bench and ate my lunch. I stayed in the town until early evening, and when the sun began to sink, my heart did too. This is your last chance to go back, I told myself. Once it gets completely dark, you might never be able to leave here. I went home on the same buses that had brought me there. I arrived before seven, and no one noticed that I had run away. My parents had thought I was out in the hills with the other kids.

I had forgotten all about that particular event. But the moment I found myself scaling the wall wearing a knapsack, the feeling came back to me-the indescribable loneliness I had felt, standing by myself amid unfamiliar streets and unfamiliar people and unfamiliar houses, watching the afternoon sun lose its light bit by bit. And then I thought of Kumiko: Kumiko, who had disappeared somewhere, taking with her only her shoulder bag and her blouse and skirt from the cleaners. She had passed her last chance to turn back. And now she was probably standing by herself in some strange and distant town. I could hardly bear to think of her that way.

But no, she couldn't be by herself. She had to be with a man. That was the only way this made sense.

I stopped thinking about Kumiko.

I made my way down the alley.

The grass underfoot had lost the living, breathing greenness it had seemed to possess during the spring rains, and now it wore the frankly dull look typical of summer grass. From among these blades a green grasshopper would leap out now and then as I walked along. Sometimes even frogs would jump away. The alley had become the world of these little creatures, and I was simply an intruder come to upset the prevailing order.

When I reached the Miyawaki's vacant house, I opened the gate and walked in without hesitation. I pressed on through the tall grass to the middle of the yard, passed the dingy bird statue, which continued to stare at the sky, and walked around to the side of the house, hoping that May Kasahara had not seen me come in.

The first thing I did when I got to the well was to remove the stones that held the cap on, then take off one of the two wooden half-circles. To make sure there was still no water at the bottom, I threw in a pebble, as I had done before. And as before, the pebble hit with a dry thud. There was no water. I set down the knapsack, took the rope ladder out, and tied one end of it to the trunk of the nearby tree. I pulled on it as hard as I could to be sure it would hold. This was something on which it was impossible to lavish too much care. If, by some chance, the ladder somehow got loose or came undone, I would probably never make it back to the surface.

Holding the mass of rope in my arms, I began to lower the ladder into the well. The whole, long thing went in, but I never felt it hit bottom. It couldn't possibly be too short: I had bought the longest rope ladder they made. But the well was a deep one. I shone the flashlight straight down inside, but I couldn't see whether or not the ladder had reached bottom. The rays of light penetrated only so far, and then they were swallowed up by the darkness.

I sat on the edge of the well curb and listened. A few cicadas were screaming in the trees, as if competing to see which had the loudest voice or the greatest lung capacity. I couldn't hear any birds, though. I recalled the wind-up bird with some fondness. Maybe it didn't like competing with the cicadas and had moved off somewhere to avoid them.

I turned my palms upward in the sunlight. In an instant, they felt warm, as though the light were seeping into the skin, soaking into the very lines of my fingerprints. The light ruled over everything out here. Bathed in light, each object glowed with the brilliant color of summer. Even intangibles such as time and memory shared the goodness of the summer light. I popped a lemon drop in my mouth and went on sitting there until the candy had melted away. Then I pulled hard on the ladder one more time to be sure it was firmly anchored.

Making my way down the soft rope ladder into the well was much harder work than I had imagined it would be. A blend of cotton and nylon, the ladder was unquestionably sturdy, but my footing on the thing was unstable. The rubber bottoms of my tennis shoes would slip whenever I tried to lower my weight onto either leg. My hands had to keep such a tight grip on the rope that my palms started to hurt. I let myself down slowly and carefully, one rung at a time. No matter how far I went, though, there was no bottom. My descent seemed to take forever. I reminded myself of the sound of the pebble hitting bottom. The well did have a bottom! Working my way down this damned ladder was what took so much time.

When I had counted twenty rungs, a wave of terror overtook me. It came suddenly, like an electric shock, and froze me in place. My muscles turned to stone. Every pore of my body gushed sweat, and my legs began to tremble. There was no way this well could be so deep. This was the middle of Tokyo. It was right behind the house I lived in. I held my breath and listened, but I couldn't hear a thing. The pounding of my own heart reverberated in my ears with such force I couldn't even hear the cicadas screaming up above. I took a deep breath. Here I was on the twentieth rung, unable either to proceed farther down or to climb back up. The air in the well was chilling and smelled of the earth. It was a separate world down here, one cut off from the surface, where the sun shone so unstintingly. I looked up to the mouth of the well above me, tiny now. The wells circular opening was cut exactly in half by the half of the wooden cover I had left in place. From below, it looked like a half-moon floating in the night sky. A half-moon will last for several days, Malta Kano had said. She had predicted it on the telephone.

Terrific. And when the thought crossed my mind, I felt some strength leave my body. My muscles relaxed, and the solid block of breath inside me released and came out.

Squeezing out one last spurt of strength, I started down the ladder again. Just a little farther down, I told myself. Just a little more. Don't worry, there is a bottom. And at the twenty-third rung, I reached it. My foot came in contact with the earth in the bottom of the well.

The first thing I did in the darkness was to feel around the surface of the well bottom with the tip of my shoe, still holding on to the ladder in case there was something down there I had to get away from. After making sure there was no water and nothing of a suspicious nature, I stepped down to the ground. Setting my pack down, I felt for the zipper and took out my flashlight. The glow of the light gave me my first clear view of the place. The surface of the ground was neither very hard nor very soft. And fortunately, the earth was dry. A few rocks lay scattered there, where people must have thrown them. The one other thing that had fallen to the bottom was an old potato chip bag. Illuminated by the flashlight, the well bottom reminded me of the surface of the moon as I had seen it on television so long before.

The wells cylindrical concrete wall was blank and smooth, with few irregularities other than some clumps of mosslike stuff growing here and there. It shot straight upward like a chimney, with the little half-moon of light at the opening far above. Looking directly up, I now could grasp how very deep the well was. I gave the rope ladder another hard tug. In my hands, it felt firm and reassuring. As long as it remained in place, I could go back to the surface anytime I wanted. Next I took a deep breath. Aside from a slight smell of mold, there was nothing wrong with the air. My greatest worry had been the air. The air at the bottom of a well tends to stagnate, and dry wells can have poison gases that seep from the earth. Long before, I had read in the paper about a well digger who lost his life from methane gas at the bottom of a well.

Taking a breath, I sat on the floor of the well, with my back against the wall. I closed my eyes and let my body become accustomed to the place. All right, then, I thought: here I am in the bottom of a well.

6 Inheriting Property Inquiry on Jellyfish Something Like a Sense of Detachment

I sat in the dark. Far above me, like a sign of something, floated the perfect half-moon of light given shape by the well cap. And yet none of the light from up there managed to find its way to the bottom.

As time passed, my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness. Before long, I could just barely make out the shape of my hand if I brought it close to my face. Other things around me began slowly to take on their own dim shapes, like timid little animals letting down their guard in the most gradual stages imaginable. As much as my eyes became used to it, though, the darkness never ceased to be darkness. Anything I tried to focus on would lose its shape and burrow its way soundlessly into the surrounding obscurity. Perhaps this could be called pale darkness, but pale as it might be, it had its own particular kind of density, which in some cases contained a more deeply meaningful darkness than perfect pitch darkness. In it, you could see something. And at the same time, you could see nothing at all.

Here in this darkness, with its strange sense of significance, my memories began to take on a power they had never had before. The fragmentary images they called up inside me were mysteriously vivid in every detail, to the point where I felt I could grasp them in my hands. I closed my eyes and brought back the time eight years earlier when I had first met Kumiko. It happened in the family members waiting room of the university hospital in Kanda. I had to be in the hospital almost every day back then, to see a wealthy client concerning the inheritance of his property. She was coming to the hospital every day between classes in order to tend to her mother, who was there for a duodenal ulcer. Kumiko would wear jeans or a short skirt and a sweater, her hair in a ponytail. Sometimes she would wear a coat, sometimes not, depending on the early-November weather. She had a shoulder bag and always carried a few books that looked like university texts, plus some kind of sketch pad.

The afternoon of the very first day I went to the hospital, Kumiko was there, sitting on the sofa with her legs crossed, wearing black low-heeled shoes and concentrating on a book. I sat opposite her, checking my watch every five minutes until the time for the interview with my client, which had been moved back an hour and a half for some reason that had not been shared with me. Kumiko never raised her eyes from the book. She had very nice legs. Looking at her helped to brighten my spirits somewhat. I found myself wondering what it must feel like to have such a nice (or at least extremely intelligent) face and great legs.

After we had seen each other in the waiting room several times, Kumiko and I began to share small talk-exchanging magazines we had finished reading, or eating fruit from a gift basket someone had brought her mother. We were incredibly bored, after all, and we needed someone our own age to talk to.

Kumiko and I felt something for each other from the beginning. It was not one of those strong, impulsive feelings that can hit two people like an electric shock when they first meet, but something quieter and gentler, like two tiny lights traveling in tandem through a vast darkness and drawing imperceptibly closer to each other as they go. As our meetings grew more frequent, I felt not so much that I had met someone new as that I had chanced upon a dear old friend.

Soon I found myself dissatisfied with the choppy little conversations we were fitting in between other things in the hospital area. I kept wishing I could meet her somewhere else, so that we could really talk to each other for a change. Finally, one day, I decided to ask her for a date.

I think both of us could use a change of air, I said. Lets get out of here and go someplace else-where there aren't any patients or clients.

Kumiko gave it some thought and said, The aquarium?

And so the aquarium is where we had our first date. Kumiko brought her mother a change of clothes that Sunday morning and met me in the hospital waiting room. It was a warm, clear day, and Kumiko was wearing a simple white dress under a pale-blue cardigan. I was always struck by how well she dressed even then. She could wear the plainest article of clothing and manage, with the roll of a sleeve or the curl of a collar, to transform it into something spectacular. It was a knack she had. And I could see that she took care of her clothing with an attention bordering on love. Whenever I was with her, walking beside her, I would find my- self staring in admiration at her clothes. Her blouses never had a wrinkle. Her pleats hung in perfect alignment. Anything white she wore looked brand-new. Her shoes were never scuffed or smudged. Looking at what she wore, I could imagine her blouses and sweaters neatly folded and lined up in her dresser drawers, her skirts and dresses in vinyl wrappers hanging in the closet (which is exactly what I found to be the case after we were married).

We spent that first afternoon together in the aquarium of the Ueno Zoo. The weather was so nice that day, I thought it might be more fun to stroll around the zoo itself, and I hinted as much to Kumiko on the train to Ueno, but she had obviously made up her mind to go to the aquarium. If that was what she wanted, it was perfectly all right with me. The aquarium was having a special display of jellyfish, and we went through them from beginning to end, viewing the rare specimens gathered from all parts of the world. They floated, trembling, in their tanks, everything from a tiny cotton puff the size of a fingertip to monsters more than three feet in diameter. For a Sunday, the aquarium was relatively uncrowded. In fact, it was on the empty side. On such a lovely day, anybody would have preferred the elephants and giraffes to jellyfish.

Although I said nothing to Kumiko, I actually hated jellyfish. I had often been stung by jellyfish while swimming in the ocean as a boy. Once, when swimming far out by myself, I wandered into a whole school of them. By the time I realized what I had done, I was surrounded. I never forgot the slimy, cold feeling of them touching me. In the center of that whirlpool of jellyfish, an immense terror overtook me, as if I had been dragged into a bottomless darkness. I wasn't stung, for some reason, but in my panic I gulped a lot of ocean water. Which is why I would have liked to skip the jellyfish display if possible and go to see some ordinary fish, like tuna or flounder.

Kumiko, though, was fascinated. She stopped at every single tank, leaned over the railing, and stayed locked in place as if she had forgotten the passage of time. Look at this, shed say to me. I never knew there were such vivid pink jellyfish. And look at the beautiful way it swims. They just keep wobbling along like this until they've been to every ocean in the world. Aren't they wonderful?

Yeah, sure. But the more I forced myself to keep examining jellyfish with her, the more I felt a tightness growing in my chest. Before I knew it, I had stopped replying to her and was counting the change in my pocket over and over, or wiping the corners of my mouth with my handkerchief. I kept wishing we would come to the last of the jellyfish tanks, but there was no end to them. The variety of jellyfish swimming in the oceans of the world was enormous. I was able to bear it for half an hour, but the tension was turning my head into mush. When, finally, it became too painful for me to stand leaning against the railing, I left Kumiko's side and slumped down on a nearby bench. She came over to me and, obviously very concerned, asked if I was feeling bad. I answered honestly that looking at the jellyfish was making me dizzy.

She stared into my eyes with a grave expression on her face. Its true, she said. I can see it in your eyes. They've gone out of focus. Its incredible-just from looking at jellyfish! Kumiko took me by the arm and led me out of the gloomy, dank aquarium into the sunlight.

Sitting in the nearby park for ten minutes, taking long, slow breaths, I managed to return to a normal psychological state. The strong autumn sun cast its pleasant radiance everywhere, and the bone-dry leaves of the ginkgo trees rustled softly whenever the breeze picked up. Are you all right? Kumiko asked after several minutes had gone by. You certainly are a strange one. If you hate jellyfish so much, you should have said so right away, instead of waiting until they made you sick.

The sky was high and cloudless, the wind felt good, the people spending their Sunday in the park all wore happy expressions. A slim, pretty girl was walking a large, long-haired dog. An old fellow wearing a felt hat was watching his granddaughter on the swing. Several couples sat on benches, the way we were doing. Off in the distance, someone was practicing scales on a saxophone.

Why do you like jellyfish so much? I asked.

I don't know. I guess I think they're cute, she said. But one thing did occur to me when I was really focused on them. What we see before us is just one tiny part of the world. We get into the habit of thinking, This is the world, but thats not true at all. The real world is in a much darker and deeper place than this, and most of it is occupied by jellyfish and things. We just happen to forget all that. Don't you agree?

Two-thirds of the earths surface is ocean, and all we can see of it with the naked eye is the surface: the skin. We hardly know anything about whats underneath the skin.

We took a long walk after that. At five o'clock, Kumiko said she had to go back to the hospital, so I took her there. Thank you for a lovely day, she said when we parted. There was a quiet glow in her smile that had not been there before. When I saw it, I realized that I had managed to draw a little closer to her in the course of the day-thanks, no doubt, to the jellyfish.

Kumiko and I continued to date. Her mother left the hospital without complications, and I no longer had to spend time there working on my clients will, but we would get together once a week for a movie or a concert or a walk. We drew closer to each other each time we met. I enjoyed being with her, and if we should happen to touch, I felt a fluttering in the chest. I often found it difficult to work when the weekend was drawing near. I was sure she liked me. Otherwise, she wouldn't see me every weekend.

Still, I was in no hurry to deepen my relationship with Kumiko. I sensed a kind of uncertainty in her. Exactly what it was I couldn't have said, but it would come out every now and then in her words or actions. I might ask her something, and a single breath would intervene before she answered-just the slightest hesitation, but in that split-second interval I sensed a kind of shadow.

Winter came, and then the new year. We went on seeing each other every week. I never asked about that something, and she never said a word. We would meet and go someplace and eat and talk about innocuous things.

One day I took a chance and said, You must have a boyfriend, don't you? Kumiko looked at me for a moment and asked, What makes you think so? Just a hunch, I said. We were walking through the wintry and deserted Shinjuku Imperial Gardens. What kind of hunch? I don't know. I get the feeling theres something you want to tell me. You should if you can. The expression on her face wavered the slightest bit-almost imperceptibly. There might have been a moment of uncertainty, but there had never been any doubt about her conclusion. Thanks for asking, she said, but I don't have anything that I want to make a special point of talking about.

You haven't answered my question, though. About whether I have a boyfriend? Uh-huh. Kumiko came to a stop. Then she slipped her gloves off and put them into her coat pocket.

She took my gloveless hand in hers. Her hand was warm and soft. When I squeezed her hand in return, it seemed to me that her breaths grew smaller and whiter.

Can we go to your apartment now? she asked. Sure, I said, somewhat taken aback. Its not much of a place, though. I was living in Asagaya at the time, in a one-room apartment with a tiny kitchen and a toilet and a shower the size of a phone booth. It was on the second floor and faced south, overlooking a construction company's storage yard. That southern exposure was the apartments only good point. For a long time, Kumiko and I sat next to each other in the flood of sunlight, leaning against the wall.

I made love to her for the first time that day. It was what she wanted, I was sure. In a sense, it was she who seduced me. Not that she ever said or did anything overtly seductive. But when I put my arms around her naked body, I knew for certain that she had intended that this happen. Her body was soft and completely unresisting.

It was Kumiko's first experience of sex. For a long time afterward, she said nothing. I tried several times to talk to her, but she made no reply. She took a shower, put her clothes on, and sat in the sunlight again. I had no idea what I should say to her. I simply joined her in the patch of sunlight and said nothing. The two of us edged along the wall as the sun moved. When evening came, Kumiko said she was leaving. I saw her home.

Are you sure you don't have something you want to say to me? I asked again in the train.

She shook her head. Never mind about that, she murmured.

I never raised the topic again. Kumiko had chosen to sleep with me of her own volition, finally, and if indeed she was keeping something inside that she was not able to tell me, this would probably be resolved in the course of time.

We continued our weekly dates after that, part of which now usually included stopping by my apartment for sex. As we held and touched each other, she began more and more to talk about herself, about the things she had experienced, about the thoughts and feelings these things had given her. And I began to understand the world as Kumiko saw it. I found myself increasingly able, too, to talk with Kumiko about the world as I saw it. I came to love her deeply, and she said she never wanted to leave me. We waited for her to graduate from college, and then we got married.

We were happy with our married life and had no problems to speak of. And yet there were times when I couldn't help but sense an area inside Kumiko to which I had no access. In the middle of the most ordinary-or the most excited-conversation, and without the slightest warning, she might sink into silence. It would happen all of a sudden, for no reason at all (or at least no reason I could discern). It was like walking along the road and suddenly falling into a pit. Her silences never lasted very long, but afterward, until a fair amount of time had gone by, it was as if she were not really there.

The first time I went inside Kumiko, I sensed a strange kind of hesitation. Kumiko should have been feeling only pain this first time for her, and in fact she kept her body rigid with the pain she was obviously experiencing, but that was not the only reason for the hesitation I seemed to feel. There was something oddly lucid there, a sense of separation, of distance, though I don't know exactly what to call it. I was seized by the bizarre thought that the body I was holding in my arms was not the body of the woman I had had next to me until a few moments earlier, the two of us engaged in intimate conversation: a switch had been pulled without my noticing, and someone else's flesh had taken its place. While I held her, my hands continued to caress her back. The touch of her small, smooth back had an almost hypnotic effect on me, and yet, at the same time, Kumiko's back seemed to be somewhere far away from me. The entire time she was in my arms, I could have sworn that Kumiko was some- where else, thinking about something else, and the body I was holding was nothing but a temporary substitute. This might have been the reason why, although I was fully aroused, it took me a very long time to come.

I felt this way only the first time we had intercourse. After that, I felt her much closer to me, her physical responses far more sensitive. I convinced myself that my initial sense of distance had been the result of its being her first experience of sex.

Every now and then, while searching through my memories, I would reach out to where the rope ladder was hanging against the wall and give it a tug to make sure it hadn't come loose. I couldn't seem to shake the fear that it might simply give way at any moment. Whenever the thought struck me, down there in the darkness, it made me uneasy. I could actually hear my own heart pounding. After I had checked a number of times-possibly twenty or thirty-I began to regain a measure of calm. I had done a good job of tying the ladder to the tree, after all. It wasn't going to come loose just like that.

I looked at my watch. The luminous hands showed it to be just before three o'clock. Three p.m. I glanced upward. The half-moon slab of light was still floating there. The surface of the earth was flooded with blinding summer light. I pictured to myself a stream sparkling in the sunlight and green leaves trembling in the breeze. The light up there overwhelmed everything, and yet just below it, down here, there existed such a darkness. All you had to do was climb a little ways underground on a rope ladder, and you could reach a darkness this profound.

I pulled on the ladder one more time to be certain it was anchored firmly. Then I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes. Eventually, sleep overtook me, like a gradually rising tide.

7 Recollections and Dialogue on Pregnancy Empirical Inquiry on Pain

When I woke, the half-moon mouth of the well had taken on the deep blue of evening.

The hands of my watch showed seven-thirty. Seven-thirty p.m. Meaning I had been asleep down here for four and a half hours.

The air at the bottom of the well felt chilly. There had probably been too much nervous excitement involved for me to think about air temperature when I first climbed down. Now, though, my skin was reacting to the cold air. Rubbing my bare arms to warm them, I realized I should have brought something in the knapsack to put on over my T-shirt. It had never crossed my mind that the temperature in the bottom of the well might be different from the temperature at the surface.

Now I was enveloped by a darkness that was total. No amount of straining helped my eyes to see a thing. I couldn't tell where my own hand was. I felt along the wall to where the ladder hung and gave it a tug. It was still firmly anchored at the surface. The movement of my hand seemed to cause the darkness itself to shift, but that could have been an illusion.

It felt extremely strange not to be able to see my own body with my own eyes, though I knew it must be there. Staying very still in the darkness, I became less and less convinced of the fact that I actually existed.

To cope with that, I would clear my throat now and then, or run my hand over my face.

That way, my ears could check on the existence of my voice, my hand could check on the existence of my face, and my face could check on the existence of my hand.

Despite these efforts, my body began to lose its density and weight, like sand gradually being washed away by flowing water. I felt as if a fierce and wordless tug-of-war were going on inside me, a contest in which my mind was slowly dragging my body into its own territory.

The darkness was disrupting the proper balance between the two. The thought struck me that my own body was a mere provisional husk that had been prepared for my mind by a rearrangement of the signs known as chromosomes. If the signs were rearranged yet again, I would find myself inside a wholly different body than before. Prostitute of the mind, Creta Kano had called herself. I no longer had any trouble accepting the phrase. Yes, it was possible for us to couple in our minds and for me to come in reality. In truly deep darkness, all kinds of strange things were possible.

I shook my head and struggled to bring my mind back inside my body.

In the darkness, I pressed the fingertips of one hand against the fingertips of the other- thumb against thumb, index finger against index finger. My right-hand fingers ascertained the existence of my left-hand fingers, and the fingers of my left hand ascertained the existence of the fingers of my right hand. Then I took several slow, deep breaths. OK, then, enough of this thinking about the mind. Think about reality. Think about the real world. The body's world. That's why I'm here. To think about reality. The best way to think about reality, I had decided, was to get as far away from it as possible-a place like the bottom of a well, for example. When you're supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go down to the bottom, Mr. Honda had said. Leaning against the wall, I slowly sucked the moldy air into my lungs.

We didn't have a wedding ceremony. We couldn't have afforded it, to begin with, and neither of us wanted to feel beholden to our parents. Beginning our life together, any way we could manage to do so, was far more important to us than a ceremony. We went to the ward office early one Sunday morning, woke the clerk on duty when we rang the bell at the Sunday window, and submitted a registration of marriage. Later, we went to the kind of high-class French restaurant that neither of us could usually afford, ordered a bottle of wine, and ate a full-course dinner. That was enough for us.

At the time we married, we had practically no savings (my mother had left me a little money when she died, but I made a point of never touching it except for a genuine emergency) and no furniture to speak of. We had no future to speak of, either. Working at a law firm without an attorneys credentials, I had virtually nothing to look forward to, and Kumiko worked for a tiny, unknown publisher. If she had wanted to, she could have found a much better position through her father when she graduated, but she disliked the idea of going to him and instead found a job on her own. Neither of us was dissatisfied, though. We were pleased just to be able to survive without intrusion from anyone.

It wasn't easy for the two of us to build something out of nothing. I had that tendency toward solitude common to only children. When trying to accomplish something serious, I liked to do it myself. Having to check things out with other people and get them to understand seemed to me a great waste of time and energy when it was a lot easier to work alone in silence. And Kumiko, after losing her sister, had closed her heart to her family and grown up as if alone. She never went to them for advice. In that sense, the two of us were very much alike.

Still, little by little, the two of us learned to devote our bodies and minds to this newly created being we called our home. We practiced thinking and feeling about things together. Things that happened to either of us individually we now strove to deal with together as something that belonged to both of us. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't. But we enjoyed the fresh, new process of trial and error. And even violent collisions we could forget about in each others arms.

In the third year of our marriage, Kumiko became pregnant. This was a great shock to us or to me, at least because of the extreme care we had been taking with contraception. A moment of carelessness must have done it; not that we could determine which exact moment it had been, but there was no other explanation. In any case, we simply could not afford the expense of a child. Kumiko had just gotten into the swing of her publishing job and, if possible, wanted to keep it. A small company like hers made no provision for anything so grand as maternity leave. A woman working there who wanted to have a child had no choice but to quit. If Kumiko had done that, we would have had to survive on my pay alone, for a while, at least, but this would have been a virtual impossibility. I guess well have to pass, this time, Kumiko said to me in an expressionless voice the day the doctor gave her the news. She was probably right. No matter how you looked at it, that was the most sensible conclusion. We were young and totally unprepared for parenthood. Both Kumiko and I needed time for ourselves. We had to establish our own life: that was the first priority. Wed have plenty of opportunities for making children in the future.

In fact, though, I did not want Kumiko to have an abortion. Once, in my second year of college, I had made a girl pregnant, someone I had met where I worked part time. She was a nice kid, a year younger than I, and we got along well. We liked each other, of course, but were by no means serious about each other, nor was there any possibility that we would ever become serious. We were just two lonely youngsters who needed someone to hold.

About the reason for her pregnancy there was never any doubt. I always used a condom, but that one day I forgot to have one ready. I had run out. When I told her so, she hesitated for a few seconds and then said, Oh, well, I think I'm OK today anyway. One time was all it took.

I couldn't quite believe that I had made a girl pregnant, but I did know that an abortion was the only way. I scraped the money together and went with her to the clinic. We took a commuter train way out to a little town in Chiba, where a friend of hers had put her in touch with a doctor. We got off at a station I had never heard of and saw thousands of tiny houses, all stamped out of the same mold, crowded together and stretching over the rolling hills to the horizon. These were huge new developments that had gone up in recent years for the younger company employees who could not afford housing in Tokyo. The station itself was brand- new, and just across from it stretched huge, water-filled rice fields, bigger than any I had ever seen. The streets were lined with real estate signs.

