The Elephant Vanishes

by Haruki Murakami

  For almost a month now, I’ve been running from forest to forest, mountain to mountain, eating berries and bugs, drinking water from the river to keep myself alive. But there are too many policemen. They’re bound to catch me sooner or later. And when they do, they’ll strap me to the winch and tear me to pieces. Or so I’m told.

  The dwarf comes into my dreams every night and orders me to let him inside me.

  “At least that way, you won’t be arrested and dismembered by the police,” he says.

  “No, but then I’ll have to dance in the forest forever.”

  “True,” says the dwarf, “but you’re the one who has to make that choice.”

  He chuckles when he says this, but I can’t make the choice.

  I hear the dogs howling now. They’re almost here.

  —translated by Jay Rubin

  I MUST HAVE BEEN eighteen or nineteen when I mowed lawns, a good fourteen or fifteen years ago. Ancient history.

  Sometimes, though, fourteen or fifteen years doesn’t seem so long ago. I’ll think, that’s when Jim Morrison was singing “Light My Fire,” or Paul McCartney “The Long and Winding Road”—maybe I’m scrambling my years a bit, but anyway, about that time—it somehow never quite hits that it was really all that long ago. I mean, I don’t think I myself have changed so much since those days.

  No, I take that back. I’m sure I must have changed a lot. There’d be too many things I couldn’t explain if I hadn’t.

  Okay, I’ve changed. And these things happened all of fourteen, fifteen years back.

  In my neighborhood—I’d just recently moved there—we had a public junior high school, and whenever I went out to run shopping errands or take a walk I’d pass right by it. So I’d find myself looking at the junior-high kids exercising or drawing pictures or just goofing off. Not that I especially enjoyed looking at them; there wasn’t anything else to look at. I could just as well have looked at the line of cherry trees off to the right, but the junior-high kids were more interesting.

  So as things went, looking at these junior-high-school kids every day, one day it struck me. They were all just fourteen or fifteen years old. It was a minor discovery for me, something of a shock. Fourteen or fifteen years ago, they weren’t even born; or if they were, they were little more than semiconscious blobs of pink flesh. And here they were now, already wearing brassieres, masturbating, sending stupid little postcards to disc jockeys, smoking out in back of the gym, writing FUCK on somebody’s fence with red spray paint, reading—maybe—War and Peace. Phew, glad that’s done with.

  I really meant it. Phew.

  Me, back fourteen or fifteen years ago, I was mowing lawns.

  MEMORY IS LIKE FICTION; or else it’s fiction that’s like memory. This really came home to me once I started writing fiction, that memory seemed a kind of fiction, or vice versa. Either way, no matter how hard you try to put everything neatly into shape, the context wanders this way and that, until finally the context isn’t even there anymore. You’re left with this pile of kittens lolling all over one another. Warm with life, hopelessly unstable. And then to put these things out as saleable items, you call them finished products—at times it’s downright embarrassing just to think of it. Honestly, it can make me blush. And if my face turns that shade, you can be sure everyone’s blushing.

  Still, you grasp human existence in terms of these rather absurd activities resting on relatively straightforward motives, and questions of right and wrong pretty much drop out of the picture. That’s where memory takes over and fiction is born. From that point on, it’s a perpetual-motion machine no one can stop. Tottering its way throughout the world, trailing a single unbroken thread over the ground.

  Here goes nothing. Hope all goes well, you say. But it never has. Never will. It just doesn’t go that way.

  So where does that leave you? What do you do?

  What is there to do? I just go back to gathering kittens and piling them up again. Exhausted kittens, all limp and played out. But even if they woke to discover themselves stacked like kindling for a campfire, what would the kittens think? Well, it might scarcely raise a “Hey, what gives?” out of them. In which case—if there was nothing to particularly get upset about—it would make my work a little easier. That’s the way I see it.

