The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (100 page)

I told you in my letter that I had slept with a man, but in that letter I was not telling the truth. I must confess the truth to you here. I did not sleep with just one man. I slept with many other men. Too many to count. I myself have no idea what caused me to do such a thing. Looking back upon it now, I think it may have been my brother’s influence. He may have opened some kind of drawer inside me, taken out some kind of incomprehensible something, and made me give myself to one man after another. My brother had that kind of power, and as much as I hate to acknowledge it, the two of us were surely tied together in some dark place.

In any case, by the time my brother came to me, I had already defiled myself beyond all cleansing. In the end, I even contracted a venereal disease. In spite of all this, as I mentioned in my letter, I was never able to feel at the time that I was wronging you in any way. What I was doing seemed entirely natural to me—though I can only imagine that it was not the real me that felt that way. Could this be true, though? Is the answer really so simple? And if so, what, then, is the real me? Do I have any sound basis for concluding that the me who is now writing this letter is the “real me”? I was never able to believe that firmly in my “self,” nor am I able to today.

•

I often used to dream of you—vivid dreams with clear-cut stories. In these dreams, you were always searching desperately for me. We were in a kind of labyrinth, and you would come almost up to where I was standing. “Take one more step! I’m right here!” I wanted to shout, and if only you would find me and take me in your arms, the nightmare would end and everything would go back to the way it was. But I was never able to produce that shout. And you would miss me in the darkness and go straight ahead past me and disappear. It was always like that. But still, those dreams helped and encouraged me. At least I still had the power to dream, I knew. My brother couldn’t prevent me from doing that. I was able to sense that you were doing everything in your power to draw nearer to me. Maybe someday you would find me, and hold me, and sweep away the filth that was clinging to me, and take me away from that place forever. Maybe you would smash the curse and set the seal so that the real me would never have to leave again. That was how I was able to keep a tiny flame of hope alive in that cold, dark place with no exit—how I was able to preserve the slightest remnant of my own voice.

I received the password for access to this computer this afternoon. Someone sent it to me special delivery. I am sending you this message from the machine in my brother’s office. I hope it reaches you.

•

I have run out of time. The taxi is waiting for me outside. I have to leave for the hospital now, to kill my brother and take my punishment. Strange, I no longer hate my brother. I am calm with the thought that I will have to obliterate his life from this world. I have to do it for his sake too. And to give my own life meaning.

Take good care of the cat. I can’t tell you how happy I am that he is back. You say his name is Mackerel? I like that. He was always a symbol of something good that grew up between us. We should not have lost him when we did.

•

I can’t write anymore now. Goodbye.

“I’m
so
sorry I couldn’t show you the duck people, Mr. Wind-Up Bird!”

May Kasahara looked truly sorry.

She and I were sitting by the pond, looking at its thick cap of ice. It was a big pond, with thousands of little cuts on its surface from ice-skate blades. May Kasahara had taken off from work especially for me this Monday morning. I had intended to visit her on Sunday, but a train accident had made me a day late. May Kasahara had wrapped herself in a fur-lined coat. Her bright-blue woolen hat bore a geometrical design in white yarn and was topped with a little pom-pom. She had knitted the hat herself, and she said she would make one just like it for me before next winter. Her cheeks were red, her eyes as bright and clear as the surrounding air, which made me very happy: she was only seventeen, after all—the potential was there for almost limitless change.

“The duck people all moved somewhere else after the pond froze over. I’m sure you would have loved them. Come back in the spring, OK? I’ll introduce you.”

I smiled. I was wearing a duffle coat that was not quite warm enough, with a scarf wrapped up to my cheeks and my hands thrust in my pockets. A deep chill ran through the forest. Hard snow coated the ground. My sneakers were sliding all over the place. I should have bought some kind of nonslip boots for this trip.

“So you’re going to stay here a while longer?” I asked.

“I think so. I might want to go back to school after enough time goes by. Or I might not. I don’t know. I might just get married—no, not really.” She smiled with a white puff of breath. “But anyhow, I’ll stay for now. I need more time to think. About what I want to do, where I want to go. I want to take time and think about those things.”

I nodded. “Maybe that’s what you really ought to do,” I said.

“Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, did you think about those kinds of things when you were my age?”

“Hmm. Maybe not. I must have thought about them a little bit, but I really don’t remember thinking about things as seriously as you do. I guess I just figured if I went on living in the usual way, things would kind of work themselves out all right. But they didn’t, did they? Unfortunately.”

May Kasahara looked me in the eye, a calm expression on her face. Then she laid her gloved hands on her lap, one atop the other.

“So, finally, they wouldn’t let Kumiko out of jail?” she asked.

“She refused to be let out,” I said. “She figured she’d be mobbed. Better to stay in jail, where she could have peace and quiet. She’s not even seeing me. She doesn’t want to see anyone until everything is settled.”

“When does the trial start?”

“Sometime in the spring. Kumiko is pleading guilty. She’s going to accept the verdict, whatever it is. It shouldn’t be a long trial, and there’s a good possibility of a suspended sentence—or, at worst, a light one.”