The clinic waiting room overflowed with huge-bellied young women, most of whom must have been in their fourth or fifth year of marriage and finally settling down to make children in their newly mortgaged suburban homes. The only young male in the place was me. The pregnant ladies all looked my way with the most intense interest-and no hint of goodwill. Anyone could see at a glance that I was a college student who had accidentally gotten his girlfriend pregnant and had come with her for an abortion.

After the operation, the girl and I took the train back to Tokyo. Headed into the city in the late afternoon, the train was nearly empty. I apologized to her. My carelessness had gotten her into this mess, I said.

Don't take it so hard, she said. At least you came with me to the clinic, and you paid for the operation.

She and I soon stopped seeing each other, so I never knew what became of her, but for a very long time after the abortion-and even after we drifted apart-my feelings refused to settle down. Every time I recalled that day, the image would flash into my mind of the pregnant young women who filled the clinic waiting room to overflowing, their eyes so full of certainty. And the thought would strike me that I should never have gotten her pregnant.

In the train on the way back, to comfort me-to comfort me-she told me all the details that had made the operation so easy. Its not as bad as you're thinking, she said. It doesn't take long, and it doesn't hurt. You just take your clothes off and lie there. Yeah, I suppose its kind of embarrassing, but the doctor was nice, and so were the nurses. Of course, they did lecture me a little, said to be more careful from now on. So don't feel so bad. Its partly my fault too. I was the one who said it'd be OK. Right? Cheer up.

All during the long train ride to the little town in Chiba, and all the way back again, though, I felt I had become a different person. Even after I had seen her home and returned to my room, to lie in bed and look at the ceiling, I could sense the change. I was a new me, and I could never go back to where I had been before. What was getting to me was the awareness that I was no longer innocent. This was not a moralistic sense of wrongdoing, or the workings of a guilty conscience. I knew that I had made a terrible mistake, but I was not punishing myself for it. It was a physical fact that I would have to confront coolly and logically, beyond any question of punishment.

The first thing that came to mind when I heard that Kumiko was pregnant was the image of those pregnant young women who filled the clinic waiting room. Or rather, it was the special smell that seemed to hang in the air there. I had no idea what that smell had been-if it was the actual smell of something at all. Perhaps it had been something like a smell. When the nurse called her name, the girl slowly raised herself from the hard vinyl chair and walked straight for the door. Just before she stood up, she glanced at me with the hint of a smile on her lips-or what was left of a smile that she had changed her mind about.

I knew that it was unrealistic for us to have a child, but I didn't want Kumiko to have an abortion, either. When I said this to her, she replied, We've been through all this. If I have a baby now, thats the end of working for me, and you'll have to find a better-paying job to support me and the baby. We wont have money for anything extra. We wont be able to do anything we want to do. From now on, the realistic possibilities for us will be narrowed down to nothing. Is that OK with you?

Yeah, I said. I think it is OK with me. Really?

If I make up my mind to it, I can probably find work-with my uncle, say: he's looking for help. He wants to open up a new place, but he cant find anybody he can trust to run it. I'm sure Id make a lot more with him than I'm making now. Its not a law firm, but so what? I'm not crazy about the work I'm doing now.

So you'd run a restaurant?

I'm sure I could if I gave it a try. And in an emergency, I've got a little money my mother left me. We wouldn't starve to death.

Kumiko fell silent and stayed that way, thinking, for a long time, making tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She had these little expressions that I liked. Does this mean you want to have a baby? she asked.

I don't know, I said. I know you're pregnant, but it hasn't really hit me that I might become a father. And I don't really know how our life would change if we had a baby. You like your job, and it seems like a mistake to take that away from you. On the one hand, I think the two of us need more time with each other, but I also think that making a baby would expand our world. I don't know whats right. I've just got this feeling that I don't want you to have an abortion. So I cant make any guarantees. I'm not one hundred percent sure about any of this, and I don't have any amazing solutions. All I've got is this feeling.

Kumiko thought about this for a while, rubbing her stomach every now and then. Tell me, she said. Why do you think I got pregnant? Nothing comes to mind?

I shook my head. Not really. We've always been careful. This is just the kind of trouble I wanted to avoid. So I don't have any idea how it happened.

You think I might have had an affair? Haven't you thought about that possibility? Never. Why not? I don't know. I cant claim a sixth sense or anything, but I'm sure of that much. We were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking wine. It was late at night id absolutely silent.

Kumiko narrowed her eyes and stared at the last sip of wine in the bottom of her glass. She almost never drank, though she would have a glass of wine when she couldn't get to sleep. It always worked for her. I was just drinking to keep her company. We didn't have nothing so sophisticated as real wineglasses. Instead, we were drinking from little beer glasses we got free at the neighborhood liquor store.

Did you have an affair? I asked, suddenly concerned.

Kumiko smiled and shook her head. Don't be silly. You know I wouldn't do anything like that. I just brought it up as a theoretical possibility. Then she turned serious and put her elbows on the table. Sometimes, though, I cant tell about things. I cant tell whats real and whats not real... what things really happened and what things didn't really happen.... Just sometimes, though.

Is this one of those sometimes? Well, sort of. Doesn't this kind of thing ever happen to you? I thought about it for a minute. Not that I can recall as a concrete example, no, I said. How can I put this? Theres a kind of gap between what I think is real and whats really real. I get this feeling like some kind of little something other is there, somewhere inside me ... like a burglar is in the house, hiding in a closet... and it comes out every once in a while and messes up whatever order or logic I've established for myself. The way a magnet can make a machine go crazy.

Some kind of little something-or-other? A burglar? I said. Wow, talk about vague! It is vague. Really, said Kumiko, then drank down the rest of her wine. I looked at her for a time. And you think theres some kind of connection between that some kind of little something-or-other and the fact that you're pregnant? She shook her head. No, I'm not saying the two things are related or not related. Its just that sometimes I'm not really sure about the order of things. That's all I'm trying to say. There was a growing touch of impatience in her words. The moment had arrived to end this conversation. It was after one o'clock in the morning. I reached across the table and took her hand.

You know, said Kumiko, I kind of wish you'd let me decide this for myself. I realize its a big problem for both of us. I really do. But this one I want you to let me decide. I feel bad that I cant explain very well what I'm thinking and feeling.

Basically, I think the right to make the decision is yours, I said, and I respect that right.

I think theres a month or so left to decide. We've been talking about this together all along now, and I think I have a pretty good idea how you feel about it. So now let me do the thinking. Lets stop talking about it for a while.

I was in Hokkaido when Kumiko had the abortion. The firm never sent its lackeys out of town on business, but on that particular occasion no one else could go, so I ended up being the one sent north. I was supposed to deliver a briefcase stuffed with papers, give the other party a simple explanation, take delivery of their papers, and come straight home. The papers were too important to mail or entrust to some courier. Because all return flights to Tokyo were full, I would have to spend a night in a Sapporo business hotel. Kumiko went for the abortion that day, alone. She phoned me after ten at the hotel and said, I had the operation this afternoon. Sorry to be informing you after the fact like this, but they had an opening on short notice, and I thought it would be easier on both of us if I made the decision and took care of it by myself while you were away.

Don't worry, I said. Whatever you think is best. I want to tell you more, but I cant do it yet. I think I'll have to tell you sometime.

We can talk when I get back.

After the call, I put on my coat and went out to wander through the streets of Sapporo. It was still early March, and both sides of the roadways were lined with high mounds of snow. The air was almost painfully cold, and your breath would come out in white clouds that vanished in an instant. People wore heavy coats and gloves and scarves wrapped up to their chins and made their way down the icy sidewalks with careful steps. Taxis ran back and forth, their studded tires scratching at the road. When I couldn't stand the cold any longer, I stepped into a bar for a few quick straights and went out to walk some more.

I stayed on the move for a very long time. Snow floated down every once in a while, but it was frail snow, like a memory fading into the distance. The second bar I visited was below street level. It turned out to be a much bigger place than the entrance suggested. There was a small stage next to the bar, and on it was a slim man with glasses, playing a guitar and singing. He sat on a metal chair with his legs crossed, guitar case at his feet.

I sat at the bar, drinking and half listening to the music. Between songs, the man explained that the music was all his own. In his late twenties, he had a face with no distinguishing characteristics, and he wore glasses with black plastic frames. His outfit consisted of jeans, high lace-up boots, and a checked flannel work shirt that hung loose around his waist. The type of music was hard to define-something that might have been called folk in the old days, though a Japanese version of folk. Simple chords, simple melodies, unremarkable words. Not the kind of stuff I'd go out of my way to listen to.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't have paid any attention to music like that. I would have had my whiskey, paid my bill, and left the place. But that light I was chilled, right to the bone, and had no intention of going outside again under any circumstances until I had warmed up all the way through. I drank one straight and ordered another. I made no attempt to remove my coat or my scarf. When the bartender asked if I wanted a snack, I ordered some cheese and ate a single slice. I tried to think, but I couldn't get my head to work right. I didn't even know what it was I wanted to think about. I was a vacant room. Inside, the music produced only a dry, hollow echo.

When the man finished singing, there was scattered applause, neither overly enthusiastic nor entirely perfunctory. There were no more than ten or fifteen customers in the place. The fellow stood and bowed. He seemed to make some kind of funny remarks that caused a few of the customers to laugh. I called the bartender and ordered my third whiskey. Then, finally, I took off my coat and my scarf.

That concludes my show for tonight, announced the singer. He seemed to pause and survey the room. But there must be some of you here tonight who didn't like my songs. For you, I've got a little something extra. I don't do this all the time, so you should consider yourselves very lucky.

He set his guitar on the floor and, from the guitar case, took a single thick white candle. He lit it with a match, dripped some wax into a plate, and stood the candle up. Then, looking like the Greek philosopher, he held the plate aloft. Can I have the lights down, please? One of the employees dimmed the lights somewhat. A little darker, if you don't mind. Now the place became much darker, and the candle flame stood out clearly. Palms wrapped around my whiskey glass to warm it, I kept my eyes on the man and his candle.

As you are well aware, the man continued, his voice soft but penetrating, in the course of life we experience many kinds of pain. Pains of the body and pains of the heart. I know I have experienced pain in many different forms in my life, and I'm sure you have too. In most cases, though, I'm sure you've found it very difficult to convey the truth of that pain to another person: to explain it in words. People say that only they themselves can understand the pain they are feeling. But is this true? I for one do not believe that it is. If, before our eyes, we see someone who is truly suffering, we do sometimes feel his suffering and pain as our own. This is the power of empathy. Am I making myself clear?

He broke off and looked around the room once again.

The reason that people sing songs for other people is because they want to have the power to arouse empathy, to break free of the narrow shell of the self and share their pain and joy with others. This is not an easy thing to do, of course. And so tonight, as a kind of experiment, I want you to experience a simpler, more physical kind of empathy.

Everyone in the place was hushed now, all eyes fixed on the stage. Amid the silence, the man stared off into space, as if to insert a pause or to reach a state of mental concentration.

Then, without a word, he held his left hand over the lighted candle. Little by little, he brought the palm closer and closer to the flame. Someone in the audience made a sound like a sigh or a moan. You could see the tip of the flame burning the mans palm. You could almost hear the sizzle of the flesh. A woman released a hard little scream. Everyone else just watched in frozen horror. The man endured the pain, his face distorted in agony. What the hell was this?

Why did he have to do such a stupid, senseless thing? I felt my mouth going dry. After five or six seconds of this, he slowly removed his hand from the flame and set the dish with the candle in it on the floor. Then he clasped his hands together, the right and left palms pressed against each other.

As you have seen tonight, ladies and gentlemen, pain can actually burn a persons flesh, said the man. His voice sounded exactly as it had earlier: quiet, steady, cool. No trace of suffering remained on his face. Indeed, it had been replaced by a faint smile. And the pain that must have been there, you have been able to feel as if it were your own. That is the power of empathy.

The man slowly parted his clasped hands. From between them he produced a thin red scarf, which he opened for all to see. Then he stretched his palms out toward the audience.

There were no burns at all. moment of silence followed, and then people expressed their relief in wild applause. The lights came up, and the chatter of voices replaced the tension that had filled the room. As if the whole thing had never happened, the man put his guitar into the case, stepped down from the age, and disappeared.

When I paid my check, I asked the girl at the register if the man sang there often and whether he usually performed the trick.

I'm not sure, she said. As far as I know, this was his first time here, never heard of him until today. And nobody told me he did magic tricks. Wasn't that amazing, though? I wonder how he does it. I bet he'd be a hit n TV.

Its true, I said. It looked like he was really burning himself.

I walked back to the hotel, and the minute I got into bed, sleep came over me as if it had been waiting all this time. As I drifted off, I thought of Kumiko, but she seemed very far away, and after that it was impossible for me to think of anything. Through my mind flashed the face of the man urning his palm. He really seemed to be burning himself, I thought. And then I fell asleep.

8 The Root of Desire In Room 208 Passing Through the Wall

Before dawn, in the bottom of the well, I had a dream. But it was not a dream. It was some kind of something that happened to take the form of a dream.

I was walking alone. The face of Noboru Wataya was being projected on the screen of a large television in the center of a broad lobby. His speech had just begun. He wore a tweed suit, striped shirt, and navy-blue necktie. His hands were folded atop the table before him, and he was talking into the camera. A large map of the world hung on the wall behind him. There must have been over a hundred people in the lobby, and each and every one of them stopped what they were doing to listen to him, with serious expressions on their faces. Noboru Wataya was about to announce something that would determine peoples fate.

I, too, stopped and looked at the television screen. In practiced-but utterly sincere-tones, Noboru Wataya was addressing millions of people he could not see. That unbearable something I always felt when I was face-to-face with him was now hidden in some deep, invisible place. He spoke in his uniquely persuasive style-the carefully timed pauses, the ringing of the voice, the variety of facial expressions, all giving rise to a strangely effective sense of reality. Noboru Wataya seemed to have been growing more polished as an orator with each day that passed. Much as I hated to, I had to grant him that.

And so you see, my friends, he was saying, everything is both complicated and simple. This is the fundamental rule that governs the world. We must never forget it. Things that appear to be complicated and that, in fact, are complicated are very simple where motives are concerned. It is just a matter of what we are looking for. Motive is the root of desire, so to speak. The important thing is to seek out the root. Dig beneath the complicated surface of reality. And keep on digging. Then dig even more until you come to the very tip of the root. If you will only do that-and here he gestured toward the map-everything will eventually come clear. That is how the world works. The stupid ones can never break free of the apparent complexity. They grope through the darkness, searching for the exit, and die before they are able to comprehend a single thing about the way of the world. They have lost all sense of direction. They might as well be deep in a forest or down in a well. And the reason they have lost all sense of direction is because they do not comprehend the fundamental principles. They have nothing in their heads but garbage and rocks. They understand nothing. Nothing at all. They cant tell front from back, top from bottom, north from south. Which is why they can never break free of the darkness.

Noboru Wataya paused at that point to give his words time to sink into the minds of his audience.

But lets forget about people like that, he went on. If people want to lose all sense of direction, the best thing that you and I can do is let them. We have more important things to do.

The more I heard, the angrier I became, until my anger was almost choking me. He was pretending to talk to the world at large, but in fact he was talking to me alone. And he must have had some kind of twisted, distorted motive for doing so. But nobody else realized that. Which is precisely why Noboru Wataya was able to exploit the gigantic system of television in order to send me secret messages. In my pockets, I clenched my hands into fists, but there was no way I could vent my anger. And my inability to share this anger with anybody in the lobby aroused in me a profound sense of isolation.

The place was filled with people straining to catch every word that Noboru Wataya spoke. I cut across the lobby and headed straight for a corridor that connected with the guest rooms. The faceless man was standing there. As I approached, he looked at me with that faceless face of his. Then, soundlessly, he moved to block my way.

This is the wrong time, he said. You don't belong here now. But the deep, slashing pain from Noboru Wataya now urged me on. I reached out and pushed the faceless man aside. He wobbled like a shadow and fell away. I'm saying this for your sake, he called from behind me, his every word lodging in my back like a piece of shrapnel. If you go any farther, you wont be able to come back. Do you understand?

I ignored him and moved ahead with rapid steps. I wasn't afraid of anything now. I had to know. I had lost all sense of direction, but I couldn't stay like that forever.

I walked down the familiar-looking corridor. I assumed the man with no face would follow and try to stop me, but when I looked back, there was no one coming. The long, winding corridor was lined with identical doors. Each door had a number, but I couldn't recall the number of the room to which I had been taken the last time. I was sure I had been aware of the number back then, but now my attempts to recall it yielded nothing, and there was no question of my opening every one.

I wandered up and down the corridor until I passed a room-service waiter carrying a tray. On it was a new bottle of Cutty Sark, an ice bucket, and two glasses. I let the waiter go by, then followed after him. Every now and then, the polished tray caught the light of a ceiling fixture with a bright flash. The waiter never looked back. Chin drawn in purposefully, he moved straight ahead, his steps in steady rhythm. Sometimes he would whistle a few lines of music. It was the overture to The Thieving Magpie, the opening where the drums come in. He was good.

The corridor was a long one, but I encountered no one else in it all the while I followed the waiter. Eventually, he stopped in front of a door and gave it three gentle knocks. After a few seconds had passed, someone opened the door and the waiter carried the tray in. I pressed against the wall, hiding behind a large Chinese-style vase, and waited for the waiter to come out. The room number was 208. Of course! Why hadn't I been able to remember it until now?

The waiter was taking a very long time. I glanced at my watch. At some point, though, the hands had stopped moving. I examined the flowers in the vase and smelled each fragrance. The flowers seemed to have been brought from a garden only moments before, so perfectly fresh were they, retaining every bit of their color and aroma. They probably still hadn't noticed that they had been severed from their roots. A tiny winged insect had worked its way into the core of a red rose with thick, fleshy petals.

Five minutes or more went by before the waiter came out of the room, empty-handed. With his chin pulled in as before, he went back the same way he had come. As soon as he had disappeared around a corner, I walked over to the door. I held my breath and listened, expecting to hear something. But there was no sound, no sense that anyone was inside. I took a chance and knocked. Three times. Gently. As the waiter had done. But no one answered, I let a few seconds pass and knocked three times again, this time a little more forcefully than before. Still no response.

Next, I tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened soundlessly inward. The room looked pitch dark at first, but some light was managing to find its way in around the thick curtains on the window. With effort, I could just barely make out the window itself and a table and sofa. This was the room in which I had coupled with Creta Kano. It was a suite: the living room here and the bedroom in back. On the table were the dim forms of the Cutty Sark bottle, the glasses, and the ice bucket. When I opened the door, the stainless-steel ice bucket had caught the light from the corridor and sent back a knife-sharp flash. I entered the darkness and closed the door quietly behind me. The air in the room felt warm, and it carried the heavy scent of flowers. I held my breath and listened, keeping my left hand on the knob so that I could open it at any time. There had to be a person in here, somewhere. Someone had ordered the whiskey, ice, and glasses from room service and had opened the door to let the waiter in.

Don't turn on the light, said a womans voice. It came from the bedroom. I recognized it immediately. It was the voice of the enigmatic woman who had made those strange calls to me. I let go of the knob and began to feel my way toward the voice. The darkness of the inner room was more nearly opaque than that of the outer room. I stood in the doorway between the two and strained to see into the darkness.

I could hear the sound of bedsheets shifting. A black shadow moved in the darkness. Leave it dark, said the womans voice.

Don't worry, I said. I wont turn on the light. I kept a firm grip on the door jamb. Did you come here alone? the woman asked, sounding vaguely tired. Of course, I said. I figured Id find you here. You or Creta Kano. I've got to know where Kumiko is. I mean, everything started with that first call from you. You opened Pandora's box. Then it was one weird thing after another, until finally Kumiko disappeared. That's why I'm here. Alone. I don't know who you are, but you hold some kind of key. Am I right?

Creta Kano? the woman asked in guarded tones. Never heard of her. Is she here too? I don't know where she is. But I've met her here more than once. Each breath I took brought with it the strong smell of flowers. The air was thick and heavy. Somewhere in this room was a vase full of flowers. Somewhere in this same darkness, they were breathing, swaying. In the darkness filled with their intense fragrance, I began to lose track of my own physicality. I felt as if I had become a tiny insect. Now I was working my way in among the petals of a giant flower. Sticky nectar, pollen, and soft hairs awaited me. They needed my invasion and my presence.

You know, I said to the woman, the very first thing I want to do is find out who you are. You tell me I know you, and I've tried as hard as I can to recall you, but without success. Who are you?

Who am I? the woman parroted, but without a hint of mockery. Id like a drink. Pour two on the rocks, will you? You will drink with me, I suppose?

I went back to the living room, opened the new bottle of whiskey, put ice in the glasses, and poured two drinks. In the dark, this took a good deal of time. I carried the drinks into the bedroom. The woman told me to set one on the night table. And you sit on the chair by the foot of the bed.

I did as I was told, placing one glass on the night table and sitting in an upholstered armchair some distance away, drink in hand. My eyes had perhaps grown somewhat more used to the darkness. I could see shadows shifting there. The woman seemed to have raised herself on the bed. Then there was the clink of ice as she drank. I, too, took a sip of whiskey.

For a long time, she said nothing. The longer the silence continued, the stronger the smell of flowers seemed to become.

Do you really want to know who I am? the woman asked. That's why I'm here, I said, but my voice resounded uneasily in the darkness. You came here specifically to learn my name, didn't you? Instead of answering, I cleared my throat, but this also had a strange reverberation. The woman jiggled the ice in her glass a few times. You want to know my name, she said, but unfortunately, I cant tell you what it is. I know you very well. You know me very well. But I don't know me.

I shook my head in the darkness. I don't get it, I said. And I'm sick of riddles. I need something concrete that I can get my hands on. Hard facts. Something I can use as a lever to pry the door open. That's what I want.

The woman seemed to wring a sigh out of the core of her body. Toru Okada, I want you to discover my name. But no: you don't have to discover it. You know it already. All you have to do is remember it. If you can find my name, then I can get out of here. I can even help you find your wife: help you find Kumiko Okada. If you want to find your wife, try hard to discover my name. That is the lever you want. You don't have time to stay lost. Every day you fail to find it, Kumiko Okada moves that much farther away from you.

I set my whiskey glass on the floor. Tell me, I said, where is this place? How long have you been here? What do you do here?

You have to leave now, said the woman, as if she had suddenly recalled what she was doing. If he finds you here, there'll be trouble. Hes even more dangerous than you think. He might really kill you. I wouldn't put it past him. Who is this he?

The woman didn't answer, and I didn't know what else to say. I felt lost. Nothing stirred in the room. The silence was deep and thick and suffocating. My head felt feverish. The pollen might have been doing it. Mixed with the air, the microscopic grains were penetrating my head and driving my nerves haywire.

Tell me, Toru Okada, said the woman, her voice suddenly very different. The quality of her voice could change in an instant. Now it had become one with the rooms thick, heavy air.

Do you ever think you'd like to hold me again? That you'd like to get inside me? That you'd like to kiss me all over? You can do anything you want to me, you know. And I'll do anything you want... anything ... things that your wife ... Kumiko Okada ... would never do for you. I'll make you feel so good you'll never forget it. If you- With no warning at all, there was a knock on the door. It had the hard, precise sound of a nail being driven straight in-an ominous sound in the dark.

The womans hand came out of the darkness and took me by the arm. Come this way, she whispered. Hurry. Her voice had lost the dreamy quality now. The knocking started again: two knocks with precisely the same force. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't locked the door.

Hurry, she said. You have to get out of here. This is the only way.

I moved through the darkness as the woman drew me on. I could hear the doorknob turning slowly. The sound sent chills down my spine. At the very moment the light from the corridor pierced the darkness, we slipped into the wall. It had the consistency of a gigantic mass of cold gelatin; I clamped my mouth shut to prevent its coming inside. The thought struck me: I'm passing through the wall! In order to go from one place to another, I was passing through a wall. And yet, even as it was happening, it seemed like the most natural thing to do.

I felt the womans tongue coming into my mouth. Warm and soft, it probed every crevice and it wound around my own tongue. The heavy smell of flower petals stroked the walls of my lungs. Down in my loins, I felt a dull need to come. Clamping my eyes closed, I fought it.

A moment later, I felt a kind of intense heat on my right cheek. It was an odd sensation. I felt no pain, only the awareness that there was heat there. I couldn't tell whether the heat was coming from the outside or boiling up inside me. Soon everything was gone: the womans tongue, the smell of flowers, the need to come, the heat on my cheek. And I passed through the wall. When I opened my eyes I was on the other side of the wall-at the bottom of a deep well.

9 The Well and Stars How the Ladder Disappeared

The sky was already bright at something after five in the morning, but even so, I could make out a lot of stars overhead. It was just as Lieutenant Mamiya had told me: from the bottom of a well, you can see stars in the daylight. Into the perfect half-moon slice of sky, faintly glowing stars were packed neatly, like specimens of rare minerals.

Once before, when camping on a mountaintop with some friends in the fifth or sixth grade, I had seen stars in such numbers that they filled the sky. It almost seemed as if the sky would break under the weight of all those things and come tumbling down. Never had I seen such an amazing skyful of stars. Unable to sleep after the others had drowsed off, I crawled out of the tent and lay on the ground, looking at the sky. Now and then, a shooting star would trace a bright arc across the heavens. The longer I watched, though, the more nervous it made me. There were simply too many stars, and the sky was too vast and deep. A huge, overpowering foreign object, it surrounded me, enveloped me, and made me feel almost dizzy. Until that moment, I had always thought that the earth on which I stood was a solid object that would last forever. Or rather, I had never thought about such a thing at all. I had simply taken it for granted. But in fact, the earth was nothing but a chunk of rock floating in one little corner of the universe: a. temporary foothold in the vast emptiness of space. It-and all of us with it-could be blown away tomorrow by a momentary flash of something or a tiny shift in the universes energy. Beneath this breathtaking skyful of stars, the uncertainty of my own ex- istence struck me full force (though not in so many words, of course). It was a stunning discovery for a young boy.