  AT EIGHTEEN OR NINETEEN I mowed lawns, so we’re talking ancient history. Around that time I had a girlfriend the same age, but a simple turn of events had taken her to live in a town way out of the way. Out of a whole year we could get together maybe two weeks total. In that short time we’d have sex, go to the movies, wine and dine at some pretty fancy places, tell each other things nonstop, one thing after the next. And in the end we’d always cap it off with one hell of a fight, then make up, and have sex again. In other words, we’d be doing what most any couple does, only in a condensed version, like a short feature.

  At this point in time, I don’t actually know if I really and truly loved her or not. Oh, I can bring her to mind, all right, but I just don’t know. These things, they happen. I liked eating out with her, liked watching her take off her clothes one piece at a time, liked how soft it felt inside her vagina. And after sex, I liked just looking at her with her head on my chest, talking softly until she’d fall asleep. But that’s all. Beyond that, I’m not sure of one single thing.

  Save for that two-week period I was seeing her, my life was excruciatingly monotonous. I’d go to the university whenever I had classes and got more or less average marks. Maybe go to the movies alone, or stroll the streets for no special reason, or take some girl I got along with out on a date—no sex. Never much for loud get-togethers, I was always said to be on the quiet side. When I was by myself, I’d listen to rock ’n’ roll, nothing else. Happy enough, I guess, though probably not so very happy. But at the time, that was about what you’d expect.

  One summer morning, the beginning of July, I got this long letter from my girlfriend, and in it she’d written that she wanted to break up with me. I’ve always felt close to you, and I still like you even now, and I’m sure that from here on I’ll continue to … et cetera, et cetera. In short, she was wanting to break it off. She had found herself a new boyfriend. I hung my head and smoked six cigarettes, went outside and drank a can of beer, came back in and smoked another cigarette. Then I took three HB pencils I had on my desk and snapped them in half. It wasn’t that I was angry, really. I just didn’t know what to do. In the end, I merely changed clothes and headed off to work. And for a while there, everyone within shouting distance was commenting on my suddenly “outgoing disposition.” What is it about life?

  That year I had a part-time job for a lawn-care service near Kyodo Station on the Odakyu Line, doing a fairly good business. Most people, when they built houses in the area, put in lawns. That, or they kept dogs. The two things seemed mirror alternatives. (Although there were folks who did both.) Each had its own advantages: A green lawn is a thing of beauty; a dog is cute. But half a year passes, and things start to drag on everyone. The lawn needs mowing, and you have to walk the dog. Not quite what they bargained for.

  Well, as it ended up, we mowed lawns for these people. The summer before, I’d found the job through the student union at the university. Besides me, a whole slew of others had come in at the same time, but they all quit soon thereafter; only I stayed on. It was demeaning work, but the pay wasn’t bad. What’s more, you could get by pretty much without talking to anyone. Just made for me. Since joining on there, I’d managed to save up a tidy little sum. Enough for my girlfriend and me to take a trip somewhere that summer. But now that she’d called the whole thing off, what difference did it make? For a week or so after I got her good-bye letter, I tried thinking up all sorts of ways to use the money. Or rather, I didn’t have anything better to think about than how to spend the money. A lost week it was. My penis looked like any other guy’s penis. But somebody—a somebody I didn’t know—was nibbling at her little nipples. Strange sensation. What was wrong with me?

&
nbsp; I was hard-pressed to come up with some way of spending the money. There was a deal to buy someone’s used car—a 1000cc Subaru—not bad condition and the right price, but somehow I just didn’t feel like it. I also thought of buying new speakers, but in my tiny apartment with its wood-and-plasterboard walls, what would have been the point? I guess I could have moved, but I didn’t really have any reason to. And even if I did up and move out of my apartment, there wouldn’t have been enough money left over to buy the speakers.

  There just wasn’t any way to spend the money. I bought myself a polo shirt and a few records, and the whole rest of the lump remained. So then I bought a really good Sony transistor radio—big speakers, clear FM reception, the works.

  The whole week went past before it struck me. The fact of the matter was that if I bad no way of spending the money, there was no point in my earning it.