May Kasahara picked up a stone at her feet and threw it toward the middle of the pond. It clattered across the ice to the other side.

“And you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird—you’ll stay home and wait for Kumiko again?”

I nodded.

“That’s good … or is it?”

I made my own big white cloud in the cold air. “I don’t know—I guess it’s how we worked things out.”

It could have been a whole lot worse, I told myself.

Far off in the woods that surrounded the pond, a bird cried. I looked up and scanned the area, but there was nothing more to hear. Nothing to see. There was only the dry, hollow sound of a woodpecker drilling a hole in a tree trunk.

“If Kumiko and I have a child, I’m thinking of naming it Corsica,” I said.

“What a neat name!” said May Kasahara.

•

As the two of us walked through the woods side by side, May Kasahara took off her right glove and put her hand in my pocket. This reminded me of Kumiko. She often used to do the same thing when we walked together in the winter, so we could share a pocket on a cold day. I held May Kasahara’s hand in my pocket. It was a small hand, and warm as a sequestered soul.

“You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, everybody’s going to think we’re lovers.”

“You may be right.”

“So tell me, did you read all my letters?”

“Your letters?” I had no idea what she was talking about. “Sorry, but I’ve never gotten a single letter from you. I got your address and phone number from your mother. Which wasn’t easy: I had to stretch the truth quite a bit.”

“Oh, no! Where’d they all go? I must have written you five hundred letters!” May Kasahara looked up to the heavens.

•

Late that afternoon, May Kasahara saw me all the way to the station. We took a bus into town, ate pizza at a restaurant near the station, and waited for the little three-car diesel train that finally pulled in. Two or three people stood around the big woodstove that glowed red in the waiting room, but the two of us stayed out on the platform in the cold. A clear, hard-edged winter moon hung frozen in the sky. It was a young moon, with a sharp curve like a Chinese sword. Beneath that moon, May Kasahara stood on tiptoe and kissed me on the cheek. I could feel her cold, thin lips touch me where my mark had been.

“Goodbye, Mr. Wind-Up Bird,” she murmured. “Thanks for coming all the way out here to see me.”

Hands thrust deep in my pockets, I looked into her eyes. I didn’t know what to say.

When the train came, she slipped her hat off, took one step back, and said to me, “If anything ever happens to you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, just call out to me in a really loud voice, OK? To me and the duck people.”

“Goodbye, May Kasahara,” I said.

•

The arc of the moon stayed over my head long after the train had left the station, appearing and disappearing each time the train rounded a curve. I kept my eyes on the moon, and whenever that was lost to sight, I
watched the lights of the little towns as they went past the window. I thought of May Kasahara, with her blue wool hat, alone on the bus taking her back to her factory in the hills. Then I thought of the duck people, asleep in the grassy shadows somewhere. And finally, I thought of the world that I was heading back to.

“Goodbye, May Kasahara,” I said. Goodbye, May Kasahara: may there always be something watching over you.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. But it was not until much later that I was able to get any real sleep. In a place far away from anyone or anywhere, I drifted off for a moment.

Amy Knight,
Beria, Stalin’s First Lieutenant
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993).

Kojima Jō,
Manshū teikoku
, 3 vols. (Tokyo: Bunshun bunko, 1983).

Onda Jūhō,
Nomonhan sen: ningen no kiroku
(Tokyo: Gendaishi shuppan kai, Tokuma shoten, 1977).

AFTER DARK

Murakami’s trademark humor and psychological insight are here distilled with an extraordinary, harmonious mastery. Combining the pyrotechnical genius that made
Kafka on the Shore
and
The Wind-up Bird Chronicle
international bestsellers, with a moving infusion of heart, Murakami has produced one of his most enchanting fictions yet.

Fiction/978-0307-27873-9

AFTER THE QUAKE

Set at the time of the 1995 Kobe earthquake, Murakami’s characters emanate from a place where the human meets in the inhuman. An electronics salesman who has been abruptly deserted by his wife agrees to deliver an enigmatic package—and is rewarded with a glimpse of his true nature. A man who has been raised to view himself as the son of God pursues a stranger who may or not be his human father. A collection agent receives a visit from a giant talking frog who enlists his help in saving Tokyo from destruction.

Fiction/Literature/978-0-375-71327-9

BLIND WILLOW, SLEEPING WOMAN

This superb collection of stories generously express Murakami’s mastery of the form. Here are animated crows, a criminal monkey, and an ice man, as well as the dreams that shape us and the things we might wish for. Whether during a chance reunion in Italy, a romantic exile in Greece, or in the grip of everyday life, Murakami’s characters confront grievous loss, or sexuality, or the glow of a firefly, or the impossible distances between those who ought to be closest of all.

Fiction/Short Stories/978-1-4000-9608-4

DANCE DANCE DANCE

As he searches for a mysteriously vanished girlfriend, Murakami’s protagonist plunges into a wind tunnel of sexual violence and metaphysical dread in which he collides with call girls, plays chaperone to a lovely teenage psychic, and receives cryptic instructions from a shabby but oracular Sheep Man.