Looking up at the dawn stars from the bottom of a well was a special experience very different from looking at the full, starry sky on a mountaintop, as if my mind-my self-my very existence-were firmly bonded through my narrow window to each one of those stars in the sky. I felt a deep sense of intimacy toward them: they were my stars, visible to no one but me, down here in the dark well. I embraced them as my own, and they in turn showered me with a kind of energy and warmth.

As time passed and the sky came increasingly under the sway of the bright morning sun of summer, one star at a time would obliterate itself from my field of view. They did this with the utmost gentleness, and I studied the process of obliteration with wide-open eyes. The summer sun did not, however, erase every star from the sky. A few of the strongest ones remained. No matter how high the sun climbed, they took a stubborn stance and refused to disappear. This made me very happy: aside from the occasional cloud that drifted by, the stars were the only things I could see from down there.

I had sweated in my sleep, and now the sweat was beginning to grow cold and chill me. I shuddered several times. The sweat made me think of that pitch-dark hotel room and the telephone woman there. Still ringing in my ears were the words she had spoken-every one of them-and the sound of the knocking. My nostrils retained the strangely heavy smell of flowers. And Noboru Wataya was still talking from the other side of the television screen. The memory of these impressions remained, undimmed by the passage of time. And this was because it had not been a dream, my memory told me.

Even after I was fully awake, I continued to feel an intense warmth in my right cheek. Mixed in now with the warmth was a mild sensation of pain, as if the skin had been chafed with rough sandpaper. I pressed my palm against the spot through my one-day stubble, but this did nothing to reduce the heat or the pain. Down in the bottom of the dark well, without a mirror, it was impossible for me to examine what was happening to my cheek.

I reached out and touched the wall, tracing the surface with my fingertips and then pressing my palm against it for a time, but I found nothing unusual: it was just an ordinary concrete wall. I made a fist and gave it a few taps. The wall was hard, expressionless, and slightly damp. I still had a clear impression of the strange, slippery sensation it had given me when I passed through it-like tunneling through a mass of gelatin.

I groped in my knapsack for the canteen and took a drink of water. I had gone a full day now without eating. The thought itself gave me intense hunger pangs, but these began to fade soon enough as they were absorbed into a limbo-like numbness. I brought my hand to my face again and tried to gauge the growth of my beard. My jaw now wore a days worth of stubble. No doubt about it: a whole day had gone by. But my one-day absence was probably not having an effect on anybody. Not one human being had noticed that I was gone, likely. I could disappear from the face of the earth, and the world would go on moving without the slightest twinge. Things were tremendously complicated, to be sure, but one thing was clear: no one needed me.

I turned upward again and looked at the stars. The sight of them gradually calmed the beating of my heart. Then it occurred to me to grope along the wall for the ladder. Where it should have been, my hand encountered nothing. I felt over a broad area, checking with the utmost care, but there was no ladder. It no longer existed in the place where it belonged. I took a deep breath, pulled the flashlight from the knapsack, and switched it on. But there was no sign of the ladder. Standing, I shone the light on the floor and then the wall above me, as far as the beam could reach. The ladder was nowhere. Cold sweat crept down my sides like some kind of living creature. The flashlight slipped from my hand, fell to the ground, and switched off from the impact. It was a sign. In that instant, my mind snapped: it was a grain of sand, absorbed into the surrounding darkness. My body stopped functioning, as if its plug had been pulled. A perfect nothingness came over me.

This lasted perhaps a few seconds, until I retrieved myself. My physical functions returned bit by bit. I bent over and picked up the flashlight lying at my feet, gave it a few taps, and switched it on again. The light returned without a problem. I needed to calm myself and put my thoughts in order. Fear and panic would solve nothing. When had I last checked the ladder? Yesterday, late at night, just before I fell asleep. I had made certain it was there and only then let myself sleep. No mistake. The ladder had disappeared while I was sleeping. It had been pulled up. Taken away. I cut the switch of the flashlight and leaned against the wall. Then I closed my eyes. The first thing I felt was hunger. It swept toward me out of the distance, like a wave, washed over me soundlessly, and glided away. Once it was gone, I stood there, hollow, empty as a gutted animal. After the initial panic had passed, I no longer felt either terror or despair. Strangely enough, all I felt at that moment was a kind of resignation.

Back from Sapporo, I held Kumiko and comforted her. She was feeling lost and confused. She had taken the day off from work. I couldn't sleep a wink last night, she said. The clinic had an opening at just the right time, so I went ahead and decided by myself. She cried a little after saying this.

Its finished now, I said. No point thinking about it anymore. We talked it over, and this was how it worked out. If theres anything else you want to talk about, better do it here and now. Then lets just put it out of our minds. Forget about it. You said on the phone you had something to tell me.

Kumiko shook her head. Never mind, she said. You're right. Lets forget about it.

We went on with our lives for a while, avoiding all mention of Kumiko's abortion. But this wasn't easy to do. We could be talking about something entirely different, when suddenly both of us would fall silent. On weekends, we'd go to movies. In the dark, we might be concentrating on the movie, but we might just as well be thinking about things that had nothing to do with the movie, or we might be resting our brains by thinking about nothing at all. I knew that Kumiko, sitting next to me, was thinking about something else. I could sense it.

After the movie, we'd go somewhere for a beer or a snack. Sometimes we wouldn't know what to talk about. This went on for six weeks-a very long six weeks, at the end of which Kumiko said to me, What do you say we take a trip tomorrow, go away for a little vacation, just the two of us? Tomorrows Friday: we can take off till Sunday. People need that kind of thing once in a while.

I know what you mean, I said, smiling, but I wonder if anybody at my office even knows what a vacation is.

Call in sick, then. Say its flu or something. I'll do the same.

We took the train to Karuizawa. I picked that destination because Kumiko said she wanted a quiet place in the mountains where we could walk all we liked. It was off-season there in April; the hotel was hushed, most of the shops were closed, but that was exactly what we wanted. We did nothing but go out for walks every day, from morning to evening.

It took a full day and a half for Kumiko to release her feelings. And once she did, she sat in the hotel room, crying, for nearly two hours. I said nothing the whole time, just held her and let her cry.

Then, little by little, in fragments, she began to tell me things. About the abortion. About her feelings at the time. About her extreme sense of loss. About how alone she had felt while I was in Hokkaido-and how she could have done what she did only while feeling so alone.

And don't get me wrong, she said finally. I'm not regretting what I did. It was the only way. I'm perfectly clear on that. What really hurts, though, is that I want to tell you everything-absolutely everything-but I just cant do it. I cant tell you exactly how I feel.

Kumiko pushed her hair up, revealing a small, shapely ear, and she gave her head a shake.

I'm not hiding it from you. I'm planning to tell you sometime. You're the only one I can tell. But I just cant do it now. I cant put it into words.

Something from the past? No, thats not it. Take all the time you need, I said. Until you're ready. Time is the one thing we've got plenty of. I'll be right here with you. Theres no rush. I just want you to keep one thing in mind: Anything of yours-anything at all, as long as it belongs to you-I will accept as my own. That is one thing you will never have to worry about.

Thank you, she said. I'm so glad I married you. But we did not have all the time I thought we had. Exactly what was it that Kumiko had been unable to put into words? Did it have something to do with her disappearance? Maybe, if I had tried dragging it out of her then, I could have avoided losing her now. But no, I concluded after mulling it over: I could never have forced her. She had said she couldn't put it into words. Whatever it was, it was more than she had the strength for.

Hey, down there! Mr. Wind-Up Bird! shouted May Kasahara. In a shallow sleep at the time, I thought I was hearing the voice in a dream. But it was not a dream. When I looked up, there was May Kasahara's face, small and far away. I know you're down there! C'mon, Mr. Wind-Up Bird! Answer me!

I'm here, I said.

What on earth for? What are you doing down there? Thinking, I said. I don't get it. Why do you have to go to the bottom of a well to think? It must be such a pain in the butt! This way, you can really concentrate. Its dark and cool and quiet. Do you do this a lot? No, not a lot. I've never done it before in my life-getting into a well like this. Is it working? Is it helping you to think? I don't know yet. I'm still experimenting. She cleared her throat. The sound reverberated loudly to the bottom of the well. Anyway, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, did you notice the ladders gone? Sure did, I said. A little while ago. Did you know it was me who pulled it up? No, that I didn't know. Well, who did you think did it? I didn't know, I said honestly. I don't know how to put this, but that thought never really crossed my mind-that somebody took it. I thought it just disappeared, to tell you the truth.

May Kasahara fell silent. Then, with a note of caution in her voice, as if she thought my words contained some kind of trap for her, she said, Just disappeared. Hmm. What do you mean, it just disappeared? That, all by itself, it... just... disappeared?

Maybe so.

You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, its kinda funny for me to bring this up now, but you're pretty weird. There aren't too many people out there as weird as you are. Did you know that?

I'm not so weird to me, I said. Then what makes you think that ladders can just disappear? I rubbed my face with both hands and tried to concentrate all my attention on this conversation with May Kasahara. You pulled it up, didn't you? Of course I did. It doesn't take much brainwork to figure that one out. I did it. I sneaked out in the night and pulled the ladder up. But why?

Why not? Do you know how many times I went to your house yesterday? I wanted you to go to work with me again. You weren't there, of course. Then I found that note of yours in the kitchen. So I waited a really long time, but you never came back. So then I thought just maybe you might be at the empty house again. I found the well cover half open and the ladder hanging down. Still, it never occurred to me you might be down there. I just figured some workman or somebody had been there and left his ladder. I mean, how many people go to sit in the bottom of a well when they want to think?

You've got a point there, I said. Anyhow, so then I sneaked out at night and went to your place, but you still weren't there. That's when it popped into my mind. That maybe you were down in the well. Not that I had any idea what you'd be doing down there, but you know, like I said, you're kinda weird. I came to the well and pulled the ladder up. Bet that gotcha goin.

Yeah, you're right. Do you have anything to eat or drink down there?

A little water. I didn't bring any food. I've got three lemon drops, though. How long have you been down there? Since late yesterday morning.

You must be hungry. I guess so.

Don't you have to pee or anything?

Now that she had mentioned it, I realized I hadn't peed once since coming down here.

Not really, I said. I'm not eating or drinking much.

Say, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you know what? You might die down there, depending on my mood. I'm the only one who knows you're in there, and I'm the one who hid the rope ladder.

Do you realize that? If I just walked away from here, you'd end up dead. You could yell, but no one would hear you. No one would think you were at the bottom of a well. I bet no one would even notice that you were gone. You don't work for any company, and your wife ran away. I suppose someone would notice eventually that you were missing and report it to the police, but you'd be dead by then, and they'd never find your body.

I'm sure you're right. I could die down here, depending on your mood.

How do you feel about that?

Scared, I said.

You don't sound scared.

I was still rubbing my cheeks. These were my hands and my cheeks. I couldn't see them in the dark, but they were still here: my body still existed. That's because it hasn't really hit home with me, I said.

Well, it has with me, said May Kasahara. I bet its a lot easier to kill somebody than people think.

Probably depends on the method.

It'd be so easy! Id just have to leave you there. I wouldn't have to do a thing. Think about it, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. Just imagine how much you'd suffer, dying little by little, of hunger and thirst, down in the darkness. It wouldn't be easy.

I'm sure you're right, I said.

You don't really believe me, do you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? You think I couldn't do anything so cruel.

I don't really know, I said. Its not that I believe you could do it, or that I believe you couldn't do it. Anything could happen. The possibility is there. That's what I think.

I'm not talking about possibility, she said in the coldest tone imaginable. Hey, I've got an idea. It just occurred to me. You went to all the trouble of climbing down there so you could think. Why don't I fix it so you can concentrate on your thoughts even better?

How can you do that? I asked.

How? Like this, she said, closing the open half of the well cover. Now the darkness was total.

10 May Kasahara on Death and Evolution The Thing Made Elsewhere

I was crouching down in the total darkness. All I could see was nothingness. And I was part of this nothingness. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of my heart, to the sound of the blood circulating through my body, to the bellows-like contractions of my lungs, to the slippery undulations of my food-starved gut. In the deep darkness, every movement, every throb, was magnified enormously. This was my body, my flesh. But in the darkness, it was all too raw and physical.

Soon my conscious mind began to slip away from my physical body. I saw myself as the wind-up bird, flying through the summer sky, lighting on the branch of a huge tree somewhere, winding the worlds spring. If there really was no more wind-up bird, someone would have to take on its duties. Someone would have to wind the worlds spring in its place. Otherwise, the spring would run down and the delicately functioning system would grind to a halt. The only one who seemed to have noticed that the wind-up bird was gone, however, was me.

I tried my best to imitate the cry of the wind-up bird in the back of my throat. It didn't work. All I could produce was a meaningless, ugly sound like the rubbing together of two meaningless, ugly things. Only the real wind-up bird could make the sound. Only the wind-up bird could wind the worlds spring the way it was supposed to be wound.

Still, as a voiceless wind-up bird unable to wind the worlds spring, I decided to go flying through the summer sky-which turned out to be fairly easy. Once you were up, all you had to do was flap your wings at the right angle to adjust direction and altitude. My body mastered the art in a moment and sent me flying effortlessly wherever I wanted to go. I looked at the world from the wind-up birds vantage point. Whenever I had had enough flying, I would light on a tree branch and peer through the green leaves at rooftops and roadways. I watched people moving over the ground, carrying on the functions of life. Unfortunately, though, I could not see my own body. This was because I had never once seen the wind-up bird and had no idea what it looked like.

For a long time-how long could it have been?-I remained the wind-up bird. But being the wind-up bird never got me anywhere. The flying part was fun, of course, but I couldn't go on having fun forever. There was something I had to accomplish down here in the darkness at the bot-torn of the well. I stopped being the wind-up bird and returned to being myself.

May Kasahara paid her second visit a little after three. Three in the afternoon. When she opened half the well, light flooded in overhead-the blinding glare of a summer day. To protect my eyes, so accustomed now to total darkness, I closed them and kept my head down for a while. The mere thought of light up there caused a thin film of tears to ooze.

Hi there, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara. Are you still alive? Mr. Wind-Up Bird? Answer if you're still alive.

I'm alive, I said. You must be hungry. I think so. Still just I think so? It'll be a while before you starve to death, then. Starving people don't die so easily, as long as they've got water. That's probably true, I said, the uncertainty in my voice echoing in the well. The echo probably amplified any hint of anything contained in the voice. I know its true, said May Kasahara. I did a little research in the library this morning.

All about hunger and thirst. Did you know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, somebody once lived underground for twenty-one days? During the Russian Revolution.

No kidding, I said. He must have suffered a lot. Yeah, really. He survived, but he lost all his hair and teeth. Everything. Even if he lived, it must have been terrible. Yeah, really. Even if you lose your teeth and hair, though, I suppose you can live a pretty normal life if you've got a decent wig and false teeth. Yeah, and wigs and dentures have made great strides since the time of the Russian Revolution, too. That might make things a little easier. You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird ..., said May Kasahara, clearing her throat. What? If people lived forever-if they never got any older-if they could just go on living in this world, never dying, always healthy-do you think they'd bother to think hard about things, the way were doing now? I mean, we think about just about everything, more or less-philosophy, psychology, logic. Religion. Literature. I kinda think, if there were no such thing as death, that complicated thoughts and ideas like that would never come into the world. I mean- May Kasahara cut herself short and remained silent for a while, during which her I mean hung in the darkness of the well like a hacked-off fragment of thought. Maybe she had lost the will to say any more. Or maybe she needed time to think of what came next. I just waited in silence for her to continue, my head lowered as from the beginning. The thought crossed my mind that if May Kasahara wanted to kill me right away, it would be no trouble for her at all. She could just drop a big rock down the well. If she tried a few times, one was bound to hit me in the head.

I mean ... this is what I think, but... people have to think seriously about what it means for them to be alive here and now because they know they're going to die sometime. Right? Who would think about what it means to be alive if they were just going to go on living forever? Why would they have to bother? Or even if they should bother, they'd probably just figure, Oh, well, I've got plenty of time for that. I'll think about it later. But we cant wait till later. We've got to think about it right this second. I might get run over by a truck tomorrow afternoon. And you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird: you might starve to death. One morning three days from now, you could be dead in the bottom of a well. See? Nobody knows whats going to happen. So we need death to make us evolve. That's what I think. Death is this huge, bright thing, and the bigger and brighter it is, the more we have to drive ourselves crazy thinking about things.

May Kasahara paused. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird ... What? Down there in the darkness, have you been thinking about your own death? About how you would die down there? I took a moment to think about her question. Nope, I said. That's one thing I haven't been thinking about. Why not? May Kasahara asked, with a note of disgust, as if she were speaking to a deformed animal. Why haven't you been thinking about it? You're literally facing death right now. I'm not kidding around. I told you before, its up to me whether you live or die.

You could drop a rock, I said. A rock? What are you talking about? You could go find a big rock and drop it on me. Well, sure, I could do that. But she didn't seem to like the idea. Anyhow, Mr. Wind- Up Bird, you must be starving. Its just gonna get worse and worse. And you'll run out of water. So how can you not think about death? Don't you think its weird?

Yeah, I suppose its kind of weird, I said. But I've been thinking about other things the whole time. I'll probably think about death, too, when I start to get really hungry. I've still got three weeks before I die, right?

That's if you have water, said May Kasahara. That's what happened with that Russian guy. He was some big landowner or something. The revolutionary guard threw him down an old mine shaft, but there was water seeping through the wall, so he licked it and kept himself alive. He was in total darkness, just like you. But you don't have much water, do you?

No, I said honestly. Just a little left.

Then you'd better be careful with it, said May Kasahara. Take little sips. And take your time thinking. About death. About how you're dying. You've still got plenty of time.

Why are you so determined to make me think about death? Whats in it for you?

Nothings in it for me, May Kasahara shot back. What makes you think theres anything in it for me for you to think about your own death? Its your life. Its got nothing to do with me. I'm just... interested.

Out of curiosity? Yeah. Curiosity. About how people die. About how it feels to die. Curiosity. May Kasahara fell silent. When the conversation broke off, a deep stillness filled in the space around me, as if it had been waiting for this opportunity. I wanted to raise my face and look up. To see whether May Kasahara was visible from down here. But the light was too strong. I was sure it would burn my eyes out.

Theres something I want to tell you, I said. OK. Tell me.

My wife had a lover, I said. At least I'm pretty sure she did. I never realized it, but for months, while she was still living with me, she was sleeping with this guy. I couldn't believe it at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced. Now, looking back, I can see there were all kinds of little clues. Shed come home at crazy hours, or shed flinch when I touched her. But I couldn't read the signals. I trusted her. I never thought shed have an affair. It just never occurred to me.

Wow, said May Kasahara.

So then one day she just left the house and never came back. We had breakfast together that morning. She went off to work in her usual outfit. All she had with her was her handbag, and she picked up a blouse and skirt at the cleaners. And that was it. No goodbye. No note. Nothing. Kumiko was gone. Left all her things-clothes and everything. And shell probably never come back here-back to me. Not of her own accord, at least. That much I know.

Is Kumiko with the other guy now, do you think?

I don't know, I said, shaking my head. As my head moved slowly through it, the surrounding air felt like some kind of heavy water, without the watery feel. They probably are together.

And so now you're crushed, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, and thats why you went down in the well.

Of course I was crushed when I realized what was happening. But thats not why I'm in here. I'm not hiding from reality. Like I said before, I needed a place where I could be alone and concentrate on my thinking. Where and how did my relationship with Kumiko go wrong? That's what I cant understand. Not that I'm saying everything was perfect until that point. A man and a woman in their twenties, with two distinct personalities, just happen to meet somewhere and start living together. Theres not a married couple anywhere without their problems. But I thought we were doing OK, basically, that any little problems would solve themselves over time. But I was wrong. I was missing something big, making some kind of mistake on a really basic level, I suppose. That's what I came in here to think about.

May Kasahara said nothing. I swallowed once.

I wonder if this'll make any sense to you: When we got married, six years ago, the two of us were trying to make a brand-new world-like building a new house on an empty lot. We had this clear image of what we wanted. We didn't need a fancy house or anything, just something to keep the weather out, as long as the two of us could be together. We didn't need any extras. Things would just get in the way. It all seemed so simple to us. Have you ever had that feeling-that you'd like to go to a whole different place and become a whole different self?

Sure, said May Kasahara. I feel that way all the time.

Well, thats what we were trying to do when we got married. I wanted to get outside myself: the me that had existed until then. And it was the same for Kumiko. In that new world of ours, we were trying to get hold of new selves that were better suited to who we were deep down. We believed we could live in a way that was more perfectly suited to who we were.

May Kasahara seemed to shift her center of gravity in the light somewhat. I could sense her movement. She seemed to be waiting for me to continue. But I had nothing more to say at that point. Nothing came to mind. I felt tired from the sound of my own voice in the concrete tube of the well.

Does this make any sense to you? I asked.

Sure it does.

What do you think about it?

Hey, I'm still a kid, ya know. I don't know anything about marriage. I don't know what was in your wifes mind when she started fooling around with another man or when she left you. But from what you just told me, I think you kinda had the wrong idea from the very beginning. You know what I mean, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? What you were just talking about... I don't know, its kind of impossible for anybody to do that stuff, like, OK, now I'm gonna make a whole new world or OK, now I'm gonna make a whole new self. That's what I think. You might think you made a new world or a new self, but your old self is always gonna be there, just below the surface, and if something happens, it'll stick its head out and say Hi.

You don't seem to realize that. You were made somewhere else. And even this idea you have of remaking yourself: even that was made somewhere else. Even I know that much, Mr.

Wind-Up Bird. You're a grown-up, aren't you? How come you don't get it? That's a big problem, if you ask me. And thats what you're being punished for-by all kinds of things: by the world you tried to get rid of, or by the self you tried to get rid of. Do you see what I'm saying?

I remained silent, staring at the darkness that enveloped my feet. I didn't know what to say.

OK, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said softly. You go ahead and think. Think. Think.

The cover snapped into place, and the well opening was blocked once again.

I took the canteen from my knapsack and gave it a shake. The light sloshing sound echoed in the darkness. Maybe a quarter left. I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes.

May Kasahara was probably right. This person, this self, this me, finally, was made somewhere else. Everything had come from somewhere else, and it would all go somewhere else. I was nothing but a pathway for the person known as me.

Even I know that much, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. How come you don't get it?

11 Hunger as Pain Kumiko's Long Letter Bird as Prophet

I fell asleep a few times and woke up just as often. These were short, unsettled snatches of sleep, as on an airplane. Whenever deep sleep was about to arrive, I would shrink back and wake up; whenever full wakefulness was about to arrive, I would drift off into sleep, in endless repetition. Without changes in the light, time wobbled by like a wagon with a loose axle. My cramped, unnatural posture robbed my body of rest in small, accumulating doses. Each time I woke, I would check the time on my watch. Its pace was heavy and uneven.

With nothing better to do, I would pick up the flashlight and shine it at random-at the ground, at the walls, at the well cover. What I found there was always the same ground, the same walls, the same well cover. The shadows cast by the moving beam would sway, stretch and shrink, swell and contract. When I tired of this, I would spend time feeling my face, probing every line and crevice, examining my features anew to learn their shape. I had never been seriously concerned about the shape of my ears before this. If someone had told me to draw a picture of my own ears-even a rough sketch-I would have been at a loss. Now, though, I would have been able to reproduce every hollow and curve in accurate detail. I found it odd how different the ears were. I had no idea how this had come about or what effect this lack of symmetry might have (it probably had some effect).

The hands of my watch showed seven twenty-eight. I must have looked at my watch some two thousand times since coming down here. Now it was seven twenty-eight at night, that much was certain; at a ball game, it would be the bottom of the third or the top of the fourth. When I was a kid, I used to like to sit up high in the outfield stands and watch the summer day trying not to end. The sun had sunk below the western horizon, but the afterglow was still brilliant and beautiful. The stadium lights stretched their long shadows across the field as if to hint at something. First one and then another light would be turned on with the utmost caution shortly after the game got going. Still, there was enough light in the sky to read a newspaper by. The memory of the long days glow remained at the door to keep the summer night from entering.

With patience and persistence, though, the artificial illumination was winning its quiet victory over the light of the sun, bringing forth a flood of festive colors. The brilliant green of the playing field, the handsome black earth, the straight white lines newly drawn upon it, the glinting varnish on the bats of players waiting for their turn at the plate, the cigarette smoke floating in the beams of light (looking, on windless days, like souls wandering in search of someone to take them in)-all these would begin to show up with tremendous clarity. The young beer sellers would hold their hands up in the light, flashing bills tucked between their fingers. The crowd would rise from their seats to follow the path of a high fly ball, their voices rising with its arc or dissolving into a sigh. Small flocks of birds returning to their roosts would fly past toward the sea. This was the stadium at seven-thirty in the evening.

I thought about the baseball games I had seen over the years. The Saint Louis Cardinals had come to Japan once, when I was little, for a friendship game. I had seen that one with my father from an infield seat. Before the game itself, the Cardinals players stood along the perimeter of the field with baskets full of autographed tennis balls, throwing them into the stands as fast as they could. People went crazy trying to grab a ball for themselves, but I just stayed in my seat without moving, and before I knew it, I had a ball in my lap. It was a magical happening: strange and sudden.

I looked at my watch again. Seven thirty-six. Eight minutes had gone by since the last look. Just eight minutes. I took the watch off and held it against my ear. It was ticking away just fine. I shrugged my shoulders in the darkness. Something strange was happening to my sense of time. I decided not to look at my watch for a while. Maybe I didn't have anything else to do, but it wasn't healthy to be looking at a watch this often. I had to make a tremendous effort to keep myself from looking, though. The pain was like what I had felt when I quit smoking. From the moment I decided to give up thinking about time, my mind could think of nothing else. It was a kind of contradiction, a schizoid split. The more I tried to forget about time, the more I was compelled to think about it. Before I knew it, my eyes would be seeking out the watch on my left wrist. Whenever this happened, I would avert my face, close my eyes, and struggle not to look. I ended up taking the watch off and stuffing it into my knapsack. Even so, my mind went on groping for the watch inside the pack, where it continued to tick off the time.