  So one morning I broached the matter to the head of the lawn-mowing company, told him I’d like to quit. It was getting on time when I had to begin studying for exams, and before that I’d been thinking about taking a trip. I wasn’t about to say that I didn’t want the money anymore.

  “Well, now, sorry to hear that,” said the head exec (I guess you’d call him that, although he seemed more like your neighborhood gardening man). Then he let out a sigh and sat down in his chair to take a puff of his cigarette. He looked up at the ceiling and craned his neck stiffly from side to side. “You really and truly do fine work. You’re the heart of the operation, the best of my part-timers. Got a good reputation with the customers, too. What can I say? You’ve done a tremendous job for someone so young.”

  Thanks, I told him. Actually, I did have a good reputation. That’s because I did meticulous work. Most part-timers give the grass a thorough once-over with a big electric lawn mower and do only a mediocre job on the remaining areas. That way, they get done quickly without wearing themselves out. My method was exactly the opposite. I’d rough in with the mower, then put time into the hand trimming. So naturally, the finished product looked nice. The only thing was that the take was small, seeing as the pay was calculated at so much per job. The price went by the approximate area of the yard. And what with all that bending and stooping, my back would get plenty sore. It’s the sort of thing you have to be in the business to really understand. So much so that until you get used to it, you have trouble going up and down stairs.

  Now, I didn’t do such meticulous work especially to build a reputation. You probably won’t believe me, but I simply enjoy mowing lawns. Every morning, I’d hone the grass clippers, head out to the customers in a minivan loaded with a lawn mower, and cut the grass. There’s all kinds of yards, all kinds of turf, all kinds of housewives. Quiet, thoughtful housewives and ones who shoot off their mouths. There were even your housewives who’d crouch down right in front of me in loose T-shirts and no bra so that I could see all the way to their nipples.

  No matter, I kept on mowing the lawn. Generally, the grass in the yard would be pretty high. Overgrown like a thicket. The taller the grass, the more rewarding I’d find the job. When the job was finished, the yard would yield an entirely different impression. Gives you a really great feeling. It’s as if a thick bank of clouds has suddenly lifted, letting in the sun all around.

  One time and one time only—after I’d done my work—did I ever sleep with one of these housewives. Thirty-one, maybe thirty-two she was, petite, with small, firm breasts. She closed all the shutters, turned out the lights, and we made it in the pitch-blackness. Even so, she kept on her dress, merely slipping off her underwear. She got on top of me, but wouldn’t let me touch her anywhere below her breasts. And her body was incredibly cold; only her vagina was warm. She hardly spoke a word. I, too, kept silent. There was just the rustling of her dress, now slower, now faster. The telephone rang midway. The ringing went on for a while, then stopped.

  Later, I wondered if my girlfriend and I breaking up mightn’t have been on account of that interlude. Not that there was any particular reason to think so. It somehow just occurred to me. Probably because of the phone call that went unanswered. Well, whatever, it’s all over and done with.

  “This really leaves me in a fix, you know,” said my boss. “If you pull out now, I won’t be able to stir up business. And it’s peak season, too.”

  The rainy season really made lawns grow like crazy.

  “What do you say? How about one more week? Give me a week. I’ll be able to find some new hands, and everything’ll be okay. If you’d just do that for me, I’ll give you a bonus.”

  Fine, I told him. I didn’t especially have any other plans for the time being, and above all, I had no objections to the work itself. All the same, I couldn’t help thinking what an odd turn of events this was: The minute I decide I don’t need money, the dough starts pouring in.

  Clear weather three days in a row, then one day of rain, then three more days of clear weather. So went my last week on the job. It was summer, though nothing special as summers go. Clouds drifted across the sky like distant memories. The sun broiled my skin. My back peeled three times, and by then I was tanned dark all over. Even behind my ears.

  The morning of my last day of work found me in my usual gear—T-shirt and shorts, tennis shoes, sunglasses—only now as I climbed into the minivan, I was heading out for what would be my last lawn. The car radio was on the blink, so I brought along my transistor radio from home for some driving music. Creedence, Grand Funk, your regular AM rock. Everything revolved around the summer sun. I whistled along with snatches of the music, and smoked when not whistling. An FEN newscaster was stumbling over a rapid-fire list of the most impossible-to-pronounce Vietnamese place-names.