And so time flowed on through the darkness, deprived of advancing watch hands: time undivided and unmeasured. Once it lost its points of demarcation, time ceased being a continuous line and became instead a kind of formless fluid that expanded or contracted at will. Within this kind of time, I slept and woke and slept and woke, and became slowly and increasingly accustomed to life without timepieces. I trained my body to realize that I no longer needed time. But soon I was feeling tremendous anxiety. True, I had been liberated from the nervous habit of checking my watch every five minutes, but once the frame of reference of time faded completely away, I began to feel as if I had been flung into the ocean at night from the deck of a moving ship. No one noticed my screams, and the boat continued its forward advance, moving farther and farther away until it was about to fade from view.

Abandoning the effort, I took the watch from the knapsack and returned it to my wrist. The hands were pointing to six-fifteen. Probably six-fifteen a.m. The last time I had looked at my watch, it had been seven thirty-six. Seven thirty-six at night. It seemed reasonable to conclude that eleven hours had gone by since then. It could hardly have been twenty-three hours. But I could not be sure. What was the essential difference between eleven hours and twenty-three hours? Whichever it was- eleven or twenty-three-my hunger had become far more intense. The sensation was nothing like what I had vaguely imagined an intense hunger to be. I had assumed that hunger would be a feeling of absence. Instead, it was closer to pure physical pain-utterly physical and utterly direct, like being stabbed or throttled. And the pain was uneven. It lacked consistency. It would rise like a swelling tide until I was on the verge of fainting, and then it would gradually recede.

To divert my attention from these intensely painful hunger pangs, I tried to concentrate my thoughts on something else. But it was no longer possible for me to do any serious thinking. Fragmentary thoughts would drift into my mind, then disappear just as quickly as they had come. Whenever I tried to grab one, it would slip through my fingers like some slimy, shapeless animal.

I stood up and stretched and took a deep breath. Every part of my body hurt. Every muscle and joint cried out in pain from having been in an awkward position for so long. I stretched myself slowly upward, then did some knee bends, but after ten of those I felt dizzy. Sitting down again on the well floor, I closed my eyes. My ears were ringing, and sweat streamed down my face. I wanted to hold on to something, but there was nothing to hold on to. I felt like throwing up, but there was nothing inside me that I could have thrown up. I tried deep breathing, hoping to refresh my mind by exchanging the air inside my body and giving my circulation a charge, but the clouds in my mind refused to clear. My body's so weak now, I thought, and in fact I tried saying the words aloud-My body's so weak now-but my mouth had difficulty forming the words. If only I could see the stars, I thought, but I could not see stars. May Kasahara had sealed the mouth of the well.

I assumed that May Kasahara would come to the well again sometime during the morning, but she never did. I spent the time waiting for her to arrive, leaning against the wall. The sick feeling stayed with me all morning, and my mind had lost the power to concentrate itself on any thoughts, however briefly. The hunger pangs continued to come and go, and the darkness around me grew thicker and thinner, and with each new wave another chunk of my ability to concentrate would be taken away, like furniture being stripped a piece at a time by burglars in an empty house.

Noon passed, and still May Kasahara did not appear. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, hoping to dream of Creta Kano, but my sleep was too shallow for dreams. Not long after I gave up any effort to concentrate on thinking, all kinds of fragmentary memories began to visit me. They arrived in silence, like water slowly filling an underground cavern. Places I had gone, people I had met, wounds I had received, conversations I had had, things I had bought, things I had lost: I was able to recall them all with great vividness and in amazing detail. I thought of houses and apartments in which I had lived. I thought of their windows and closets and furniture and lighting fixtures. I thought of teachers and professors I had had, all the way from elementary school to college. Few if any of these memories had any connection with each other. They were minute and meaningless and came in no chronological order. Now and then, my recollections would be interrupted by another painful wave of hunger. But each memory was incredibly vivid, jolting me physically with the force of a tornado.

I sat there watching my mind pursue these memories, until it brought to life an incident that had occurred in the office some three or four years earlier. It had been a stupid, pointless event, but the more time I filled with recreating its absurd details, the more annoyed I felt, until the annoyance turned to outright anger. The anger that seized me was so intense that it blotted out everything else-my fatigue, my hunger, my fears-causing me to tremble physically and my breath to come in gasps. My heart pounded audibly, and the anger pumped my bloodstream full of adrenaline. It had been an argument that started from a minor misunderstanding. The other guy had flung some nasty phrases at me, and I had managed to have my say as well, but we both realized how pointless the whole thing had been and apologized to each other, putting an end to the matter without any lingering hard feelings. These things happen: you're busy, you're tired, and you let some careless remark slip out. I just forgot about the whole thing. Down in the pitch blackness at the bottom of the well, though, far removed from reality, the memory came back to life with searing vividness. I could feel the heat of it against my skin, hear it sizzling my flesh. Why had my response to such an outrageous comment been so feeble? Now I came up with all kinds of things I should have said to the guy. I polished them, sharpened them, and the sharper they got, the angrier I got.

Then, all of a sudden, the possessing demon fell away, and none of this mattered anymore. Why did I have to warm up stale memories like this? What good did it do? The other guy had probably forgotten about the argument long since. I certainly had until this moment. I took a deep breath, let my shoulders droop and my body sink back into the darkness. I tried pursuing another memory, but once the incredibly intense anger passed, I had run out of memories. My head was now as empty as my stomach.

Then, before I knew it, I was talking to myself, mumbling fragmentary thoughts that I didn't know I was having. I couldn't stop myself. I heard my mouth forming words, but I could hardly understand a thing I was saying. My mouth was moving by itself, automatically, spinning long strings of words through the darkness, words the meaning of which I could not grasp. They came out of one darkness, to be sucked into the next. My body was nothing but an empty tunnel, a conduit for moving the words from there to here. They were definitely fragments of thought, but thought that was happening outside my consciousness.

What was going on here? Were my nerves beginning to lose it? I looked at my watch. The hands said three forty-two. Probably three forty-two in the afternoon. I pictured to myself what the light looked like at three forty-two on a summer afternoon. I imagined myself in that light. I listened for any sound my ears might pick up, but there was nothing: no cicada or bird cries, no children's voices. Maybe, while I was down here in the well, the wind-up bird had not wound the spring, and the world had stopped moving. Bit by bit, the spring had run down, and at one certain point in time, all movement-the rivers flow, the stirring of leaves, birds flying through the sky-had stopped.

What was May Kasahara doing? Why didn't she come? She hadn't shown up here for a very long time. The thought struck me that something terrible might have happened to her-a traffic accident, say. In which case, there was no longer anyone in the world who knew I was down here. And I really would die a slow death in the bottom of the well. I decided to look at things differently. May Kasahara was not such a careless person. She was not about to let herself get run over so easily. She was probably in her room now, scanning this yard every once in a while with her binoculars and imagining me down here in the well. She was doing this on purpose: letting a lot of time go by to give me a scare, to make me feel abandoned. That was my guess. And if she was purposely letting a lot of time go by, then her plan was succeeding admirably. I really was scared. I did feel abandoned. Whenever the thought struck me that I might very well just rot down here in the dark over a long period of time, I could hardly breathe with the fear that gripped me. The more time that went by, the more I would weaken, until my hunger pangs became violent enough to kill me. Before that happened, though, I might lose the ability to move my body at will. Even if someone were to lower the rope ladder to me, I might not be able to climb it. All my hair and teeth might fall out.

Then it occurred to me to worry about the air. I had been down in the bottom of this deep, narrow concrete tube over two days now, and to make matters worse, the top had been sealed. There was no circulation to speak of. The air around me suddenly began to feel heavy and oppressive. I couldn't tell whether this was my imagination playing tricks on me or the air really was heavier because of the lack of oxygen. To find out, I made several large inhalations and exhalations, but the more I breathed, the worse it felt. Fear made the sweat gush out of me. Once I started thinking about the air, death invaded my mind as something real and imminent. It rose like black, silent water, seeping into every corner of my consciousness. Until now, I had been thinking about the possibility of starvation, for which there was still plenty of time. Things would happen much more quickly if the oxygen gave out.

What would it feel like to die of asphyxiation? How long would it take? Would it be a slow, agonizing process, or would I gradually lose consciousness and die as if falling asleep? I imagined May Kasahara coming to the well and finding me dead. She would call out to me several times, and when there was no answer she would drop a few pebbles into the well, thinking I was asleep. But I would not wake up. Then she would realize that I was dead.

I wanted to shout for someone. I wanted to scream that I was shut up inside here. That I was hungry. That the air was going bad. I felt as if I had reverted to being a helpless little child. I had run away on a whim and would never be able to find my home again. I had forgotten the way. It was a dream I had had any number of times. It was the nightmare of my youth-going astray, losing the way home. I had forgotten all about those nightmares years ago. But now, in the bottom of this deep well, they came to life again with terrible vividness. Time moved backward in the dark, to be swallowed by a different kind of time.

I took the canteen from my knapsack, unscrewed the top, and, with the greatest care, so as not to spill a single drop, let a small amount of water find its way into my mouth. I kept it there for a long time, savoring the moisture, then swallowed it as slowly as possible. A loud sound came from my throat as the water passed through, as if some hard, heavy object had fallen to the floor, but it was just the sound I made by swallowing a few drops of water.

Mr. Okada!

Someone was calling me. I heard the voice in my sleep. Mr. Okada! Mr. Okada! Please wake up!

It sounded like Creta Kano. I managed to open my eyes, but that changed nothing. I was still surrounded by darkness and couldn't see a thing. There was no clear border between sleep and wakefulness. I tried to raise myself, but there was not enough strength in my fingers. My body felt cold and shriveled and dull, like a cucumber long forgotten in the back of the refrigerator. My mind was wrapped tight in exhaustion and weakness. I don't care, do what you want, I'll get a hard-on in my mind again and come in reality. Go ahead, if thats what you want. In my clouded consciousness, I waited for her hands to loosen my belt. But Creta Kano's voice was coming from somewhere far overhead. Mr. Okada! Mr. Okada! it called. I looked up, to find half the well cover open and above it a beautiful, starry sky, a sky shaped like a half-moon.

I'm here! I raised myself and managed to stand. Looking up, I shouted again, I'm here! Mr. Okada! said the real Creta Kano. Are you down there? Yes, I'm here! How did that happen? Its a long story. I'm sorry, I cant hear you very well. Can you speak a little louder? Its a long story! I shouted. I'll tell you about it after I get out of here. Right now, I cant speak very loudly. Is this your rope ladder up here? Yes, it is. How did you manage to raise it from there? Did you throw it? Of course not! Why would I have done such a thing? How could I have done such a thing? Of course not! Somebody pulled it up without telling me. But that would just make it impossible for you to get out of there. Of course it would, I said, as patiently as I could manage. That's what happened. I cant get out of here. So can you do me a favor and let the ladder down? That way, I can get out.

Yes, of course. I'll do it now.

Wait a minute! Before you let it down, can you make sure its anchored to the base of the tree? Otherwise- But she was not responding. It seemed there was no one there anymore. I focused as hard as I could on the well mouth, but I couldn't see anyone. I took the flashlight from my sack and aimed its beam aloft, but the light caught no human form. What it did reveal was the rope ladder, hanging where it belonged, as if it had been there all the time. I released a deep sigh, and as it left me, I felt a hard knot at the core of my body relax and melt away.

Hey, there! Creta Kano! I shouted, but there was still no answer.

The hands on my watch showed one-oh-seven. One-oh-seven at night, of course. The stars twinkling overhead told me that much. I slipped my knapsack on my back, took one deep breath, and started up. The unstable rope ladder was difficult to climb. With each exertion, every muscle, every bone and joint in my body, creaked and cried out. I took one careful step at a time, and soon there was a growing hint of warmth in the surrounding air, and then a distinct smell of grass. The cries of insects reached me now. I got my hands on the edge of the well curb and with one last effort pulled myself over, all but rolling onto the soft surface of the earth. That was it: I was aboveground again. For a while, I simply lay there on my back, thinking of nothing. I looked up at the sky and sucked the air deep into my lungs over and over-the thick, warmish air of a summer night, filled with the fresh smell of life. I could smell the earth, smell the grass. The smell alone was enough to give my palms the soft sensation of touching the earth and the grass. I wanted to take them both in my hands and devour them.

There were no longer any stars to be seen in the sky: not one. The stars up there were visible only from the bottom of a well. All that hung in the sky was a nearly full, corpulent moon.

How long I went on lying there I had no idea. For a long time, all I did was listen to the beating of my heart. I felt that I could go on living forever, doing only that-listening to the beating of my heart. Eventually, though, I raised myself from the ground and surveyed my surroundings. No one was there. The garden stretched out into the night, with the statue of the bird staring off at the sky, as always. No lights shone inside May Kasahara's house. There was only one mercury lamp burning in her yard, casting its pale, expressionless light as far as the deserted alley. Where could Creta Kano have disappeared to?

In any case, the first thing to do was go home-to go home, drink something, eat something, and take a nice, long shower. I probably stank something awful. I had to get rid of that smell before anything else. Then I had to fill my empty stomach. Everything else would come later.

I followed the usual route back home, but to my eyes the alley looked different, unfamiliar. Maybe because of the strangely naked moonlight, signs of stagnation and putrefaction stood out with unusual intensity, and I could smell something like the rotting flesh of dead animals and the very definite stink of feces and urine. In many of the houses, people were still up, talking or eating while they watched television. From one window drifted the smell of greasy food, assaulting my brain and stomach. I passed by a groaning air- conditioning unit and received a bath of lukewarm air. I heard the sound of a shower and saw the blurred shadow of a body on a bathroom window.

I managed to scale the wall behind my house and dropped down into the yard. From here, the house looked pitch dark and almost seemed to be holding its breath. It retained no sense of warmth or intimacy. It was supposed to be the house where I was carrying on my life day after day, but now it was just an empty building without a trace of humanity. If I had any home to go back to, though, this was it.

I stepped up to the veranda and slid open the glass door. Having been shut up for so long, the air was heavy and stagnant. It smelled like a mixture of overripe fruit and insecticide. The short note I had left on the kitchen table was still there. The dishes I had washed remained in the same arrangement on the drainboard. From the stack I took a glass and filled it over and over again, drinking water from the tap. The refrigerator had nothing special in it-a haphazard collection of leftovers and partly used ingredients: eggs, ham, potato salad, eggplant, lettuce, tomatoes, tofu, cream cheese, milk. I poured some of the milk on a bowl of cornflakes and ate that. I should have been starved, but after beholding actual food in the refrigerator, I felt hardly any hunger. If anything, I was a little nauseated. Still, to soften the pain of my empty stomach, I followed the cornflakes with a few crackers. These did nothing to make me want to eat more.

I went to the bathroom, took all my clothes off, and threw them into the washing machine. Stepping under a hot shower, I scrubbed every inch of my body and washed my hair. Kumiko's nylon shower cap still hung in the bathroom. Her special shampoo was there, her conditioner, and the plastic brush she used for shampooing. Her toothbrush. Her floss. Every- thing looked the same as it had before she left. The only change brought about by her absence was that one simple fact: Kumiko was no longer there.

I stood before the mirror and examined my face. It was covered with black stubble. After a moment of hesitation, I decided not to shave. If I shaved now, I would probably cut myself. Tomorrow morning would be fine. I didn't have to see anybody. I brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth out several times, and left the bathroom. Then I opened a beer, took tomato and lettuce from the refrigerator, and made a salad. Once I had eaten that, I began to feel some desire for food, so I took out some potato salad, spread it between two pieces of bread, and ate it. I looked at the clock only once.

How many hours had I been down in the well? But just thinking about time made my head throb. No, I did not want to think about time. That was one thing I most wanted to avoid thinking about now.

I went to the toilet and took a long pee with my eyes closed. I could hardly believe how long it lasted. I felt I might pass out while I was standing there. Afterward, I went to the living room, stretched out on the sofa, and stared at the ceiling. It was the strangest feeling: my body was tired, but my mind was wide awake. I didn't feel the least bit sleepy.

It suddenly occurred to me to check the mailbox. Someone might have written to me while I was in the well. I went to the entryway and found that a single letter had arrived. The envelope bore no return address, but the handwriting on the front was obviously Kumiko's, each tiny character written-almost drawn-with great precision, like a design. It was a time consuming style of writing, but it was the only way she knew. My eyes went immediately to the postmark. It was smudged and barely legible, but I could make out the character taka and possibly motsu. Takamatsu in Kagawa Prefecture? Kumiko didn't know anyone in Takamatsu, as far as I was aware. The two of us had never gone there, and she had never said anything about having taken the ferry to Shikoku or crossed the new bridge. The name Takamatsu had simply never entered any of our conversations. Maybe it wasn't Takamatsu.

In any case, I brought the letter to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and used a scissors to open the envelope, taking care not to cut the stationery within. To calm myself, I took a swallow of my leftover beer.

You must have been shocked and worried when I disappeared so suddenly without a word, Kumiko had written in her usual Mont Blanc blue-black ink. The paper was the standard thin letter paper sold everywhere.

I meant to write to you sooner and do a proper job of explaining everything, but the time slipped by while I went on brooding over how I could express my feelings precisely or explain my present situation so that you would understand. I feel very bad about this for you.

You may have begun to suspect by now that I was seeing a man. I was sexually involved with him for close to three months. He was someone I met through work, someone you don't know at all. Nor does it matter very much who he was. I will never see him again. For me, at least, it is over. This may or may not be of some comfort to you.

Was I in love with him? There is no way I can answer that question. The question itself seems irrelevant. Was I in love with you? To that I can answer without hesitation: Yes. I was always extremely glad that I had married you. And I still feel that way. So why, you might ask, did I have to have an affair and, to top it off, run away from home? I asked myself the same question over and over again even while it was happening: Why do I have to be doing this?

There is no way I can explain it. I never had the slightest desire to take a lover or have an affair. Such thoughts were the farthest thing from my mind when I first started seeing him. We met a few times in connection with business, and though we did find it easy to talk to each other, the most that happened after that was an occasional remark on the phone that went beyond business. He was much older than I, had a wife and children, and was not particularly attractive to me as a man: it never occurred to me that I might become seriously involved with him.

This is not to say that I was entirely free of thoughts about getting even with you. It still rankled me that you had once spent the night with a certain woman. I believed you when you said that you hadn't done anything with her, but the mere fact that you hadn't done anything with her didn't make it right. It was just how I felt. But still, I didn't have an affair in order to get even with you. I remember I once said I would, but that was only a threat. I slept with him because I wanted to sleep with him. Because 1 couldn't bear not to sleep with him. Because I couldn't suppress my own sexual desire.

We had not seen each other for some time, when we met on a business matter. We followed this with dinner and then went somewhere for a quick drink. Since I cant drink, of course, all I had, to be sociable, was a glass of orange juice without a drop of alcohol in it. So alcohol had nothing to do with what happened. We were just talking and eating in the most ordinary way. But then one moment, by accident, we touched, and all I could think of was that I wanted to be in his arms. The instant we touched, I knew that he wanted my body, and he seemed to sense that I wanted his. It was a totally irrational, overwhelming charge of electricity that passed between us. I felt as if the sky had fallen on me. My cheeks were burning, my heart was pounding, and I had a heavy, melting feeling below the waist. I could hardly sit straight on the barstool, it was so intense. At first I didn't realize what was happening inside me, but soon I realized it was lust. I had such a violent desire for him that I could hardly breathe. Without either of us being the first to suggest it, we walked to a nearby hotel and went wild with sex.

Writing it out as graphically as this is probably going to hurt you, but I believe that, in the long run, an honest, detailed account will be the best thing. It may be hard, but I want you to bear the pain and read on.

What I did with him had virtually nothing to do with love. All I wanted was to be held by him and have him inside me. Never in my life had I experienced such a suffocating need for a mans body. I had read about unbearable desire in books, but until that day I could never really imagine what such a phrase meant.

Why this need arose in me so suddenly, why it happened not with you but with someone else, I have no idea. But the desire I felt then was impossible to suppress, nor did I even try. Please understand: not for a moment did it occur to me that I was betraying you in any way. The sex I had in that hotel bed with him was something close to madness. To be totally honest, I had never in my life felt anything so good. No, it wasn't that simple: it didn't just feel good. My flesh was rolling in hot mud. My mind sucked in the sheer pleasure to the point of bursting-and then it burst. It was absolutely miraculous. It was one of the most wonderful things that had ever happened to me.

And then, as you know, I kept it hidden all that time. You never realized that I was having an affair. You never doubted me, even when I began coming home late. I'm sure you trusted me completely. You thought I could never betray you. And for betraying this trust of yours, I had no sense of guilt. I would call you from the hotel room and say that work was going to keep me out late. I piled one lie on top of another, but they caused me no pain. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do. My heart needed my life with you. The home I shared with you was the place where I belonged. It was the world I belonged to. But my body had this violent need for sex with him. Half of me was here, and half there. I knew that sooner or later the break would have to come, but at the time, it felt as if this double life would go on forever. Over here I was living peacefully with you, and over there I was making violent love with him.

I want you to understand one thing, at least. This was never a matter of your being sexually inferior to him or lacking in sex appeal, or my being tired of sex with you. It was just that, at that time, my body experienced this violent, irrepressible hunger. I could do nothing to resist it. Why such things happen I have no idea. All I can say is that it did happen. A few times during the weeks that I was sleeping with him, I thought about having sex with you too. It seemed unfair to me, for your sake, that I would sleep with him but not with you. But in your arms, I had ceased to feel anything at all. You must have noticed. For close to two months, I made up all kinds of excuses to avoid having sexual relations with you.

But then one day, he asked me to leave you for him. We were so perfectly matched, he said, that there was no reason for us not to be together. He would leave his family, he said. I asked him to give me time to think about it. But on the train home after I left him that night, I realized that I no longer felt a thing for him. I don't understand it myself, but the moment he asked me to join him, that special something inside me disappeared as if a strong wind had come up and blown it away. My desire for him was gone without a trace.

That was when I started to feel guilty toward you. As I wrote earlier, I had felt nothing of the sort the whole time I was feeling intense desire for him. All 1 had felt was how convenient it was that you had noticed nothing. I thought I could get away with anything, as long as you failed to notice. My connection with him belonged to a different world from my connection with you. After my desire for him evaporated, though, I no longer knew where I was.

1 have always thought of myself as an honest person. True, I have my faults. But where important things were concerned, I had never lied to anyone or deceived myself. 1 had never hidden anything from you. That had been one small source of pride for me. But then, for months, 1 went on telling you those fatal lies without a twinge of regret.

That very fact is what started to torment me. It made me feel as if I were an empty, meaningless, worthless person. And in fact, that is probably what I am. But there is one other thing, in addition, that continues to bother me, and that is: how did I suddenly come to feel such intense, abnormal sexual desire for a man I didn't even love? This is what I simply cannot grasp. If it hadn't been for that desire, I would still be enjoying my happy life with you. And that man would still be a nice friend to chat with on occasion. But that feeling, that incredible, overwhelming lust, tore down everything we had built up over the years. It took away everything that was mine: it took away you, and the home that we had made together, and my work. Why did such a thing have to happen?

After I had my abortion three years ago, I told you that there was something I had to say to you. Do you remember? Perhaps I should have done it. Perhaps I should have told you everything that was in my heart before things came to this. This might never have happened if I had done so. But now that it has happened- even now-I don't believe that I would be able to tell you what I was feeling then. And that is because it seems to me that once I put it into words, things would be even more decisively ruined than they are now. Which is why 1 came to feel that the best thing I could do was to swallow it all and disappear.

I am sorry to have to tell you this, but the fact is that I was never able to have true sexual pleasure with you, either before or after we were married. I loved it when you held me in your arms, but all I ever felt was a vague, far-off sense that almost seemed to belong to someone else. This is in no way your fault. My inability to feel was purely and simply my own responsibility. There was some kind of blockage inside me, which would always hold any sexual feeling 1 had in check. When, for reasons I cannot grasp, that blockage was swept away by sex with him, I no longer had any idea what I should do.

There was always something very close and delicate between us, you and me. It was there from the very beginning. But now it has been lost forever. That perfect meshing of the gears, that mythical something, has been destroyed. Because I destroyed it. Or more accurately, some kind of something made me destroy it. I am terribly sorry it ever happened. Not everyone is lucky enough to have such a chance as I had with you. I hate the thing that caused all this to happen. You have no idea how much I hate it. I want to know precisely what it is. I have to know precisely what it is. I have to search out its roots and judge and punish it. Whether I actually have the strength to do so, I cannot be sure. One thing is certain, however: this is my problem alone. It has nothing to do with you.

I have only one thing to ask of you, and that is this: please don't concern yourself about me anymore. Please don't try to find me. Just forget about me and think about beginning a new life. Where my family is concerned, I will do the proper thing: I will write to them and explain that this is all my fault, that you are in no way responsible. They will not cause you any trouble. Formal divorce proceedings will begin fairly soon, I think. That will be best for both of us. So please don't protest. Just go along with them. As far as the clothing and other things I have left behind are concerned, I'm sorry, but please just dispose of them or donate them somewhere. Everything belongs to the past now. Anything I ever used in my life with you I have no right to use now.

Goodbye.

I read the letter one more time from beginning to end and returned it to its envelope. Then I took another can of beer from the refrigerator and drank it.

If Kumiko was planning to institute divorce proceedings, that meant she had no intention of killing herself right away. That gave me some relief. But then I ran up against the fact that I had not had sex with anyone for almost two months. As she had said in her letter, Kumiko had resisted sleeping with me all that time. She had symptoms of a mild bladder infection, she said, and the doctor had told her to refrain from sex for a while. And of course I had believed her. I had no reason not to.

During those two months, I had had relations with women in my dreams- or in some world that, within the limits of my vocabulary, I could only call a dream- with Creta Kano and with the telephone woman. But now that I thought about it, two months had gone by since the last time I had slept with a real woman in the real world. Lying on the sofa, staring at my own hands atop my chest, I thought about the last time I had seen Kumiko's body. I thought about the soft curve of her back when I zipped her dress up, and the smell of cologne behind her ears. If what she said in the letter was the irrevocable truth, however, I would probably never sleep with Kumiko again. She had written it with such clarity and finality: what else could it be but the irrevocable truth?

The more I thought about the possibility that my relationship with Kumiko had become a thing of the past, the more I began to miss the gentle warmth of that body that had once belonged to me. I had enjoyed sleeping with her. Of course, I had enjoyed it before we were married, but even after some years had gone by and the initial thrill had faded somewhat, I enjoyed having sex with Kumiko. Her slender back, the nape of her neck, her legs, her breasts-I could recall the touch of every part of her with present vividness. I could recall all the things I had done for her and she had done for me in the course of our sexual union.

But now Kumiko had joined her body with that of someone I did not know-and with an intensity I could hardly imagine. She had discovered in that a pleasure she had been unable to obtain from sex with me. Probably, while she was doing it with him, she had squirmed and writhed enough to make the bed toss and had released groans loud enough to be audible in the next room. She had probably done things with him that she would never have done with me. I went and opened the refrigerator, took out a beer, and drank it. Then I ate some potato salad. Wanting to hear music, I turned on the FM radio, tuning in to a classical station at low volume. I'm so tired today, Kumiko would say. I'm just not in the mood. I'm sorry. Really.

Id answer, That's OK, no big deal. When Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings ended, a little piano piece came on that sounded like something by Schumann. It was familiar, but I couldn't recall the title. When it was over, the female announcer said it had been the seventh of Schumann's Forest Scenes, titled Bird as Prophet. I imagined Kumiko twisting her hips beneath the other man, raising her legs, planting her fingernails in his back, drooling on the sheets. The announcer explained that Schumann had created a scene of fantasy in which a mysterious bird lived in the forest, foretelling the future.

What had I ever known about Kumiko? Soundlessly, I crushed the empty beer can in my hand and threw it into the trash. Could it be true that the Kumiko I had thought I understood, the Kumiko I had held close to me and joined my body with over the years as my wife-that Kumiko was nothing but the most superficial layer of the person Kumiko herself, just as the greater part of this world belongs in fact to the realm of the jellyfish? If so, what about those six years we had spent together? What had they been? What had they meant?

I was reading Kumiko's letter yet again when the phone rang. The sound shot me out of the sofa. Who could possibly be calling at two in the morning? Kumiko? No, she would never call here. Probably May Kasahara. She had seen me leave the empty house and decided to give me a call. Or possibly Creta Kano. She wanted to explain why she had disappeared. It could be the telephone woman. She might be trying to convey some message to me. May Kasahara had been right: there were just a few too many women around me. I wiped the sweat from my face with a towel that lay nearby, and when I was ready I lifted the receiver. Hello, I said. Hello, came the voice from the other end. It did not belong to May Kasahara. Neither was it Creta Kano's voice, or the voice of the enigmatic woman. It was Malta Kano.

Hello, she said, is that Mr. Okada? My name is Malta Kano. I wonder if you remember me?

Of course. I remember you very well, I said, trying to still the pounding of my heart.

How could I not have remembered her?

I must apologize for telephoning you so late at night. This is something of an emergency, however. I fully recognized what a rude intrusion this would be and how angry it would make you, but I felt compelled to place the call nevertheless. I am terribly sorry.

She need not be concerned, I assured her: I was up, in any case, and not the least bit bothered.

12 Discovered When Shaving Discovered When Waking

The reason I am calling you so late at night, Mr. Okada, is that I felt I should reach you at the earliest possible opportunity, said Malta Kano. Listening to her speak, I had the impression that she was choosing and arranging each word into well-ordered sentences according to strict principles of logic-which was what she always did. If you have no objection, there are several questions that I wish to be permitted to ask you, Mr. Okada. May I proceed?

Receiver in hand, I lowered myself onto the sofa, Go right ahead, ask me anything you'd like, I said.

Have you by any chance been away these past two days, Mr. Okada? I tried telephoning you any number of times, but you seemed always to be out.

Well, yes, I was out. I wanted to get away from the house for a while. I needed to be alone to do some thinking. I've got lots of things I need to think about.

Yes, Mr. Okada, I am very much aware of that. I understand how you feel. A change of scene can be a very good thing when one wishes to think clearly and carefully about something. In this case, however, Mr. Okada- and I know this will sound as if I am prying- were you not somewhere very far away?

Well, not so very far away, I said, with deliberate ambiguity. I switched the receiver from my left hand to my right. How can I put this? I was in a somewhat cut-off place. I really cant go into it, though, in great detail. I have my reasons. And I just got back a little while ago. I'm too tired for long explanations.

Of course, Mr. Okada. I understand. All people have their reasons. I will not press you to explain. You must be very tired indeed: I can tell from the sound of your voice. Please do not concern yourself about me. I should not be bothering you with a lot of questions at a time like this. I am terribly sorry. We can always discuss this matter at a more appropriate time. I know it was terribly rude of me to ask such a personal question, but I did so only because I was worried that something very bad had happened to you over the past several days.

I tried to make an appropriate response, but the little noise that came out of my throat sounded less like a response than like the gasp of an aquatic animal that had breathed the wrong way. Something very bad, I thought. Of all the things that were happening to me, which were bad and which were not bad? Which were all right and which were not all right?

Thank you for being so concerned about me, I said, after getting my voice to work properly, but I'm fine at the moment. I cant say that something good happened to me, but theres been nothing especially bad, either.

I am glad to hear that. I'm just tired, thats all, I added. Malta Kano made a dainty little sound of clearing her throat. By the way, Mr. Okada, I wonder if you might have noticed some kind of major physical change during the past few days?

A physical change? In me? Yes, Mr. Okada. Some kind of change in your body. I raised my face and looked at my reflection in the glass patio door, but I couldn't make out anything that could be called a physical change. I had scrubbed every part of my body in the shower but had noticed nothing then, either. What kind of change did you have in mind? I asked.

I have no idea what it might be, but it should be very obvious to anyone who looks at you.

I stretched my left hand open atop the table and stared at the palm, but it was just my usual palm. It had not changed in any way that I could perceive. It had not become covered in gold foil, nor had it developed webs between the fingers. It was neither beautiful nor ugly. When you say that it should be very obvious to anyone who looks at me, what do you mean? Something like wings sprouting on my back?

It could be something like that, said Malta Kano, in her usual even tone. Of course, I mean that as one possibility.

Of course, I said. So, then, have you noticed some such change? Not really. Not so far, at least. I mean, if wings had sprouted on my back, I probably couldn't help but notice, don't you think? Probably not, said Malta Kano. But do be careful, Mr. Okada. To know ones own state is not a simple matter. One cannot look directly at ones own face with ones own eyes, for example. One has no choice but to look at ones reflection in the mirror. Through experience, we come to believe that the image is correct, but that is all.

I'll be careful, I said. I do have one more thing I would like to ask you about, Mr. Okada. For some time now, I have been unable to establish contact with my sister -just as I lost contact with you. It may be a coincidence, but I find it very strange. I was wondering if, perhaps, you might have some knowledge of the circumstances behind this.

Creta Kano?! Yes, said Malta Kano. Does anything come to mind in that regard? No, nothing came to mind, I replied. I had no clear basis for thinking so, but I felt that for the time being, it would be better if I said nothing to Malta Kano about the fact that I had recently spoken with Creta Kano in person and that, immediately afterward, she had disappeared. It was just a feeling.

I was worried about having lost contact with you, Mr. Okada. She went out last night, saying that she planned to visit your home and see what she could find there, but even at this late hour she has not returned. And for some reason, I can no longer sense her presence.

I see. Well, if she should happen to come here, I'll tell her to contact you right away, I said.

Malta Kano remained silent for some time at her end of the line. To tell you the truth, Mr. Okada, I am worried about her. As you know, the work that she and I do is far from ordinary. But she is not as well versed in matters of that world as I am. I do not mean to imply that she is not gifted. In fact, she is very gifted. But she is not yet fully acclimated to her gift.

I see.

Malta Kano fell silent once again. This silence was longer than the last one. I sensed a certain indecision on her part.

Hello. Are you still there? I asked. Yes, Mr. Okada, I am still here, she replied. If I see her, I'll be sure to tell her to get in touch with you, I said again. Thank you very much, said Malta Kano. Then, after apologizing for the late-night call, she hung up. I hung up, too, and looked at my reflection in the glass one more time. Then the thought struck me: I might never speak with Malta Kano again. This could be the last contact I would ever have with her. She could disappear from my life forever. I had no special reason for thinking this: it was just a feeling that came to me.

Suddenly I thought about the rope ladder. I had left it hanging down in the well. Probably, the sooner I retrieved it, the better. Problems could arise if someone found it there. And then there was the sudden disappearance of Creta Kano. I had last seen her at the well.

I shoved my flashlight into my pocket, put on my shoes, stepped down into the garden, and climbed over the wall again. Then I passed down the alley to the vacant house. May Kasahara's house was pitch dark. The hands of my watch were nearing 3:00 a.m. I entered the yard of the vacant house and went straight for the well. The rope ladder was still anchored to the base of the tree and hanging down into the well, which was still just half open.

Something prompted me to peer down into the well and call Creta Kano's name in a kind of whispered shout. There was no answer. I pulled out my flashlight and aimed it down the well. The beam did not reach bottom, but I heard a tiny moaning sort of sound. I tried calling the name again.

Its all right. I'm here, said Creta Kano. What are you doing in a place like this? I asked, in a low voice. What am I doing? I'm doing the same thing you were doing, Mr. Okada, she replied, with obvious puzzlement. I'm thinking. This really is a perfect place for thinking, isn't it? Well, yes, I guess it is, I said. But your sister called me at home a little while ago. Shes very worried about your disappearance. Its the middle of the night and you're still not home, and she says she cant feel your presence. She wanted me to tell you to get in touch with her right away if I heard from you.

I see. Well, thank you for taking the trouble.

Never mind about that, Creta Kano. Will you do me a favor and come out of there? I have to talk to you. She did not reply.

I switched off my flashlight and returned it to my pocket. Why don't you come down here, Mr. Okada? The two of us could sit here and talk.

It might not be a bad idea, I thought, to climb down into the well again and talk with Creta Kano, but then I thought about the moldy darkness at the bottom of the well and got a heavy feeling in my stomach.

No, sorry, but I'm not going down there again. And you ought to come out, too. Somebody might pull the ladder up again. And the air is stale.

I know that. But I want to stay down here a little longer. Don't worry yourself about me.

There was nothing I could do as long as Creta Kano had no intention of coming out of the well.

When I talked to your sister on the phone, I didn't tell her I saw you here. I hope that was the right thing to do. I just sort of had this feeling that it'd be better to say nothing.

You were right, said Creta Kano. Please don't tell my sister I am here. A moment later, she added, I don't want to worry her, but I need a chance to think sometimes too. I will come out as soon as I am done. I would like to be alone now, if you would be so kind. I will not cause you any trouble.

I decided to leave her and go back to the house for the time being. I could come in the morning and check up on her. If May Kasahara should pull the ladder up again during the night, I could deal with the situation then and manage to help Creta Kano climb out of the well one way or another. I went home, undressed, and stretched out in bed. Picking up the book I had been reading, I opened it to my place. I felt I was too much on edge to get to sleep right away, but before I had read two full pages, I realized I was dozing off. I closed the book, turned out the light, and in the next moment was sound asleep.

It was nine-thirty in the morning by the time I awoke. Concerned about Creta Kano, I dressed without bothering to wash my face and hurried down the alley to the vacant house. The clouds hung low in the sky, and the humid morning air seemed to threaten rain at any moment. The rope ladder was gone from the well. Someone must have untied it from the base of the tree and carried it off somewhere. Both halves of the well cover were set tightly in place, with a stone atop each half. Opening one side and peering down into the well, I called Creta Kano's name. There was no answer. I tried a few more times, waiting after each call. Thinking she might be asleep, I tossed a few pebbles inside, but there no longer seemed to be anybody in the bottom of the well. Creta Kano had probably climbed out of the well when morning came, untied the ladder, and taken it off with her. I set the cover in place and moved away from the well.

In the alley again, I leaned against the fence of the vacant house, watching May Kasahara's house for a time. I thought she might notice me there, as she usually did, and come out, but there was no sign of her. The surroundings were absolutely hushed-no people, no noises of any kind, not even the cry of a cicada. I passed the time digging at the surface of the ground with the toe of my shoe. Something felt different about the neighborhood, unfamiliar-as if, in the days I was down in the well, the old reality of this place had been shoved away by a new reality, which had settled in and taken over. I had been feeling this, somewhere deep down, ever since I had emerged from the well and gone home.

Walking back down the alley to my house, I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth. Several days worth of black stubble covered my face. I looked like a newly rescued shipwreck victim. This was the first time in my life I had ever let my beard grow so long. I toyed with the idea of really letting it grow out but after a few moments thought decided to shave it. For some reason, it just seemed better to keep the face I had had when Kumiko left.

I softened up my beard with a hot towel and covered my face with a thick layer of shaving cream. I then proceeded to shave, slowly and carefully, so as-to avoid cutting myself: first the chin, then the left cheek, then the right cheek. As I was finishing the right cheek, what I saw in the mirror made me catch my breath. It was a blue-black stain of some kind. At first I thought I might accidentally have smeared myself with something. I wiped off the remaining traces of shaving cream, gave my face a good washing with soap and water, and scrubbed at the stained area with a washcloth. But still the stain would not come off. It seemed to have penetrated deep into the skin. I stroked it with a finger. That one patch of skin felt just slightly warmer than the rest of my face, but otherwise it had no special feeling. It was a mark. I had a mark on my cheek in the exact location where, in the well, I had had the sensation of heat.

I brought my face up to the mirror and examined the mark with the utmost care. Located just beyond the right cheekbone, it was about the size of an infants palm. Its bluish color was close to black, like the blue-black Mont Blanc ink that Kumiko always used.

One possible explanation was that this was an allergic reaction. I might have come in contact with something in the well that caused an eruption of the skin, the way lacquer can do. But what could there have been down there, in the bottom of the well, to give rise to such a thing? I had examined every nook and cranny of the place with my flashlight, finding nothing there but the dirt bottom and the concrete wall. Besides, did allergies or eruptions ever leave such clearly outlined marks?

A mild panic overtook me. For a few moments, I lost all sense of direction, as when a huge wave crashes over you at the beach, dragging you in. The washcloth fell from my hand. I knocked over the wastebasket and stubbed my foot against something, mumbling meaningless syllables all the while. Then I managed to regain my composure and, leaning against the sink, began thinking calmly about how to deal with this fact.

The best thing I could do for now was to wait and see. I could always go to a doctor afterward. It might be a temporary condition, something that would heal itself, like a lacquer eruption. It had formed in a few short days, so it might disappear just as easily. I went to the kitchen and made myself some coffee. I was hungry, but whenever I actually tried to eat any- thing, my appetite would vanish like water in a mirage.

I stretched out on the sofa and watched the rain that had begun to fall. Every now and then I would go to the bathroom and look in the mirror, but I could see no change in the mark. It had dyed that area of my cheek a deep, dark-almost handsome-blue.

I could think of only one thing that might have caused this, and that Was my having passed through the wall in my predawn dreamlike illusion in the well, the telephone woman leading me by the hand. She had pulled me through the wall so that we could escape from the dangerous someone who had opened the door and was coming into the room. The moment I passed through the wall, I had had the clear sensation of heat on my cheek-in the exact spot where I now had this mark. Of course, whatever causal connection there might be between my passing through the wall and the forming of a mark on my face remained unexplained.

The man without a face had spoken to me in the hotel lobby. This is the wrong time, he had warned me. You don't belong here now. But I had ignored his warning and continued on. I was angry at Noboru Wataya, angry at my own confusion. And as a result, perhaps, I had received this mark.

Perhaps the mark was a brand that had been impressed on me by that strange dream or illusion or whatever it was. That was no dream, they were telling me through the mark: It really happened. And every time you look in the mirror now, you will be forced to remember it.

I shook my head. Too many things were being left unexplained. The one thing I understood for sure was that I didn't understand a thing. A dull throbbing started in my head. I couldn't think anymore. I felt no urge to do anything. I took a sip of lukewarm coffee and went on watching the rain.

After noon, I called my uncle for some small talk. I needed to talk to someone- it didn't matter much who-to do something about this feeling I had that I was being ripped away from the world of reality.

When he asked how Kumiko was doing, I said fine and let it go at that. She was on a short business trip at the moment, I added. I could have told him honestly what had been happening, but to put the recent events into some kind of order that would make sense to a third party would have been impossible. They didn't make much sense to me, so how could I explain them to someone else? I decided to keep the truth from my uncle for the time being.

You used to live in this house, didn't you? I asked.

Sure did, he said. Six or seven years altogether. Wait a minute ... I bought the place when I was thirty-five and lived there till I was forty-two. Seven years. Moved into this condo when I got married. I lived there alone that whole time.

I was just wondering, did anything bad happen to you while you were here? Anything bad? Like what? Like you got sick or you split up with a woman or something. My uncle gave a hearty laugh on his end of the line. I split up with more than one woman, thats for sure. But not just while I was living there. Nah, I couldn't count that as something especially bad. Nobody I hated to lose, tell you the truth. As far as getting sick goes ... hmm. No, I don't think so. I had a little growth removed from the back of my neck, but thats about all I remember. The barber found it, said I ought to have it removed just to be safe. So I went to the doctor, but it turned out to be nothing much. That was the first time I went to see the doctor while I was living in that house-and the last. I ought to get a rebate on my health insurance!

No bad memories you associate with the place, then?

Nope, none, said my uncle, after he had thought about it for a moment. But whats this about, all of a sudden?

Nothing much, I said. Kumiko saw a fortune-teller the other day and came home with an earful about this house-that its unlucky, things like that, I lied. I think its nonsense, but I promised to ask you about it.

Hmm. What do they call it? House physiognomy? I don't know anything about that stuff. You couldn't tell by me. But I've lived in the place, and my impression is that its OK, it doesn't have any problems. Miyawaki's place is another matter, of course, but you're pretty far away from there.

What kind of people lived here after you moved out? I asked.

Lets see: after me a high school teacher and his family lived there for three years, and then a young couple for five years. He ran some kind of business, but I don't remember what it was. I cant swear that everybody lived a happy life in that house: I had a real estate agent managing the place for me. I never met the people, and I don't know why they moved out, but I never heard about anything bad that happened to any of them. I just assumed the place got a little small for them and they wanted to build their own houses, that kind of thing.

Somebody once told me that the flow of this place has been obstructed. Does that ring a bell?

The flow has been obstructed? I don't know what it means, either, I said. Its just what they told me. My uncle thought it over for a while. No, nothing comes to mind. But it might have been a bad idea to fence off both ends of the alley. A road without an entrance or exit is a strange thing, when you stop to think about it. The fundamental principle of things like roads and rivers is for them to flow. Block them and they stagnate.

I see what you mean, I said. Now, theres one more thing I need to ask you. Did you ever hear the cry of the wind-up bird in this neighborhood?

The wind-up bird, said my uncle. Whats that?

I explained simply about the wind-up bird, how it came to the tree out back once a day and made that spring-winding cry.

That's news to me, he said. I've never seen or heard one. I like birds, and I've always made a point of listening to their cries, but this is the first time I've ever heard of such a thing. You mean it has something to do with the house?

No, not really. I was just wondering if you'd ever heard of it.

You know, if you really want the lowdown on things like this- the people who lived there after me and that kind of stuff-you ought to talk to old Mr. Ichikawa, the real estate agent across from the station. That's Setagaya Dai-ichi Realtors. Tell him I sent you. He handled that house for me for years. Hes been living in the neighborhood forever, and he just might tell you everything you'd ever want to know. Hes the one who told me about the Miyawaki house. Hes one of those old guys that love to talk. You ought to go see him.

Thanks. I will, I said. So anyway, hows the job hunt going? Nothing yet. To tell you the truth, I haven't been looking very hard. Kumiko's working, and I'm taking care of the house, and were managing for now. My uncle seemed to be thinking about something for a few moments. Then he said, Let me know if it ever gets to the point where you just cant make it. I might be able to give you a hand.

Thanks, I said. I will. And so our conversation ended.

I thought about calling the old real estate broker and asking him about the background of this house and about the people who had lived here before me, but it seemed ridiculous even to be thinking about such nonsense. I decided to forget it.

The rain kept falling at the same gentle rate into the afternoon, wetting the roofs of the houses, wetting the trees in the yards, wetting the earth. I had toast and soup for lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon on the sofa. I wanted to do some shopping, but the thought of the mark on my face made me hesitate. I was sorry I hadn't let my beard grow. I still had some vegetables in the refrigerator, and there was canned stuff in the cupboard. I had rice and I had eggs. I could feed myself for another two or three days if I kept my expectations low.

Lying on the sofa, I did no thinking at all. I read a book, I listened to a classical music tape, I stared out at the rain falling in the garden. My cogitative powers seemed to have reached an all-time low, thanks perhaps to that long period of all-too-concentrated thinking in the dark well bottom. If I tried to think seriously about anything, I felt a dull ache in my head, as if it were being squeezed in the jaws of a padded vise. If I tried to recall anything, every muscle and nerve in my body seemed to creak with the effort. I felt I had turned into the tin man from The Wizard of Oz, my joints rusted and in need of oil.

Every now and then I would go to the lavatory and examine the condition of the mark on my face, but it remained unchanged. It neither spread nor shrank. The intensity of its color neither increased nor decreased. At one point, I noticed that I had left some hair unshaved on my upper lip. In my confusion at discovering the mark on my right cheek, I had forgotten to finish shaving. I washed my face again, spread on shaving cream, and took off what was left.

In the course of my occasional trips to the mirror, I thought of what Malta Kano had said on the phone: that I should be careful; that through experience, we come to believe that the image in the mirror is correct. To make certain, I went to the bedroom and looked at my face in the full-length mirror that Kumiko used whenever she got dressed. But the mark was still there. It was not just something in the other mirror.

I felt no physical abnormality aside from the mark. I took my temperature, but it was the same as always. Other than the fact that I felt little hunger, for someone who had not eaten in almost three days, and that I experienced a slight nausea every now and then (which was probably a continuation of what I had felt in the bottom of the well), my body was entirely normal.

The afternoon was a quiet one. The phone never rang. No letters arrived. No one came down the alley. No voices of neighbors disturbed the stillness. No cats crossed the garden, no birds came and called. Now and then a cicada would cry, but not with the usual intensity.

I began to feel some hunger just before seven o'clock, so I fixed myself a dinner of canned food and vegetables. I listened to the evening news on the radio for the first time in ages, but nothing special had been happening in the world. Some teenagers had been killed in an accident on the expressway when the driver of their car had failed in his attempt to pass another car and crashed into a wall. The branch manager and staff of a major bank were under police investigation in connection with an illegal loan they had made. A thirty-six-year-old housewife from Machida had been beaten to death with a hammer by a young man on the street. But these were all events from some other, distant world. The only thing happening in my world was the rain falling in the yard. Soundlessly. Gently. When the clock showed nine, I moved from the sofa to bed, and after finishing a chapter of the book I had started, I turned out the light and went to sleep.

I awoke with a start in the middle of some kind of dream. I could not recall what had been happening in the dream, but it had obviously been one filled with tension, because my heart was pounding. The room was still pitch dark. For a time after I awoke, I could not remember where I was. A good deal of time had to go by before I realized that I was in my own house, in my own bed. The hands of the alarm clock showed it to be just after two in the morning.

My irregular sleeping habits in the well were probably responsible for these unpredictable cycles of sleep and wakefulness. Once my confusion died down, I felt the need to urinate. It was probably the beer Id drunk. I would have preferred to go back to sleep, but I had no choice in the matter. When I resigned myself to the fact and sat up in bed, my hand brushed against the skin of the person sleeping next to me. This came as no surprise. That was where Kumiko always slept. I was used to having someone sleeping by my side. But then I realized that Kumiko wasn't with me anymore. She had left the house. Some other person was sleeping next to me.

I held my breath and turned on the light by the bed. It was Creta Kano.

13 Creta Kano's Story Continued

Creta Kano was stark naked. Facing toward my side of the bed, she lay there asleep, with nothing on, not even a cover, revealing two well-shaped breasts, two small pink nipples, and, below a perfectly flat stomach, a black triangle of pubic hair, looking like a shaded area in a drawing. Her skin was very white, with a newly minted glow. At a loss to explain her presence here, I nevertheless went on staring at her beautiful body. She had her knees closed tightly together and slightly bent, her legs in perfect alignment. Her hair fell forward, covering half her face, which made it impossible for me to see her eyes, but she was obviously in a deep sleep: my turning on the bedside lamp had caused not the slightest tremble, and her breathing was quiet and regular. I myself, though, was now wide awake. I took a thin summer comforter from the closet and spread it over her. Then I turned out the lamp and, still in my pajamas, went to the kitchen to sit at the table for a while.

I recalled my mark. That patch on my cheek was still slightly warm to the touch. It was still there, all right-I had no need to look in the mirror. It wasn't the kind of little nothing that just disappears by itself overnight. I thought about looking up a nearby dermatologist in the phone book when it got light out, but how could I answer if a doctor asked me what I thought the cause might be? I was in a well for two or three days. No, it had nothing to do with work or anything; I was just there to do a little thinking. I figured the bottom of a well would be a good place for that. No, I didn't take any food with me. No, it wasn't on my property; it belonged to another house. A vacant house in the neighborhood. I went in without permission.

I sighed. I could never say these things to anyone, of course.

I set my elbows on the table and, without really intending to, found myself thinking in strangely vivid detail about Creta Kano's naked body. She was sound asleep in my bed. I thought about the time in my dream when I joined my body with hers as she wore Kumiko's dress. I still had a clear impression of the touch of her skin, the weight of her flesh. Without a step-by-step investigation of that event, I would not be able to distinguish the point at which the real ended and the unreal took over. The wall separating the two regions had begun to melt. In my memory, at least, the real and the unreal seemed to be residing together with equal weight and vividness. I had joined my body with Creta Kano's, and at the same time, I had not.

To clear my head of these jumbled sexual images, I had to go to the washbasin and splash my face with cold water. A little while later, I looked in on Creta Kano. She was still sound asleep. She had pushed the cover down to her waist. From where I stood, I could see only her back. It reminded me of my last view of Kumiko's back. Now that I thought about it, Creta Kano's figure was amazingly like Kumiko's. I had failed to notice the resemblance until now because their hair and their taste in clothes and their makeup were so utterly different. They were the same height and appeared to be about the same weight. They probably wore the same dress size.