  My last job was near Yomiuri Land Amusement Park. Fine by me. Don’t ask why someone living over the line in Kanagawa Prefecture felt compelled to call a Setagaya Ward lawn-mowing service. I had no right to complain, though. I mean, I myself chose that job. Go into the office first thing in the morning, and all the day’s jobs would be written up on a blackboard; each person then signed up for the places he wanted to work. Most of the crew generally chose places nearby. Less time back and forth, so they could squeeze in more jobs. Me, on the other hand, I chose jobs as far away as I could. Always. And that always puzzled everyone. But like I said before, I was the lead guy among the part-timers, so I got first choice of any jobs I wanted.

  No reason for choosing what I did, really. I just liked mowing lawns farther away. I enjoyed the time on the road, enjoyed a longer look at the scenery on the way. I wasn’t about to tell anyone that—who would’ve understood?

  I drove with all the windows open. The wind grew brisk as I headed out of the city, the surroundings greener. The simmering heat of the lawns and the smell of dry dirt came on stronger; the clouds were outlined sharp against the sky. Fantastic weather. Perfect for taking a little summer day trip with a girl somewhere. I thought about the cool sea and the hot sands. And then I thought of a cozy air-conditioned room with crisp blue sheets on the bed. That’s all. Aside from that, I didn’t think about a thing. My head was all beach and blue sheets.

  I went on thinking about these very things while getting the tank filled at a gas station. I stretched out on a nearby patch of grass and casually watched the attendant check the oil and wipe the windows. Putting my ear to the ground, I could hear all kinds of things. I could even hear what sounded like distant waves, though of course it wasn’t. Only the rumble of all the different sounds the earth sucked in. Right in front of my eyes, a bug was inching along a blade of grass. A tiny green bug with wings. The bug paused when it reached the end of the grass blade, thought things over awhile, then decided to go back the same way it came. Didn’t look all that particularly upset.

  Wonder if the heat gets to bugs, too?

  Who knows?

  In ten minutes, the tank was full, and the attendant honked the horn to let me know.

  My destination address turned out to be up in the hills. Gentle, stately hills, rolling dow
n to rows of zelkova trees on either flank. In one yard, two small boys in their birthday suits showering each other with a hose. The spray made a strange little two-foot rainbow in the air. From an open window came the sound of someone practicing the piano. Quite beautifully, too; you could almost mistake it for a record.

  I pulled the van to a stop in front of the appointed house, got out, and rang the doorbell. No answer. Everything was dead quiet. Not a soul in sight, kind of like siesta time in a Latin country. I rang the doorbell one more time. Then I just kept on waiting.

  It seemed a nice enough little house: cream-colored plaster walls with a square chimney of the same color sticking up from right in the middle of the roof. White curtains hung in the windows, which were framed in gray, though both were sun-bleached beyond belief. It was an old house, a house all the more becoming for its age. The sort of house you often find at summer resorts, occupied half the year and left empty the other half. You know the type. There was a lived-in air to the house that gave it its charm.

  The yard was enclosed by a waist-high French-brick wall topped by a rosebush hedge. The roses had completely fallen off, leaving only the green leaves to take in the glaring summer sun. I hadn’t really taken a look at the lawn yet, but the yard seemed fairly large, and there was a big camphor tree that cast a cool shadow over the cream-colored house.

  It took a third ring before the front door slowly opened and a middle-aged woman emerged. A huge woman. Now, I’m not so small myself, but she must have been a good inch and a half taller than me. And broad at the shoulders, too. She looked like she was plenty angry at something. She was around fifty, I’d say. No beauty certainly, but a presentable face. Although, of course, by “presentable” I don’t mean to suggest that hers was the most likable face. Rather thick eyebrows and a squarish jaw attested to a stubborn, never-go-back-on-your-word temperament.