I carried my own summer comforter to the living room, stretched out on the sofa, and opened my book. I had been reading a history book from the library. It was all about Japanese management of Manchuria before the war and the battle with the Soviets in Nomonhan. Lieutenant Mamiya's story had aroused my interest in continental affairs of the period, and I had borrowed several books on the subject. Now, however, less than ten minutes into the finely detailed historical narrative, I was falling asleep. I laid the book on the floor, intending to rest my eyes for a few moments, but I fell into a deep sleep, with the lights still on.

A sound from the kitchen woke me up. When I went to investigate, Creta Kano was there, making breakfast, wearing a white T-shirt and blue shorts, both of which belonged to Kumiko.

Where are your clothes? I demanded, standing in the kitchen door. Oh, I'm sorry. You were asleep, so I took the liberty of borrowing some of your wifes clothing. I knew it was terribly forward of me, but I didn't have a thing to wear, said Creta Kano, turning just her head to look at me. At some point since I last saw her, she had reverted to her usual sixties style of hair and makeup, lacking only the fake eyelashes.

No, thats no problem, I said. What I want to know is what happened to your clothes. I lost them, she said simply.

Lost them? Yes. I lost them somewhere. I stepped into the kitchen and watched, leaning against the table, as Creta Kano made an omelette. With deft movements, she cracked the eggs, added seasoning, and beat the mixture. Meaning you came here naked?

Yes, that is correct, said Creta Kano, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I was completely naked. You know that, Mr. Okada. You put the cover on me.

Well, true enough, I mumbled. But what Id like to know is, where and how did you lose your clothing, and how did you manage to get here with nothing on?

I don't know that any better than you do, said Creta Kano, while shaking the frying pan to fold the omelette over on itself.

You don't know that any better than I do, I said. Creta Kano slipped the omelette onto a plate and garnished it with a few stalks of freshly steamed broccoli. She had also made toast, which she set on the table, along with coffee. I put out the butter and salt and pepper. Then, like a newly married couple, we sat down to breakfast, facing each other.

It was then that I recalled my mark. Creta Kano had shown no surprise when she looked at me, and she asked me nothing about it. I reached up to touch the spot and found it slightly warm, as before. Does that hurt, Mr. Okada? No, not at all, I said.

Creta Kano stared at my face for a time. It looks like a mark, she said.

It looks like a mark to me too, I said. I'm wondering whether I should show it to a doctor or not.

It strikes me as something that a doctor would not be able to handle. You may be right, I said. But I cant just ignore it. Fork in hand, Creta Kano thought for a moment. If you have shopping or other business, I could do it for you. You can stay inside as long as you like, if you would rather not go out. I'm grateful for the offer, but you must have your own things to do, and I cant just stay holed up in here forever. Creta Kano thought about that for a while too. Malta Kano would probably know how to deal with this. Would you mind getting in touch with her for me, then? Malta Kano gets in touch with other people, but she does not allow other people to get in touch with her. Creta Kano bit into a piece of broccoli. But you can get in touch with her, I'm sure? Of course. We're sisters. Well, next time you talk to her, why don't you ask her about my mark? Or you could ask her to get in touch with me. I am sorry, but that is something I cannot do. I am not allowed to approach my sister on someone else's behalf. Its a sort of rule we have. Buttering my toast, I let out a sigh. You mean to say, if I have something I need to talk to Malta Kano about, all I can do is wait for her to get in touch with me? That is exactly what I mean, said Creta Kano. Then she nodded. But about that mark.

Unless it hurts or itches, I suggest that you forget about it for a while. I never let things like that bother me. And you should not let it bother you, either, Mr. Okada. People just get these things sometimes.

I wonder, I said.

For several minutes after that, we went on eating our breakfast in silence. I hadn't eaten breakfast with another person for quite a while now, and this one was particularly delicious. Creta Kano seemed pleased when I told her this.

Anyhow, I said, about your clothes ...

Does it bother you that I put on your wifes clothing without permission? she asked, with obvious concern.

No, not at all. I don't care what you wear of Kumiko's. She left them here, after all. What I'm concerned about is how you lost your own clothes.

And not just my clothes. My shoes too. So how did it happen? I cant remember, said Creta Kano. All I know is I woke up in your bed with nothing on. I cant remember what happened before that. You did go down into the well, didn't you-after I left? That I do remember. And I fell asleep down there. But I cant remember anything after that. Which means you don't have any recollection of how you got out of the well? None at all. There is a gap in my memory. Creta Kano held up both index fingers, about eight inches apart. How much time that was supposed to represent I had no idea.

I don't suppose you remember what you did with the rope ladder, either. Its gone, you know.

I don't know anything about the ladder. I don't even remember if I climbed it to get out of the well.

I glared at the coffee cup in my hand for a time. Do you mind showing me the bottoms of your feet? I asked.

No, not at all, said Creta Kano. She sat down in the chair next to mine and stretched her legs out in my direction so that I could see the soles of her feet. I took her ankles in my hands and examined her soles. They were perfectly clean. Beautifully formed, the soles had not a mark on them- no cuts, no mud, nothing at all.

No mud, no cuts, I said. I see, said Creta Kano. It was raining all day yesterday. If you lost your shoes somewhere and walked here from there, you should have some mud on your feet. And you must have come in through the garden. But your feet are clean, and theres no mud anywhere.

I see. Which means you didn't walk here barefoot from anywhere. Creta Kano inclined her head slightly to one side as if impressed. This is all logically consistent, she said. It may be logically consistent, but its not getting us anywhere, I said. Where did you lose your shoes and clothes, and how did you walk here from there? Creta Kano shook her head. I have no idea, she said.

While she stood at the sink, intently washing the dishes, I stayed at the kitchen table, thinking about these things. Of course, I had no idea, either.

Do these things happen to you often-that you cant remember where you've been? I asked.

This is not the first time that something like this has happened to me, when I cant recall where I have been or what I was doing. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen to me now and then. I once lost some clothes, too. But this is the first time I lost all my clothes and my shoes and everything.

Creta Kano turned off the water and wiped the table with a dish towel.

You know, Creta Kano, I said, you haven't told me your whole story. Last time, you were partway through when you disappeared. Remember? If you don't mind, Id like to hear the rest. You told me how the mob got hold of you and made you work as one of their prostitutes, but you didn't tell me what happened after you met Noboru Wataya and slept with him.

Creta Kano leaned against the kitchen sink and looked at me. Drops of water on her hands ran down her fingers and fell to the floor. The shape of her nipples showed clearly through the white T-shirt, a vivid reminder to me of the naked body I had seen the night before.

All right, then. I will tell you everything that happened after that. Right now. Creta Kano sat down once again in the seat opposite mine. The reason I left that day when I was in the middle of my story, Mr. Okada, is that I was not fully prepared to tell it all. I had started my story precisely because I felt I ought to tell you, as honestly as possible, what really happened to me. But I found I could not go all the way to the end. You must have been shocked when I disappeared so suddenly.

Creta Kano put her hands on the table and looked straight at me as she spoke.

Well, yes, I was shocked, though it was not the most shocking thing thats happened to me lately.

As I told you before, the very last customer I had as a prostitute of the flesh was Noboru Wataya. The second time I met him, as a client of Malta Kanos, I recognized him immediately. It would have been impossible for me to forget him. Whether he remembered me or not I cannot be certain. Mr. Wataya is not a person who shows his feelings.

But let me go back and put things in order. First I will tell you about the time I had Noboru Wataya as a customer. That would be six years ago.

As I told you before, I was in a state at that time in which I had absolutely no perception of pain. And not only pain: I had no sensations of any kind. I lived in a bottomless numbness. Of course, I don't mean to say that I was unable to feel any sensations at all-I knew when something was hot or cold or painful. But these sensations came to me as if from a distance, from a world that had nothing to do with me. Which is why I felt no resistance to the idea of having sexual relations with men for money. No matter what anyone did to me, the sensations I felt did not belong to me. My unfeeling flesh was not my flesh.

Now, lets see, I told you about how I had been recruited by the mobs prostitution ring. When they told me to sleep with men I did it, and when they paid me I took it. I left off at that point. I nodded to her.

That day they told me to go to a room on the sixteenth floor of a downtown hotel. The client had the unusual name of Wataya. I knocked on the door and went in, to find the man sitting on the sofa. He had apparently been drinking room-service coffee while reading a book. He wore a green polo shirt and brown cotton pants. His hair was short, and he wore brown-framed glasses. On the coffee table in front of him were his cup and a coffeepot and the book. He seemed to have been deeply absorbed in his reading: there was a kind of excitement still in his eyes. His features were in no way remarkable, but those eyes of his had an energy about them that was almost weird. When I first saw them, I thought for a moment that I was in the wrong room. But it was not the wrong room. The man told me to come inside and lock the door.

Still seated on the sofa, without saying a word, he ran his eyes over my body. From head to foot. That was what usually happened when I entered a clients room. Most men would look me over. Excuse me for asking, Mr. Okada, but have you ever bought a prostitute? I said that I had not.

Its as if they were looking over merchandise. It doesn't take long to get used to being looked at like that. They are paying money for flesh, after all; it makes sense for them to examine the goods. But the way that man looked at me was different. He seemed to be looking through my flesh to something on the other side. His eyes made me feel uneasy, as if I had become a half-transparent human being.

I was a little confused, I suppose: I dropped my handbag on the floor. It made a small sound, but I was in such an abstracted state that, for a time, I was almost unaware of what I had done. Then I stooped down to pick up the bag. The clasp had opened when it hit the floor, and some of my cosmetics had fallen out. I picked up my eyebrow pencil and lip cream and a small bottle of eau de cologne, returning each of them to my bag. He kept those eyes of his trained on me the whole time.

When I had finished gathering up my things from the floor and putting them back in the bag, he told me to undress. I asked him if it would be all right for me to take a shower first, because I had been perspiring quite a bit. The weather was hot that day, and I had been sweating on the subway. He didn't care about that, he said. He didn't have much time. He wanted me to undress right away.

Once I was naked, he told me to lie on the bed facedown, which I did. He ordered me to stay still, to keep my eyes closed, and not to speak until I was spoken to.

He sat down next to me with his clothes on. That was all he did: sit down. He did not lay a finger on me. He just sat and looked down at my naked body. He kept this up for some ten minutes, while I lay there, unmoving, facedown. I could feel his eyes boring into the nape of my neck, my back, my buttocks, and my legs, with almost painful intensity. It occurred to me that he might be impotent. Customers like that turn up now and then. They buy a prostitute, have her undress, and they look at her. Some will undress the woman and finish themselves off in her presence. All kinds of men buy prostitutes, for all kinds of reasons. I just assumed he was one of those.

After a while, though, he reached out and began to touch me. His ten fingers moved down my body, from my shoulders to my back, from my back to my buttocks, in search of something. This was not foreplay. Neither, of course, was it a massage. His fingers moved over my body with the utmost care, as if tracing a route on a map. And all the while he touched my flesh, he seemed to be thinking-not in any ordinary sense of the word, but seriously thinking about something with the utmost concentration.

One minute his fingers would seem to be wandering here and there at random, and the next they would come to a stop and remain for a long time in the one place. It felt as if the fingers themselves were going from confusion to certainty. Am I making myself clear? Each finger seemed to be alive and thinking, with a will of its own. It was a very strange sensation. Strange and disturbing.

And yet the touch of his fingers aroused me sexually. For the first time in my life. Sex had been nothing but a source of pain for me until I became a prostitute. The mere thought of it had filled me with fear-fear of the pain I knew I would have to endure. Just the opposite happened after I became a prostitute: I felt nothing. I no longer felt pain, but I felt no other sensations, either. I would sigh and pretend to be aroused for the pleasure of the customer, but it was all fake, a professional act. When he touched me, though, my sighs were real. They came out of my body's innermost depths. I knew that something inside me had begun to move, as if my center of gravity were changing locations in my body, first to one place and then to another.

Eventually, the man stopped moving his fingers. With his hands on my waist, he seemed to be thinking. Through his fingertips, I could tell that he was steadying himself, quietly regularizing his breathing. Then he began to remove his clothing. I kept my eyes closed and my face buried in the pillow, waiting for what would come next. Once he was naked, he spread my arms and legs open wide.

The room was almost frighteningly quiet. The only sound was the soft rush of the air conditioner. The man himself made almost no perceptible sounds. I couldn't even hear him breathing. He placed his palms on my back. I went limp. His penis touched my buttocks, but it was still soft.

Just then the phone on the night table began to ring. I opened my eyes and turned my head to look at the mans face, but he seemed unaware that the phone was ringing. It rang eight or nine times and then stopped. Again the room became silent.

Creta Kano paused at that point for a few measured breaths. She remained silent, looking at her own hands. I'm sorry, she said, but do you mind if I take a short break?

Not at all, I said. I refilled my coffee cup and took a sip. She drank her cold water. We sat there without speaking for a good ten minutes.

His fingers began to move again, touching every part of my body, Creta Kano continued, every part without exception. I lost the power to think. My ears were filled with the sound of my own heart, pounding but with strange slowness. I could no longer control myself. I cried out aloud again and again as he caressed me. I tried to keep my voice in check, but another someone was using my voice to moan and shout. I felt as if every screw in my body had come loose. Then, after a very long time, and with me still lying facedown, he put something inside me from behind. What it was, I still have no idea. It was huge and hard, but it was not his penis. I am certain of that. I remember thinking that I had been right: he was impotent, after all.

Whatever it was that he put inside me, it made me feel pain for the first time since my failed suicide attempt-real, intense pain that belonged to me and to no one else. How can I put this? The pain was almost impossibly intense, as if my physical self were splitting in two from the inside out. And yet, as terrible as it felt, I was writhing as much in pleasure as in pain. The pleasure and pain were one. Do you see what I mean? The pain was founded on pleasure, and the pleasure on pain. I had to swallow the two as a single entity. In the midst of this pain and pleasure, my flesh went on splitting in two. There was no way for me to prevent it from happening. Then something very weird occurred. Out from between the two cleanly split halves of my physical self came crawling a thing that I had never seen or touched before.

How large it was I could not tell, but it was as wet and slippery as a newborn baby. I had absolutely no idea what it was. It had always been inside me, and yet it was something of which I had no knowledge. This man had drawn it out of me.

I wanted to know what it was. I wanted to see it with my own eyes. It was a part of me, after all, I had a right to see it. But this was impossible. I was caught in the torrent of pleasure and pain. An entirely physical being, I could only cry out, and drool, and churn my hips. The mere act of opening my eyes was an impossibility.

I then reached the sexual peak-although, rather than a peak, it felt more as if I were being thrown down from a high cliff. I screamed, and I felt as if every piece of glass in the room had shattered. I not only felt it: I actually saw and heard the windows and drinking glasses shattering into powdered fragments and felt them raining down on me. I then felt horribly sick to my stomach. My consciousness began to slip away, and my body turned cold. I know this will sound strange, but I felt as if I had turned into a bowl of cold porridge-all sticky and lumpy, and the lumps were throbbing, slowly and hugely, with each beat of my heart. I recognized this throbbing: it had happened to me before. Nor did it take very long for me to recall what it was. I knew it as that dull, fatal, never-ending pain that I had experienced before my failed suicide attempt. And, like a crowbar, the pain was prying open the lid of my consciousness-prying it open with an irresistible force and dragging out the jellied contents of my memory without reference to my will. Strange as it may sound, this was like a dead person watching her own autopsy. Do you see what I mean? I felt as if I were watching from some vantage point as my body was being cut open and one slimy organ after another was being pulled out of me.

I continued to lie there, drooling on the pillow, my body racked with convulsions, and incontinent. I knew that I should try to control myself, but I had lost the power for such control. Every screw in my body had net only come loose but had fallen out. In my clouded brain, I felt with incredible intensity exactly how alone and how powerless I was. Everything came gushing out of me. Things both tangible and intangible turned to liquid and flowed out through my flesh like saliva or urine. I knew that I should not let this happen, that I should not allow my very self to spill out this way and be lost forever, but there was nothing I could do to stanch the flow. I could only watch it happen. How long this continued, I have no idea. It seemed as if all my memories, all my consciousness, had just slipped away. Everything that had been inside me was outside now. Eventually, like a heavy curtain falling, darkness enveloped me in an instant.

And when I regained consciousness, I was a different person. Creta Kano stopped speaking at that point and looked at me. That is what happened then, she said softly. I said nothing but waited instead for the rest of her story.

14 Creta Kano's New Departure

Creta Kano went on with her story.

For some days after that, I lived with the feeling that my body had fallen apart. Walking, I had no sense that my feet were actually touching the ground. Eating, I had no sense that I was actually chewing on anything. Sitting still, I had the terrifying feeling that my body was either endlessly falling or endlessly floating up beneath a big balloon kind of thing, through infinite space. I could no longer connect my body's movements or sensations with my own self. They were functioning as they wished, without reference to my will, without order or direction. And yet I knew no way to bring calm to this intense chaos. All I could do was wait for things to settle down in their own good time. I locked myself in my room from morning to night, hardly eating a thing, and telling my family only that I was not feeling well.

Some days went by like this-three or four days, I would say. And then, all of a sudden, everything quieted down, as if a wild wind had blown through and gone on its way. I looked around, and I examined myself, and I realized that I had become a new person, entirely different from what I had been until then. This was my third self. My first self had been the one that lived in the endless anguish of pain. My second self had been the one that lived in a state of pain-free numbness. The first one had been me in my original state, unable to release the heavy yoke of pain from my neck. And when I did attempt to release it-which is to say, when I tried to kill myself and failed-I became my second self: an interim me. True, the physical pain that had tortured me until then had disappeared, but all other sensations had retreated with it into the haze. My will to live, my physical vitality, my mental powers of concentration: all these had disappeared along with the pain. After I passed through that strange period of transition, what emerged was a brand-new me. Whether this was the me that should have been there all along I could not yet tell. But I did have the sense, however vague and undefined it might be, that I was at least heading in the right direction.

Creta Kano raised her eyes and looked directly at me, as if she wanted to hear my impressions of her story. Her hands still rested on the table. So, then, I said, what you're saying is that the man gave you a new self, am I right?

Perhaps he did, said Creta Kano, nodding. Her face was as expressionless as the bottom of a dried-up pond. Being caressed by that man, and held by him, and made to feel such impossibly intense sexual pleasure for the first time in my life, I experienced some kind of gigantic physical change. Why it happened, and why, of all people, it had to be that man who made it happen, I have no idea. Whatever the process may have been, the fact remains that at the end of it, I found myself in a whole new container. And once I had passed through the deep confusion I mentioned earlier, I sought to accept this new self as something truer-if for no other reason than that I had been enabled to escape from my profound numbness, which had been such a suffocating prison to me.

Still, the bad aftertaste remained with me for a long time, like a dark shadow. Each time I recalled those ten fingers of his, each time I recalled that thing he put inside me, each time I recalled that slimy, lumpish thing that came (or felt as if it came) out of me, I felt terribly uneasy. I felt a sense of anger-and despair-that I had no way to deal with. I tried to erase that day from my memory, but this I was unable to do, because the man had pried open something inside my body. The sensation of having been pried open stayed with me, inseparably bonded to the memory of that man, along with an unmistakable sense of defilement. It was a con- tradictory feeling. Do you see what I mean? The transformation that I had experienced was undoubtedly something right and true, but the transformation had been caused by something filthy, something wrong and false. This contradiction-this split-would torment me for a very long time.

Again Creta Kano stared at her hands atop the table.

After that, I stopped selling my body. There was no longer any point to it. Creta Kano's face remained expressionless.

You could quit just like that? I asked.

She nodded. Just like that, she said. I didn't say anything to anybody, just stopped selling myself, but this caused no problem. It was almost disappointingly easy. I had thought they would at least call me, and I was bracing myself for the day, but it never came. They never said a thing to me. They knew my address. They knew my phone number. They could have threatened me. But nothing happened.

And so, on the surface at least, I had become an ordinary girl again. By that time, I had repaid my parents everything I owed them, and I had put away a good deal of money. With what I gave him, my brother had bought another new car to waste his time driving around in, but he could never have imagined what I had done to pay him back.

I needed time to get used to my new self. What kind of a being was this self of mine? How did it function? What did it feel-and how? I had to grasp each of these things through experience, to memorize and stockpile them. Do you see what I am saying? Virtually everything inside me had spilled out and been lost. At the same time that I was entirely new, I was almost entirely empty. I had to fill in that blank, little by little. One by one, with my own hands, I had to make this thing I called I-or, rather, make the things that constituted me.

I was still officially a student, but I had no intention of returning to the university. I would leave the house in the morning, go to a park, and sit by myself on a bench all day, doing nothing. Or I would wander up and down the paths in the park. When it rained, I would go to the library, put a book on the table in front of me, and pretend to be reading. I sometimes spent the whole day in a movie theater or riding round and round the city on the Yamanote Circle Line. I felt as if I were floating in a pitch-dark space, all by myself. There was no one I could go to for advice. If my sister Malta had been there, I could have shared everything with her, but at that time, of course, she was in seclusion far away on the island of Malta, performing her austerities. I did not know her address. I had no way of contacting her. And so I had to solve these problems entirely by myself. No book explained the kind of thing that I had experienced. Still, although I was lonely, I was not unhappy. I was able to cling to myself. At least now I had a self to cling to.

My new self was able to feel pain, though not with that earlier intensity. I could feel it, but at the same time I had learned a method to escape from it. Which is to say, I was able to separate from the physical self that was feeling the pain. Do you see what I am saying? I was able to divide myself into a physical self and a nonphysical self. It may sound difficult when I describe it like this, but once you learn the method, it is not difficult at all. When pain comes to me, I leave my physical self. Its just like quietly slipping into the next room when someone you don't want to meet comes along. I can do it very naturally. I recognize that pain has come to my body; I feel the existence of the pain; but I am not there. I am in the next room. And so the yoke of the pain is not able to capture me.

And you can separate from yourself like that anytime you please? No, said Creta Kano, after thinking about it for a moment. At first I could do it only when my body was experiencing physical pain. Pain was the key to the splitting off of my consciousness. Later, with Malta Kano's help, I learned to do it at will to some extent. But that was much later.

Before long, a letter arrived from Malta Kano. She told me that she had finally finished three years of a kind of training she had been doing on Malta and within the week would be returning to Japan. She planned to live in Japan permanently from then on. I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing her again. We had been apart for nearly eight years. And as I mentioned earlier, Malta was the only person in the world to whom I could freely tell everything that was in my heart.

On the day she came back to Japan, I told Malta everything that had happened to me. She listened to my long, strange story to the very end without comment, without asking a single question. And when I was finished, she heaved a deep sigh and said to me, I know I should have been with you, I should have been watching over you all this time. For some reason, I never realized that you had such profound problems. Perhaps it was because you were simply too close to me. But in any case, there were things I had to do. There were places I had to go, alone. I had no choice in the matter.

I told her that she should not let it bother her. These were my problems, after all, and I was improving little by little. She thought about this for a while, saying nothing, and then she said, All the things you have been through ever since I left Japan have been painful and bitter for you, but as you say, you have been moving toward the proper state, step by step. The worst is over for you, and it will never come back. Such things will never happen to you again. It will not be easy, but you will be able to forget many things once a certain amount of time has passed. Without a true self, though, a person can not go on living. It is like the ground we stand on. Without the ground, we can build nothing.

There is one thing, however, which you must never forget, and that is that your body has been defiled by that man. It is a thing that should never have happened. You could have been lost forever; you might have had to wander forever through genuine nothingness. Fortunately, the state of your being just happened not to be the real, original you, and so it had the reverse effect. Instead of trapping you, it liberated you from your transitory state. This happened through sheer good luck. The defilement, however, remains inside you, and at some point you will have to rid yourself of it. This is something that I cannot do for you. I cannot even tell you how to do it. You will have to discover the method for yourself, and do it by yourself.

My sister then gave me my new name: Creta Kano. Newly reborn, I needed a new name, she said. I liked it from the start. Malta Kano then began to use me as a spiritual medium. Under her guidance, I learned more and more how to control my new self and how to divide the flesh from the spirit. Finally, for the first time in my life, I became capable of living with a sense of peace. Of course, my true self was still something that lay beyond my grasp. I was still lacking too much for that to happen. But now, in Malta Kano, I had a companion by my side, someone I could depend upon, someone who understood me and accepted me. She be- came my guide and my protector.

But then you met Noboru Wataya again, didn't you?

Creta Kano nodded. That is true, she said. I did meet Noboru Wataya again. It happened early in March of this year. More than five years had passed since I had been taken by him and undergone my transformation and begun to work with Malta Kano. We came face-to-face again when he visited our home to see Malta. We did not speak to each other. I merely caught a glimpse of him in the entryway, but one glimpse was all it took to freeze me in place as if I had been struck by lightning. It was that man- the last man to buy me.

I called Malta Kano aside and told her that he was the man who had defiled me. Fine, she said. Just leave everything to me. Don't worry. You keep out of sight. Make sure he doesn't see you. I did as I was told. Which is why I do not know what he and Malta Kano discussed at that point.

What could Noboru Wataya have possibly wanted from Malta Kano? Creta Kano shook her head. I am sorry, Mr. Okada, I have no idea.

People come to your house because they want something, isn't that usually the case?

Yes, it is. What kinds of things do they come for? All kinds of things. But what kinds of things? Can you give me an example?

Creta Kano bit her lip for a moment. Lost things. Their destinies. The future. Everything.

And you two know about those things?

We do. Not absolutely everything, but most of the answers are in here, said Creta Kano, pointing at her temple. You just have to go inside.

Like going down into a well? Yes, like that. I put my elbows on the table and took a long, deep breath. Now, if you don't mind, theres something Id like you to tell me. You showed up in my dreams a few times. You did this consciously. You willed it to happen. Am I right?

Yes, you are right, said Creta Kano. It was an act of will. I entered your consciousness and joined my body with yours.

You can do things like that? Yes, I can. That is one of my functions.

You and I joined our bodies together in my mind. When I heard myself actually speaking these words, I felt as if I had just hung a bold surrealistic painting on a white wall. And then, as if looking at the painting from a distance to make sure it was not hanging crooked, I said the words again: You and I joined our bodies together in my mind. But I never asked you two for anything. It never even crossed my mind to find out anything from you. Right? So why did you take it upon yourself to do such a thing?

Because I was ordered to by Malta Kano.

Meaning that Malta Kano used you as a medium to hunt around inside my mind. What was she looking for? Answers for Noboru Wataya? Or for Kumiko?

Creta Kano said nothing for a time. She seemed confused. I don't really know, she said. I was not given detailed information. That way, I can function more spontaneously as a medium. My only job is to have peoples minds pass through me. It is Malta Kano's job to assign meaning to what I find there. But please understand, Mr. Okada: Malta Kano is fundamentally on your side. I hate Noboru Wataya, you see, and Malta Kano's first concern is for me. She did this for your sake, Mr. Okada. That is what I believe.

Creta Kano went out to shop at the neighborhood supermarket. I gave her money and suggested that as long as she was going out, she should change into more respectable clothing. She nodded and went to Kumiko's room, where she put on a white cotton blouse and a floral-pattern skirt. It doesn't bother you, Mr. Okada, for me to put on your wifes clothing?

I shook my head. Her letter told me to get rid of it all. No ones going to be bothered if you wear her things.

Just as I expected, everything fit her perfectly-almost weirdly so. Even her shoe size was the same. Creta Kano left the house wearing a pair of Kumiko's sandals. The sight of Creta Kano in Kumiko's clothing made me feel once again that reality was changing its direction somewhat, the way a huge passenger ship lumbers into a new course.

After Creta Kano went out, I lay on the sofa staring at the garden, my mind a blank. She came back by taxi thirty minutes later, holding three large bags stuffed with groceries. Then she made me ham and eggs and a sardine salad.

Tell me, Mr. Okada, do you have any interest in Crete? Creta Kano asked without warning after we had eaten.

Crete? I said. You mean the island of Crete, in the Mediterranean? Yes.

I shook my head. I don't know, I said. I'm not uninterested, I suppose. I've never much thought about it. Would you like to go to Crete with me?

Go to Crete with you? I echoed. Well, actually, I would like to get away from Japan for a while. That is what I was thinking about the whole time I was in the well after you left. Ever since Malta gave me the name , I have felt that I would like to go to Crete someday. To prepare, I read many books about the island. I even studied Greek by myself, so that I would be able to live there when the time came. I have some fairly substantial savings put away, enough so that we could live there for a good length of time without difficulty. You would not have to worry about money.

Does Malta Kano know you're planning to go to Crete?

No. I haven't said anything to her about it, but I am sure she would not be opposed. She would probably think it was a good thing for me. She has been using me as a medium during the past five years, but it is not as if she has merely been exploiting me as some kind of tool. She has been doing it to aid in my recovery as well. She believes that by passing the minds or egos of a variety of people through me, she will make it possible for me to obtain a firm grasp on my own self. Do you see what I mean? It works for me as a kind of vicarious experience of what it feels like to have an ego.

Come to think of it, I have never once in my life said unambiguously to anybody, I want to do this. In fact, I have never thought to myself, I want to do this. From the moment of my birth, I lived with pain at the center of my life. My only purpose in life was to find a way to coexist with intense pain. And after I turned twenty and the pain disappeared when I attempted to kill myself, a deep, deep numbness came to replace the pain. I was like a walking corpse. A thick veil of unfeeling was draped over me. I had nothing-not a sliver-of what could be called my own will. And then, when I had my flesh violated and my mind pried open by Noboru Wataya, I obtained my third self. Even so, I was still not myself. All I had managed to do was get a grasp on the minimum necessary container for a self-a mere container. And as a container, under the guidance of Malta Kano, I passed many egos through myself.

This, then, is how I have spent the twenty-six years of my life. Just imagine if you will: for twenty-six years, I was nothing. This is the thought that struck me with such force when I was alone in the well, thinking. During all this long time, the person called me was in fact nothing at all, I realized. I was nothing but a prostitute. A prostitute of the flesh. A prostitute of the mind.

Now, however, I am trying to get a grasp on my new self. I am neither a container nor a medium of passage. I am trying to establish myself here on the face of the earth.

I do understand what you are saying to me, but still, why do you want to go to Crete with me?

Because it would probably be a good thing for both of us: for you, Mr. Okada, and for me, said Creta Kano. For the time being, there is no need for either of us to be here. And if that is the case, I feel, it would be better for us not to be here. Tell me, Mr. Okada, do you have some course of action you must follow-some plan for what you are going to do from this point on?

The one thing I need to do is talk to Kumiko. Until we meet face-to-face and she tells me that our life together is finished, I cant do anything else. How I'm going to go about finding her, though, I have no idea.

But if you do find her and your marriage is, as you say, finished, would you consider coming to Crete with me? Both of us would have to begin something new at some point, said Creta Kano, looking into my eyes. It seems to me that going to the island of Crete would not be a bad beginning.

Not bad at all, I said. Kind of sudden, maybe, but not a bad beginning.

Creta Kano smiled at me. When I thought about it, I realized this was the first time she had ever done so. It made me feel that, to some extent, history was beginning to head in the right direction. We still have time, she said. Even if I hurry, it will take me at least two weeks to get ready. Please use the time to think it over, Mr. Okada. I don't know if there is anything I can give you. It seems to me that I don't have anything to give at this point in time.

I am quite literally empty. I am just getting started, putting some contents into this empty container little by little. I can give you myself, Mr. Okada, if you say that is good enough for you. I believe we can help each other.

I nodded. I'll think about it, I said. I'm very pleased that you made me this offer, and I think it would be great if we could go together. I really do. But I've got a lot of things I have to think about and a lot of things I have to straighten out.

And if, in the end, you say you don't want to go to Crete, don't worry. I wont be hurt. I will be sorry, but I want your honest answer.

Creta Kano stayed in my house again that night. As the sun was going down, she invited me out for a stroll in the neighborhood park. I decided to forget about my bruise and leave the house. What was the point of worrying about such things? We walked for an hour in the pleasant summer evening, then came home and ate.

After our supper, Creta Kano said she wanted to sleep with me. She wanted to have physical sex with me, she said. This was so sudden, I didn't know what to do, which is exactly what I said to her: This is so sudden. I don't know what to do.

Looking directly at me, Creta Kano said, Whether or not you go with me to Crete, Mr. Okada, entirely separately from that, I want you to take me one time-just one time-as a prostitute. I want you to buy my flesh. Here. Tonight. It will be my last time. I will cease to be a prostitute, whether of the flesh or of the mind. I will abandon the name of Creta Kano as well. In order to do that, however, I want to have a clearly visible point of demarcation, something that says, It ends here.

I understand your wanting a point of demarcation, but why do you have to sleep with me?

Don't you see, Mr. Okada? By sleeping with the real you, by joining my body with yours in reality, I want to pass through you, this person called Mr. Okada. By doing that, I want to be liberated from this defilement-like something inside me. That will be the point of demarcation. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't buy peoples flesh. Creta Kano bit her lip. How about this, then? Instead of money, give me some of your wifes clothing. And shoes. We'll make that the pro forma price of my flesh. That should be all right, don't you think? Then I will be saved.

Saved. By which you mean that you will be liberated from the defilement that Noboru Wataya left inside you?

Yes, that is exactly what I mean, said Creta Kano. I stared at her. Without false eyelashes, Creta Kano's face had a much more childish look. Tell me, I said, who is this Noboru Wataya guy, really? Hes my wifes brother, but I hardly know him. What is he thinking? What does he want? All I know for sure is that he and I hate each other.

Noboru Wataya is a person who belongs to a world that is the exact opposite of yours, said Creta Kano. Then she seemed to be searching for the words she needed to continue. In a world where you are losing everything, Mr. Okada, Noboru Wataya is gaining everything. In a world where you are rejected, he is accepted. And the opposite is just as true. Which is why he hates you so intensely.

I don't get it. Why would he even notice that I'm alive? Hes famous, he's powerful. Compared to him, I'm an absolute zero. Why does he have to take the time and trouble to bother hating me?

Creta Kano shook her head. Hatred is like a long, dark shadow. Not even the person it falls upon knows where it comes from, in most cases. It is like a two-edged sword. When you cut the other person, you cut yourself. The more violently you hack at the other person, the more violently you hack at yourself. It can often be fatal. But it is not easy to dispose of.

Please be careful, Mr. Okada. It is very dangerous. Once it has taken root in your heart, hatred is the most difficult thing in the world to shake off.

And you were able to feel it, weren't you?-the root of the hatred that was in Noboru Wataya's heart.

Yes, I was. I am, said Creta Kano. That is the thing that split my flesh in two, that defiled me, Mr. Okada. Which is why I do not want him to be my last customer as a prostitute. Do you understand?

That night I went to bed with Creta Kano. I took off what she was wearing of Kumiko's and joined my body with hers. Quietly and gently. It felt like an extension of my dream, as if I were re-creating exactly, in reality, the very acts I had performed with Creta Kano in my dream. Her body was real and alive. But there was something missing: the clear sense that this was actually happening. Several times the illusion overtook me that I was doing this with Kumiko, not Creta Kano. I was sure I would wake up the moment I came. But I did not wake up. I came inside her. It was reality. True reality. But each time I recognized that fact, reality felt a little less real. Reality was coming undone and moving away from reality, one small step at a time. But still, it was reality.

Mr. Okada, said Creta Kano, with her arms wrapped around my back, lets go to Crete together. This is not the place for us anymore: not for you and not for me. We have to go to Crete. If you stay here, something bad is going to happen to you. I know it. I am sure of it.

Something bad?

Something very, very bad, Creta Kano prophesied-in a small but penetrating voice, like the prophet bird that lived in the forest.

15 The Only Bad Thing That Ever Happened in May Kasahara's House May Kasahara on the Gooshy Source of Heat

Hello, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said the womans voice. Pressing the receiver against my ear, I looked at my watch. Four o'clock in the afternoon. When the phone rang, I had been asleep on the sofa, drenched in sweat. It had been a short, unpleasant nap. And now there remained with me the physical sensation of someones having been sitting on top of me the whole time I was asleep. Whoever it was had waited until I was asleep, come to sit on top of me, and gotten up and gone away just before I woke.

Hel-looo, cooed the womans voice in a near whisper. The sound seemed to have to pass through some extra-thin air to reach me. This is May Kasahara calling....

Hey, I tried to say, but my mouth still wasn't moving the way I wanted it to. The word may have come out sounding to her like some kind of groan.

What are you doing now? she asked, in an insinuating tone.

Nothing, I said, moving the mouthpiece away to clear my throat. Nothing. Napping.

Did I wake you?

Sure you did. But thats OK. It was just a nap.

May Kasahara seemed to hesitate a moment. Then she said, How about it, Mr. Wind-Up Bird: would you come over to my house?

I closed my eyes. In the darkness hovered lights of different colors and shapes. I don't mind, I said. I'm sunbathing in the yard, so just let yourself in from the back. OK.

Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, are you mad at me?

I'm not sure, I said. Anyhow, I'm going to take a shower and change, and then I'll come over. I've got something I want to talk to you about.

I took a quick cold shower to clear my head, turned on the hot water to wash, and finished off cold again. This did manage to wake me up, but my body still felt dull and heavy. My legs would begin trembling, and at several points during my shower I had to grab the towel bar or sit on the edge of the tub. Maybe I was more fatigued than I had thought.

After I stepped out of the shower and wiped myself down, I brushed my teeth and looked at myself in the mirror. The dark-blue mark was still there on my right cheek, neither darker nor lighter than before. My eyeballs had a network of tiny red lines, and there were dark circles under my eyes. My cheeks looked sunken, and my hair was in need of a trim. I looked like a fresh corpse that had just come back to life and dug its way out of the grave.

I put on a T-shirt and short pants, a hat and dark glasses. Out in the alley, I found that the hot day was far from over. Everything alive above-ground-everything visible-was gasping in hopes of a sudden shower, but there was no hint of a cloud in the sky. A blanket of hot, stagnant air enveloped the alley. The place was deserted, as always. Good. On a hot day like this, and with my face looking so awful, I didn't want to meet anyone.

In the yard of the empty house, the bird sculpture was glaring at the sky, as usual, its beak held aloft. It looked far more grimy than when I had last seen it, more worn down. And there was something more strained in its gaze. It seemed to be staring hard at some extraordinarily depressing sight that was floating in the sky. If only it could have done so, the bird would have liked to avert its gaze, but with its eyes locked in place the way they were, it had no choice except to look. The tall weeds surrounding the sculpture remained motionless, like a chorus in a Greek tragedy waiting breathlessly for an oracle to be handed down. The TV antenna on the roof apathetically thrust its silver feelers into the suffocating heat. Under the harsh summer light, everything was dried out and exhausted.

After I had surveyed the yard of the vacant house, I walked into May Kasahara's yard. The oak tree cast a cool-looking shadow over the lawn, but May Kasahara had obviously avoided that, to stretch out in the harsh sunlight. She lay on her back in a deck chair, wearing an incredibly tiny chocolate-colored bikini, its little cloth patches held in place by bits of string. I couldn't help wondering if a person could actually swim in a thing like that. She wore the same sunglasses she had on when we first met, and large beads of sweat dotted her face. Under her deck chair she had a white beach towel, a container of suntan cream, and a few magazines. Two empty Sprite cans lay nearby, one apparently serving as an ashtray. A plastic hose with a sprinkler lay out on the lawn, where no one had bothered to reel it in after its last use.

When I drew near, May Kasahara sat up and reached out to turn off her radio. She had a far deeper tan than last time. This was no ordinary tan from a weekend at the beach. Every bit of her body-literally from head to toe-had been beautifully roasted. Sunning was all she did here all day, it seemed-including the whole time I was in the well, no doubt. I took a moment to glance at the yard. It looked pretty much as it had before, the broad lawn well manicured, the pond still unfilled and looking parched enough to make you thirsty.

I sat on the deck chair next to hers and took a lemon drop from my pocket. The heat had caused the paper wrapper to stick to the candy.

May Kasahara looked at me for some time without saying anything. What happened to you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? Whats that mark on your face? It is a mark, isn't it?

I think it is. Probably. But I don't know how it happened. I looked- and there it was.

May Kasahara raised herself on one elbow and stared at my face. She brushed away the drops of sweat beside her nose and gave her sunglasses a little push up to where they belonged. The dark lenses all but hid her eyes.

You have no idea at all? No clue where it happened or how it happened? None at all. None? I got out of the well, and a little while later I looked in the mirror, and there it was. Really. That's all. Does it hurt?

It doesn't hurt, it doesn't itch. It is a little warm, though. Did you go to the doctor? I shook my head. It'd probably be a waste of time. Probably, said May Kasahara. I hate doctors too.

I took off my hat and sunglasses and used my handkerchief to wipe the sweat from my forehead. The armpits of my gray T-shirt were already black with sweat.

Great bikini, I said. Thanks. Looks like they put it together from scraps-making the maximum use of our limited natural resources. I take off the top when everybody's out. Well, well, I said. Not that theres all that much underneath to uncover, she said, as if by way of excuse. True, the breasts inside her bikini top were still small and undeveloped. Have you ever swum in that thing? I asked. Never. I don't know how to swim. How about you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? Yeah, I can swim. How far? Far. Ten kilometers? Probably.... Nobody home now? They left yesterday, for our summer house in Izu. They all want to go swimming for the weekend. All is my parents and my little brother. Not you?

She gave a tiny shrug. Then she took her Hope regulars and matches from the folds of her beach towel and lit up.

You look terrible, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.

Of course I look terrible- after days in the bottom of a well with almost nothing to eat or drink, who wouldn't look terrible?

May Kasahara took off her sunglasses and turned to face me. She still had that deep cut next to her eye. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. Are you mad at me?

I'm not sure. I've got tons of things I have to think about before I start getting mad at you.

Did your wife come back? I shook my head. She sent me a letter. Says shes never coming back. Poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara. She sat up and reached out to place her hand lightly on my knee. Poor, poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird. You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you may not believe this, but I was planning to save you from the well at the very end. I just wanted to frighten you a little, torment you a little. I wanted to see if I could make you scream. I wanted to see how much it would take until you were so mixed up you kinda lost your world. I didn't know how to reply to this, so I just nodded. Did you think I was serious when I said I was going to let you die down there? Instead of answering right away, I rolled the lemon drop wrapper into a ball. Then I said, I really wasn't sure. You sounded serious, but you sounded like you were just trying to scare me too. When you're down in a well, talking to somebody up top, something weird happens to the sound: you cant really catch the expression in the other persons voice. But finally, its not a question of which is right. I mean, reality is kind of made up of these different layers. So maybe in that reality you were serious about trying to kill me, but in this reality you weren't. It depends on which reality you take and which reality I take. I pushed my rolled-up candy wrapper into the hole of a Sprite can.

Say, could you do me a favor, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? said May Kasahara, pointing at the hose on the lawn. Would you spray me with that? Its sooo hot! My brains gonna fry if I don't wet myself down.

I left my deck chair and walked over to pick up the blue plastic hose on the lawn. It was warm and limp. I reached behind the bushes and turned on the spigot. At first only hot water that had been warmed inside the hose came out, but it cooled down until it was spraying cold water. May Kasahara stretched out on the lawn, and I aimed a good, strong spray at her.

She closed her eyes and let the water wash over her body. Oh, that feels so good! You should do it too, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.

This isn't a bathing suit, I said, but May Kasahara looked as if she was enjoying the water a lot, and the heat was just too intense for me to keep resisting. I took off my sweat- soaked T-shirt, bent forward, and let the cold water run over my head. While I was at it, I took a swallow of the water: it was cold and delicious.

Hey, is this well water? I asked.

Sure is! It comes up through a pump. Feels great, doesn't it? Its so cold. You can drink it too. We had a guy from the health department do a water quality inspection, and he said theres nothing wrong with it, you almost never get water this clean in Tokyo. He was amazed. But still, were kind of afraid to drink it. With all these houses packed together like this, you never know whats going to get into it.

But don't you think its weird? The Miyawaki's well is bone dry, but yours has all this nice, fresh water. They're just across the alley. Why should they be so different?

Yeah, really, said May Kasahara, cocking her head. Maybe something caused the underground water flow to change just a little bit, so their well dried up and ours didn't. Of course, I don't know what the exact reason would be.

Has anything bad happened in your house? I asked.

May Kasahara wrinkled up her face and shook her head. The only bad thing thats happened in this house in the last ten years is that its so damned boring!

May Kasahara wiped herself down and asked if I wanted a beer. I said I did. She brought two cold cans of Heineken from the house. She drank one, and I drank the other.

So tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, whats your plan from now on?

I haven't really decided, I said. But I'll probably get out of here. I might even get out of Japan.

Get out of Japan? Where would you go? To Crete. Crete? Does this have something to do with that Whats-her-name woman? Something, yeah. May Kasahara thought this over for a moment. And was it Whats-her-name that saved you from the well? Creta Kano, I said. Yeah, shes the one. You've got a lot of friends, don't you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?

Not really. If anything, I'm famous for having so few friends.

Still, I wonder how Creta Kano found out you were down in the well. You didn't tell anybody you were going down there, right? So how did she figure out where you were?

I don't know, I said. But anyhow, you're going to Crete, right? I haven't really decided I'm going to go. Its just one possibility. I have to settle things with Kumiko first. May Kasahara put a cigarette in her mouth and lit up. Then she touched the cut next to her eye with the tip of her little finger. You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, just about the whole time you were down in the well, I was out here sunbathing. I was watching the garden of the vacant house, and baking myself, and thinking about you in the well, that you were starving and moving closer to death little by little. I was the only one who knew you were down there and couldn't get out. And when I thought about that, I had this incredibly clear sense of what you were feeling: the pain and anxiety and fear. Do you see what I mean? By doing that, I was able to get sooo close to you! I really wasn't gonna let you die. This is true. Really. But I wanted to keep going. Right down to the wire. Right down to where you would start to fall apart and be scared out of your mind and you couldn't take it anymore. I really felt that that would be the best thing-for me and for you.

Well, I'll tell you what, I said. I think that if you really had gone down to the wire, you might have wanted to go all the way. It might have been a lot easier than you think. If you went that far, all it would have taken was one last push. And then afterward you would have told yourself that it was the best thing-for me and for you. I took a swig of beer.

May Kasahara thought about that for a time, biting her lip. You may be right, she said. Not even I know for sure.

I took my last swallow of beer and stood up. I put on my sunglasses and slipped into my sweat-soaked T-shirt. Thanks for the beer.

You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara, last night, after my family left for the summer house, I went down into the well. I stayed there five or maybe six hours altogether, just sitting still.

So you're the one who took the rope ladder away. Yeah, said May Kasahara, with a little frown. I'm the one. I turned my eyes to the broad lawn. The moisture-laden earth was giving off vapor that looked like heat shimmer. May Kasahara pushed the butt of her cigarette into an empty Sprite can.

I didn't feel anything special for the first few hours. Of course, it bothered me a little bit to be in such a totally dark place, but I wasn't terrified or scared or anything. I'm not one of those ordinary girls that scream their heads off over every little thing. But I knew it wasn't just dark. You were down there for days, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. You know theres nothing down there to be afraid of. But after a few hours, I knew less and less who I was. Sitting still down there in the darkness, I could tell that something inside me-inside my body-was getting bigger and bigger. It felt like this thing inside me was growing, like the roots of a tree in a pot, and when it got big enough it would break me apart. That would be the end of me, like the pot splitting into a million pieces. Whatever this thing was, it stayed put inside me when I was under the sun, but it, like, sucked up some special kind of nourishment in the darkness and started growing sooo fast it was scary. I tried to hold it down, but I couldn't. And thats when I really got scared. It was the scaredest I've ever been in my life. This thing inside me, this gooshy white thing like a lump of fat, was taking over, taking me over, eating me up. This gooshy thing was really small at first, Mr. Wind-Up Bird.

May Kasahara stopped talking for a little while and stared at her hands, as if she were recalling what had happened to her that day. I was really scared, she said. I guess thats what I wanted you to feel. I guess I wanted you to hear the sound of the thing chewing you up. I lowered myself into a deck chair and looked at the body of May Kasahara, hardly covered by her little bikini. She was sixteen years old, but she had the build of a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her breasts and hips were far from fully matured. Her body reminded me of those drawings that use the absolute minimum of line yet still give an incredible sense of reality. But still, at the same time, there was something about it that gave an impression of extreme old age.

Then, all of a sudden, it occurred to me to ask her, Have you ever had the feeling that you had been defiled by something?

Defiled? She looked at me, her eyes slightly narrowed. You mean physically? You mean, like, raped?

Physically. Mentally. Either.

May Kasahara looked down at her own body, then returned her gaze to me. Physically, no. I mean, I'm still a virgin. I've let a boy feel me up. But just through my clothes.

I nodded. Mentally, hmm, I'm not sure. I don't really know what it means to be defiled mentally. Neither do I, I said. Its just a question of whether you feel its happened to you or not.

If you don't feel it, that probably means you haven't been defiled. Why are you asking me about this? Because some of the people I know have that feeling. And it causes all kinds of complicated problems. Theres one thing I want to ask you, though. Why are you always thinking about death?

She put a cigarette between her lips and nimbly struck a match with one hand. Then she put on her sunglasses.

You mean you don't think much about death, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?

I do think about death, of course. But not all the time. Just once in a while. Like most people.

Heres what I think, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara. Everybody's born with some different thing at the core of their existence. And that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. I have one too, of course. Like everybody else. But sometimes it gets out of hand. It swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. What Id really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. But I cant seem to do it. They just don't get it. Of course, the problem could be that I'm not explaining it very well, but I think its because they're not listening very well. They pretend to be listening, but they're not, really. So I get worked up sometimes, and I do some crazy things.

Crazy things?

Like, say, trapping you in the well, or, like, when I'm riding on the back of a motorcycle, putting my hands over the eyes of the guy who's driving.

When she said this, she touched the wound next to her eye. And thats how the motorcycle accident happened? I asked.

May Kasahara gave me a questioning look, as if she had not heard what I said to her. But every word that I had spoken should have reached her ears. I couldn't make out the expression in her eyes behind the dark glasses, but a kind of numbness seemed to have spread over her face, like oil poured on still water.

What happened to the guy? I asked.

Cigarette between her lips, May Kasahara continued to look at me. Or rather, she continued to look at my mark. Do I have to answer that question, Mr. Wind-Up Bird?

Not if you don't want to. You're the one who brought it up. If you don't want to talk about it, then don't.

May Kasahara grew very quiet. She seemed to be having trouble deciding what to do.

Then she drew in a chestful of cigarette smoke and let it out slowly. With heavy movements, she dragged her sunglasses off and turned her face to the sun, eyes closed tight. Watching her, I felt as if the flow of time were slowing down little by little-as if times spring were be- ginning to run down.

He died, she said at last, in a voice with no expression, as though she had resigned herself to something.

He died?

May Kasahara tapped the ashes off her cigarette. Then she picked up her towel and wiped the sweat from her face over and over again. Finally, as if recalling a task that she had forgotten, she said in a clipped, businesslike way, We were going pretty fast. It happened near Enoshima.

I looked at her without a word. She held an edge of the beach towel in each hand, pressing the edges against her cheeks. White smoke was rising from the cigarette between her fingers. With no wind to disturb it, the smoke rose straight up, like a miniature smoke signal. She was apparently having trouble deciding whether to cry or to laugh. At least she looked that way to me. She wavered atop the narrow line that divided one possibility from the other, but in the end she fell to neither side. May Kasahara pulled her expression together, put the towel on the ground, and took a drag on her cigarette. The time was nearly five o'clock, but the heat showed no sign of abating.

I killed him, she said. Of course, I didn't mean to kill him. I just wanted to push the limits. We did stuff like that all the time. It was like a game. Id cover his eyes or tickle him when we were on the bike. But nothing ever happened. Until that day ...

May Kasahara raised her face and looked straight at me.

Anyway, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, no, I don't feel as if I've been defiled. I just wanted to get close to that gooshy thing if I could. I wanted to trick it into coming out of me and then crush it to bits. You've got to really push the limits if you're going to trick it into coming out. Its the only way. You've got to offer it good bait. She shook her head slowly. No, I don't think I've been defiled. But I haven't been saved, either. Theres nobody who can save me right now, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. The world looks totally empty to me. Everything I see around me looks fake. The only thing that isn't fake is that gooshy thing inside me.

May Kasahara sat there for a long while, taking small, regular breaths. There were no other sounds, no bird or insect cries. A terrible quiet settled over the yard, as though the world had in fact become empty.

May Kasahara turned to face me in her chair. She seemed to have suddenly remembered something. Now all expression was gone from her face, as if she had been washed clean. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, did you sleep with that Kano person?

I nodded. Will you write to me from Crete? asked May Kasahara. Sure I will. If I go. You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said after some hesitation, I think I might be going back to school. Oh, so you've changed your mind about school, huh? She gave a little shrug. Its a different one. I absolutely refuse to go back to my old school. The new ones kinda far from here. So anyway, I probably wont be able to see you for a while.

I nodded. Then I took a lemon drop from my pocket and put it into my mouth. May Kasahara glanced around and lit up a cigarette.

Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, is it fun to sleep with a bunch of different women? That's beside the point.

Yeah, I've heard that one already. Right, I said, but I didn't know what else to say.

Oh, forget it. But you know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, its just because I met you that I finally decided to go back to school. No kidding.

Whys that? I asked. Yeah, why is that? May Kasahara said. Then she wrinkled up the corners of her eyes and looked at me. Maybe I wanted to go back to a more normal world. But really, Mr. Wind- Up Bird, its been a lot of fun being with you. No kidding. I mean, you're such a supernormal guy, but you do such unnormal things. And you're so-what?-unpredictable. So hanging around with you hasn't been boring in any way. You have no idea how much good thats done me. Not being bored means not having to think about a lot of stupid stuff. Right? So where thats concerned, I'm glad you've been around. But tell you the truth, its made me nervous too.

In what way? Well, how can I put this? Sometimes, when I'm looking at you, I get this feeling like maybe you're fighting real hard against something for me. I know this sounds weird, but when that happens, I feel like I'm right with you, sweating with you. See what I mean? You always look so cool, like no matter what happens, its got nothing to do with you, but you're not really like that. In your own way, you're out there fighting as hard as you can, even if other people cant tell by looking at you. If you weren't, you wouldn't have gone into the well like that, right? But anyhow, you're not fighting for me, of course. You're falling all over yourself, trying to wrestle with this big whatever-it-is, and the only reason you're doing it is so you can find Kumiko. So theres no point in me getting all sweaty for you. I know all that, but still, I cant help feeling that you are fighting for me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird-that, in a way, you probably are fighting for a lot of other people at the same time you're fighting for Kumiko. And thats maybe why you look like an absolute idiot sometimes. That's what I think, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. But when I see you doing this, I get all tense and nervous, and I end up feeling just totally drained. I mean, it looks like you cant possibly win. If I had to bet on the match, Id bet on you to lose. Sorry, but thats just how it is. I like you a lot, but I don't want to go broke.

I understand completely.

I don't want to watch you going under, and I don't want to sweat any more for you than I already have. That's why I've decided to go back to a world thats a little more normal. But if I hadn't met you here-here, in front of this vacant house- I don't think things would have turned out this way. I never would have thought about going back to school. Id still be hanging around in some not-so-normal world. So in that sense, its all because of you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. You're not totally useless.

I nodded. It was the first time in a long time anyone had said anything nice about me. Cmere, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara. She raised herself on her deck chair. I got out of my chair and went to hers. Sit down right here, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara. I did as I was told and sat down next to her. Show me your face, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. She stared directly at me for a time. Then, placing one hand on my knee, she pressed the palm of the other against the mark on my cheek. Poor Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara, in a near whisper. I know you're going to take on all kinds of things. Even before you know it. And you wont have any choice in the matter. The way rain falls in a field. And now close your eyes, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. Really tight. Like they're glued shut.

I closed my eyes tightly.

May Kasahara touched her lips to my mark-her lips small and thin, like an extremely well- made imitation. Then she parted those lips and ran her tongue across my mark-very slowly, covering every bit of it. The hand she had placed on my knee remained there the whole time.

Its warm, moist touch came to me from far away, from a place still farther than if it had passed through all the fields in the world. Then she took my hand and touched it to the wound beside her eye. I caressed the half-inch scar As I did so, the waves of her consciousness pulsed through my fingertips and into me-a delicate resonance of longing. Probably someone should take this girl in his arms and hold her tight, I thought. Probably someone other than me. Someone qualified to give her something. Goodbye, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. See you again sometime.

16 The Simplest Thing Revenge in a Sophisticated Form The Thing in the Guitar Case

The next day I called my uncle and told him I might be moving out of the house sometime in the next few weeks. I apologized for springing it on him so suddenly but explained that it was because Kumiko had left me, with just as little warning. There was no point in covering up anymore. I told him that she had written to say she would not be coming back, and that I wanted to get away from this place, though exactly for how long I could not be sure. My summary explanation was followed by a thoughtful silence at my uncles end of the line. He seemed to be mulling something over. Then he said, Mind if I come over there for a visit sometime soon? Id kind of like to see with my own eyes whats going on. And I haven't been to the house for quite a while now.

My uncle came to the house two evenings later. He looked at my mark but had nothing to say about it. He probably didn't know what to say about it. He just gave it one funny look, with his eyes narrowed. He had brought me a good bottle of scotch and a package of fish- paste cakes that he had bought in Odawara. We sat on the veranda, eating the cakes and drinking the whiskey.

What a pleasure it is to be sitting on a veranda again, my uncle said, nodding several times. Our condo doesn't have one, of course. Sometimes I really miss this place. Theres a special feeling you get on a veranda that you just cant get anywhere else.

For a while, he sat there gazing at the moon, a slim white crescent of a moon that looked as if someone had just finished sharpening it. That such a thing could actually go on floating in the sky seemed almost miraculous to me.

Then, in an utterly offhand manner, my uncle asked, How'd you get that mark?

I really don't know, I said, and took a gulp of whiskey. All of a sudden, it was there.

Maybe a week ago? I wish I could explain it better, but I just don't know how.

Did you go to the doctor with it?

I shook my head.

I don't want to stick my nose in where I'm not wanted, but just let me say this: you really ought to sit down and think hard about what it is thats most important to you. I nodded. I have been thinking about that, I said. But things are so complicated and tangled together. I cant seem to separate them out and do one thing at a time. I don't know how to untangle things.

My uncle smiled. You know what I think? I think what you ought to do is start by thinking about the simplest things and go from there. For example, you could stand on a street corner somewhere day after day and look at the people who come by there. You're not in any hurry to decide anything. It may be tough, but sometimes you've got to just stop and take time. You ought to train yourself to look at things with your own eyes until something comes clear. And don't be afraid of putting some time into it. Spending plenty of time on something can be the most sophisticated form of revenge.

Revenge?! What do you mean, revenge? Revenge against whom? You'll understand soon enough, said my uncle, with a smile.

All told, we sat on the veranda, drinking together, for something over an hour. Then, announcing that he had stayed too long, my uncle stood up and left. Alone again, I sat on the veranda, leaning against a pillar and staring out at the garden under the moon. For a time, I was able to breathe deeply of the air of realism or whatever it was that my uncle left behind, and to feel, for the first time in a very long time, a sense of genuine relief. Within a few hours, though, that air began to dissipate, and a kind of cloak of pale sorrow came to envelop me once again. In the end, I was in my world again, and my uncle was in his.

My uncle had said that I should think about the truly simple things first, but I found it impossible to distinguish between what was simple and what was difficult. And so the next morning, after the rush hour had ended, I took the train to Shinjuku. I decided just to stand there and really look at peoples faces. I didn't know if it would do any good, but it was probably better than doing nothing. If looking at peoples faces until you got sick of them was an example of a simple thing, then it couldn't hurt to give it a try. If it went well, it just might give me some indication of what constituted the simple things for me.

The first day, I spent two full hours sitting on the low brick wall that ran along the edge of the raised flower bed outside Shinjuku Station, watching the faces of the people who passed by. But the sheer numbers of people were too great, and they walked too quickly. I couldn't manage a good look at any one persons face. To make matters worse, some homeless guy came over to me after I had been there for a while and started haranguing me about something. A policeman came by several times, glaring at me. So I gave up on the busy area outside the station and decided to look for a place better suited to the leisurely study of passersby.

I took the passageway under the tracks to the west side of the station, and after I had spent some time walking around that neighborhood, I found a small, tiled plaza outside a glass high-rise. It had a little sculpture and some handsome benches where I could sit and look at people as much as I liked. The numbers were nowhere near as great as directly outside the main entrance of the station, and there weren't any homeless guys here with bottles of whiskey stuck in their pockets. I spent the day there, making do for lunch with some doughnuts and coffee from Dunkin Donuts, and going home before the evening rush.

At first the only ones who caught my eye were the men with thinning hair, thanks to the training I had received doing surveys with May Kasahara for the toupee maker. Before I knew it, my gaze would lock onto a bald head and Id have the man classified as A, B, or C. At this rate, I might just as well have called May Kasahara and volunteered to join her for work again.

After a few days had gone by, though, I found myself capable of just sitting and watching peoples faces without a thought in my head. Most of the ones who passed by that place were men and women who worked in offices in the high-rise. The men wore white shirts and neckties and carried briefcases, the women mostly wore high-heeled shoes. Others I saw included patrons of the buildings restaurants and shops, family groups headed for the observation deck on the top floor, and a few people who were just passing through the space, walking from point A to point B. Here most of the people tended not to walk very quickly. I just let myself watch them all, without any clear purpose. Occasionally there would be people who attracted my interest for some reason or other, and then I would concentrate on their faces and follow them with my eyes.

Every day, I would take the train to Shinjuku at ten o'clock, after the rush hour, sit on the bench in the plaza, and stay there almost motionless until 4:00 p.m., staring at peoples faces. Only after I had actually tried this out did I realize that by training my eyes on one passing face after another, I was able to make my head completely empty, like pulling the cork from a bottle. I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me. I thought nothing, I felt nothing. I often had the sense that I had become part of the stone bench.

Someone did speak to me once, though-a thin, well-dressed middle-aged woman. She wore a bright-pink, tight-fitting dress, dark sunglasses with tortoiseshell frames, and a white hat, and she carried a white mesh handbag. She had nice legs and had on expensive-looking spotless white leather sandals. Her makeup was thick, but not offensively so. She asked me if I was in some kind of difficulty. Not at all, I replied. I seem to see you here every day, she said, and asked what I could be doing. I said I was looking at peoples faces. She asked if I was doing it for some purpose, and I said I was not.

Sitting down beside me, she took a pack of Virginia Slims from her bag and lit up with a small gold lighter. She offered me one, but I shook my head. Then she took off her sunglasses and, without a word, stared directly at my face. More precisely, she stared at the mark on my face. In return, I stared back, into her eyes. But I was unable to read any emotion stirring there. I saw nothing but two dark pupils that seemed to be functioning as they were meant to. She had a small, pointed nose. Her lips were thin, and color had been applied to them with great care. I found it hard to guess her age, but I supposed she was in her mid-forties. She looked younger than that at first glance, but the lines beside her nose had a special kind of weariness about them. Do you have any money? she asked.

This took me off guard. Money? What do you mean, do I have any money? I'm just asking: Do you have any money? Are you broke?

No. At the moment, I'm not broke, I said. She drew her lips slightly to one side, as if examining what I had said, and continued to concentrate all her attention on me. Then she nodded. And then she put her sunglasses on, dropped her cigarette to the ground, rose gracefully from her seat, and, without a glance in my direction, slipped away. Amazed, I watched her disappear into the crowd. Maybe she was a little crazy. But her immaculate grooming made that hard to believe. I stepped on her discarded cigarette, crushing it out, and then I did a slow scan of my surroundings, which turned out to be filled with the usual real world. People were moving from one place to another, each with his or her own purpose. I didn't know who they were, and they didn't know who I was. I took a deep breath and went back to my task of looking at the faces of these people, without a thought in my head.

I went on sitting there for eleven days altogether. Every day, I had my coffee and doughnuts and did nothing but watch the faces of the people passing by. Aside from the meaningless little conversation with the well-dressed woman who approached me, I spoke with no one for the whole eleven days. I did nothing special, and nothing special happened to me. Even after this eleven-day vacuum, however, I was unable to come to any conclusion. I was still lost in a complex maze, unable to solve the simplest problem.

But then, on the evening of the eleventh day, something very strange occurred. It was a Sunday, and I had stayed there watching faces until later than usual. The people who came to Shinjuku on a Sunday were different from the weekday crowd, and there was no rush hour. I caught sight of a young man with a black guitar case. He was of average height. He wore glasses with black plastic frames, had hair down to his shoulders, was dressed in blue denim top and bottom, and trudged along in worn-out sneakers. He walked past me looking straight ahead, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. When I saw him, something struck me. My heart gave a thump. I know that guy, I thought. I've seen him somewhere. But it took me a few seconds to remember who he was-the singer I had seen that night in the snack bar in Sapporo. No doubt about it: he was the one.

I immediately left my bench and hurried after him. Given his almost leisurely pace, it was not difficult to catch up with him. I followed ten steps behind, adjusting my pace to his. I strongly considered the possibility of speaking to him. I would say something like, You were singing three years ago in Sapporo, weren't you? I heard you there.

Oh, really? he would say. Thank you very much. And then what? Should I say, My wife had an abortion that night. And she left me not too long ago. She had been sleeping with another man? I decided just to follow him and see what happened. Maybe as I walked along I would figure out some good way to handle it.

He was walking away from the station. He passed beyond the string of high-rises, crossed the Ome Highway, and headed for Yoyogi. He seemed to be deep in thought. Apparently at home in the area, he never hesitated or looked around. He kept walking at the same pace, facing straight ahead. I followed after him, thinking about the day that Kumiko had her abortion. Sapporo in early March. The earth was hard and frozen, and now and then a few snowflakes would flutter down. I was back in those streets, my lungs full of frozen air. I saw the white breath coming from peoples mouths.

Then it hit me: that was probably when things started to change. Yes, definitely. That had been a turning point. After that, the flow around me had begun to evidence a change. Now that I thought about it, that abortion had been an event of great significance for the two of us. At the time, however, I had not been able to perceive its true importance. I had been all too distracted by the act of abortion itself, while the genuinely important thing may have been something else entirely.

I had to do it, she said. I felt it was the right thing to do, the best thing for both of us. But theres something else, something you don't know about, something I cant put into words just yet. I'm not hiding anything from you. I just cant be sure whether or not its something real. Which is why I cant put it into words yet. Back then, she couldn't be sure that that something was real. And that something, without a doubt, had been more connected with the pregnancy than with the abortion. Maybe it had had something to do with the child in her womb. What could it have been? What had sent her into such confusion? Had she had relations with another man and refused to give birth to his baby? No, that was out of the question. She herself had declared that it was out of the question. It had been my child, that was certain. But still, there had been something she was unable to tell me. And that something was inseparably connected to her decision to leave me. Everything had started from that.

But what the secret was, what had been concealed there, I had no idea. I was the only one left alone, the only one in the dark. All I knew for certain was that as long as I failed to solve the secret of that something, Kumiko would never come back to me. Gradually, I began to sense a quiet anger growing inside my body, an anger directed toward that something that remained invisible to me. I stretched my back, drew in a deep breath, and calmed the pounding of my heart. Even so, the anger, like water, seeped soundlessly into every corner of my body. It was an anger steeped in sorrow. There was no way for me to smash it against something, nothing I could do to dispel it.

The man went on walking at the same steady pace. He crossed the Odakyu Line tracks, passed through a block of shops, through a shrine, through a labyrinth of alleys. I followed after him, adjusting my distance in each situation so as to keep him from spotting me. And it was clear that he had not spotted me. He never once looked around. There was definitely something about this man that made him different from ordinary people. Not only did he never look back; he never once looked to either side. He was so utterly concentrated: what could he be thinking about? Or was he, rather, thinking about absolutely nothing?

Before long, the man entered a hushed area of deserted streets lined with two-story wood- frame houses. The road was narrow and twisted, and the run-down houses were jammed up against each other on either side. The lack of people here was almost weird. More than half the houses were vacant. Boards were nailed across the front doors of the vacant houses, and notices of planned construction were posted outside. Here and there, like missing teeth, were vacant lots filled with summer weeds and surrounded by chain-link fences. There was probably a plan to demolish this whole area in the near future and put up some new high-rises. Pots of morning glories and other flowers crammed the little space outside one of the few houses that were occupied. A tricycle lay on its side, and a towel and a child's bathing suit were being dried in the second-story window. Cats lay everywhere-beneath the windows, in the doorway-watching me with weary eyes. Despite the bright early-evening hour, there was no sign of people. The geography of this place was lost on me. I couldn't tell north from south. I guessed that I was in the triangular area between Yoyogi and Sendagaya and Harajuku, but I could not be sure.

It was, in any case, a forgotten section of the city. It had probably been overlooked because the roads were so narrow that cars could hardly pass through. The hands of the developers had not reached this far. Stepping in here, I felt as if time had turned back twenty or thirty years. I realized that at some point, the constant roar of car engines had been swallowed up and was gone now. Carrying his guitar case, the man had made his way through the maze of streets until he came to a wood-frame apartment house. He opened the front door, went inside, and closed the door behind him. As far as I could see, the door had not been locked.

I stood there for a time. The hands of my watch showed six-twenty. I leaned against the chain-link fence of the vacant lot across the street, observing the building. It was a typical two-floor wood-frame apartment building. The look of the entrance and the layout of the rooms gave it away. I had lived in a building like this for a time when I was a student. There had been a shoe cabinet in the entryway, a shared toilet, a little kitchen, and only students or single working people lived there. This particular building, though, gave no sense of anyone living there. It was totally devoid of sound or movement. The plastic-veneer door carried no nameplate. Where it had apparently been removed, there was a long, narrow blank spot. All the windows of the place were shut tight, with curtains drawn, despite the lingering afternoon heat.

This apartment house, like its neighbors, was probably scheduled for demolition soon, and no one lived there any longer. But if that was true, what was the man with the guitar case doing here? I expected to see a window slide open after he went inside, but still nothing moved.

I couldn't just go on hanging around forever in this deserted alley. I walked over to the front door and gave it a push. I had been right: it was not locked, and it opened easily to the inside. I stood in the doorway a moment, trying to get a sense of the place, but I could hardly make out anything in the gloomy interior. With the windows all closed, the place was filled with hot, stale air. The moldy smell here reminded me of the air at the bottom of the well. My armpits were streaming in the heat. A drop of sweat ran down behind my ear. After a moments hesitation, I stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind me. By checking the name tags (if there were any) on the mailboxes or the shoe cabinet, I intended to see if anyone was still living here, but before I could do so I realized that someone was there. Someone was watching me.

Immediately to the right of the entrance stood a tall shoe cabinet or some such thing, and the someone was standing just beyond it, as if to hide. I held my breath and peered into the gloomy warmth. The person standing there was the young man with the guitar case. He had obviously been hiding behind the shoe cabinet from the time he came inside. My heart pounded at the base of my throat like a hammer smashing a nail. What was he doing there? Waiting for me?

Hello there, I forced myself to say. I was hoping to ask you- But the words were barely out of my mouth when something slammed into my shoulder. Hard. I couldn't tell what was happening. All I felt at the moment was a physical impact of blinding intensity. I went on standing there, confused. But then, in the next second, I realized what was going on. With the agility of a monkey, the man had leaped out from behind the shoe cabinet and hit me with a baseball bat. While I stood there in shock, he raised the bat again and swung it at me. I tried to dodge, but I was too late. This time the bat hit my left arm. For a moment, the arm lost all feeling. There was no pain, nothing at all. It was as if the whole arm had just melted into space.

Before I knew it, though, almost as a reflex action, I was kicking at him. I had never had formal training in martial arts, but a friend of mine in high school with some ranking in karate had taught me a few elementary moves. Day after day, he had had me practicing kicks- nothing fancy: just training to kick as hard and high and straight as possible. This was the single most useful thing to know in an emergency, he had said. And he had been right. Entirely taken up with swinging his bat, the man had obviously never anticipated the possibility that he might be kicked. Just as frantic as he was, I had no idea where my kick was aimed, nor was it very strong, but the shock of it seemed to take the wind out of him. He stopped swinging his bat, and as if there had been a break in time at that point, he stared at me with vacant eyes. Given this opening, I aimed a stronger, more accurate kick at his groin, and when he curled up with the pain, I wrenched the bat from his hands. Then I kicked him hard in the ribs. He tried to grab my leg, so I kicked him again. And then again, in the same place. Then I smashed his thigh with the bat. Emitting a dull scream, he fell on the floor.

At first I kicked and beat him out of sheer terror, so as to prevent myself from being hit. Once he fell on the floor, though, I found my terror turning to unmistakable anger. The anger was still there, the quiet anger that had welled up in my body earlier while I was walking along and thinking about Kumiko. Released now, it flared up uncontrollably into something close to intense hatred. I smashed the mans thigh again with the bat. He was drooling from the corner of his mouth. My shoulder and left arm were beginning to throb where he had hit me. The pain aroused my anger all the more. The mans face was distorted with pain, but he struggled to raise himself from the floor. I couldn't make my left arm work, so I threw the bat down and stood over him, smashing his face with my right hand. I punched him again and again. I punched him until the fingers of my right hand grew numb and then started to hurt. I was going to beat him until he was unconscious. I grabbed his neck and smashed his head against the wooden floor. Never in my life had I been involved in a fistfight. I had never hit another person with all my strength. But now hitting was all I could do, and I couldn't seem to stop. My mind was telling me to stop: This was enough. Any more would be too much. The man could no longer get to his feet. But I couldn't stop. There were two of me now, I realized. I had split in two, but this me had lost the power to stop the other me. An intense chill ran through my body.

Then I realized the man was smiling. Even as I went on hitting him, the man kept smiling at me-the more I hit him, the bigger the smile, until finally, with blood streaming from his nose and lips, and choking on his own spit, the man gave out a high, thin laugh. He must be crazy, I thought, and I stopped punching him and stood up straight. I looked around and saw the black guitar case propped against the side of the shoe cabinet.

I left the man where he lay, still laughing, and approached the guitar case. Lowering it to the floor, I opened the clasps and lifted the cover. There was nothing inside. It was absolutely empty-no guitar, no candles. The man looked at me, laughing and coughing. I could hardly breathe. All of a sudden, the hot, steamy air inside this building became unbearable. The smell of mold, the touch of my own sweat, the smell of blood and saliva, my own sense of anger and of hatred: all became more than I could bear. I pushed the door open and went outside, closing the door behind me. As before, there was no sign of anyone in the area. All that moved was a large brown cat, slowly making its way across the vacant lot, oblivious of me.

I wanted to get out of there before anyone spotted me. I wasn't sure which way I should go, but I started walking and before long managed to find a bus stop labeled To Shinjuku Station. I hoped to calm my breathing and straighten my head out before the next bus came, but failed to do either. Over and over, I told myself: All I was trying to do was look at peoples faces! I was just looking at the faces of people passing by on the street, the way my uncle had said. I was just trying to untangle the simplest complications in my life, thats all. When I entered the bus, the passengers turned toward me. Each of them gave me the same shocked look and then averted his eyes. I assumed it was because of the mark on my face. Some time had to go by before I realized it was because of the splatters on my white shirt of the mans blood (mostly blood from his nose) and the baseball bat I was still clutching in my hands.

I ended up bringing the bat all the way home with me and throwing it in the closet.

That night I stayed awake until the sun came up. The places on my shoulder and left arm where the man had hit me with the bat began to swell and to throb with pain, and my right fist retained the sensation of punching the man over and over and over again. The hand was still a fist, I realized, still clutched into a ball and ready to fight. I tried to relax it, but the hand would not cooperate. And where sleeping was concerned, it was less a matter of being unable to sleep than of not wanting to sleep. If I went to sleep in my present state, there was no way I could avoid having terrible dreams. Trying to calm myself, I sat at the kitchen table, taking straight sips of the whiskey my uncle had left with me and listening to quiet music on the cassette player. I wanted to talk to someone. I wanted someone to talk to me. I set the telephone on the table and stared at it for hours. Call me, somebody, please, anybody-even the mysterious phone woman; I didn't care. It could be the most filthy and meaningless talk, the most disgusting and sinister conversation. That didn't matter. I just wanted someone to talk to me.

But the telephone never rang. I finished the remaining half-bottle of scotch, and after the sky grew light, I crawled into bed and went to sleep. Please don't let me dream, please just let my sleep be a blank space, if only for today.

But of course I did dream. And as I had expected, it was a terrible dream. The man with the guitar case was in it. I performed the same actions in the dream as I had in reality- following him, opening the front door of the apartment house, feeling the impact of the bat, and hitting and hitting and hitting the man. But after that it was different. When I stopped hitting him and stood up, the man, drooling and laughing wildly as he had in reality, pulled a knife from his pocket-a small, sharp-looking knife. The blade caught the faint evening glow that spilled in through the curtains, reflecting a white glimmer reminiscent of bone. But the man did not use the knife to attack me. Instead, he took all his clothes off and started to peel his own skin as if it were the skin of an apple. He worked quickly, laughing aloud all the while. The blood gushed out of him, forming a black, menacing pool on the floor. With his right hand, he peeled the skin of his left arm, and with his bloody, peeled left hand he peeled the skin of his right arm. In the end, he became a bright-red lump of flesh, but even then, he went on laughing from the dark hole of his open mouth, the white eyeballs moving spasmodically against the raw lump of flesh. Soon, as if in response to his unnaturally loud laughter, the mans peeled skin began to slither across the floor toward me. I tried to run away, but my legs would not move. The skin reached my feet and began to crawl upward. It crept over my own skin, the mans blood-soaked skin clinging to mine as an overlay. The heavy smell of blood was everywhere. Soon my legs, my body, my face, were entirely covered by the thin membrane of the mans skin. Then my eyes could no longer see, and the mans laughter reverberated in the hollow darkness. At that point, I woke up.

Confusion and fear overtook me then. For a while, I even lost hold of my own existence.

My fingers were trembling. But at the same time, I knew that I had reached a conclusion.

I could not-and should not-run away, not to Crete, not to anyplace. I had to get Kumiko back. With my own hands, I had to pull her back into this world. Because if I didn't, that would be the end of me. This person, this self that I thought of as me, would be lost.