He was essentially forgotten about at home, too. Once they learned that their eldest son couldn't read anymore or follow along with his lessons, Nakata's parents—totally focused on their children's education—ignored him and turned their attention to his younger brothers. It was impossible for Nakata to go on to public junior high, so once he graduated from elementary school he was sent to live with relatives in Nagano Prefecture, in his mother's hometown. There he attended agriculture school. Since he still couldn't read he had a hard time with his schoolwork, but he loved working in the fields. He might even have become a farmer, if his classmates hadn't tormented him so much. They enjoyed beating up this outsider, this city kid, so much. His injuries became so severe (one cauliflower ear included) that his grandparents pulled him out of school and kept him at home to help out around the house. Nakata was a quiet, obedient child, and his grandparents loved him very much.
It was about this time that he discovered he could speak with cats. His grandparents had a few cats around the house, and Nakata became good friends with them. At first he was able to speak only a few words, but he knuckled down like he was trying to master a foreign language and before long was able to carry on extended conversations. Whenever he was free he liked to sit on the porch and talk with the cats.
For their part, the cats taught him a lot about nature and the world around him. Actually almost all the basic knowledge he had about the world and how it worked he learned from his feline friends.
At fifteen he was sent to a nearby furniture company to learn woodworking. It was less a factory than a small woodworking shop making folkcraft-type furniture.
Chairs, tables, and chests made there were shipped to Tokyo. Nakata grew to love woodworking. His boss took a great liking to him, for he was skilled with his hands, never skipped any small details, didn't talk much, and never, ever complained. Reading a blueprint and adding figures weren't his forte, but aside from these tasks he did well at everything he set his hand to. Once he got the manufacturing steps in his mind he could repeat them endlessly, tirelessly. After a two-year apprenticeship he was given full-time employment.
Nakata worked there until he was past fifty, never once having an accident or calling in sick. He didn't drink or smoke, didn't stay up late or overeat. He never watched TV, and listened to the radio only for the morning exercise program. Day after day he just made furniture. His grandparents eventually passed away, as did his parents.
Everybody liked him, though he didn't make any close friends. Perhaps that was only to be expected. When most people tried talking to Nakata, ten minutes was all it took for them to run out of things to say.
Still, he never felt lonely or unhappy. He never felt sexual desire, or even wanted to be with anyone. He understood he was different from other people. Though no one else noticed this, he thought his shadow on the ground was paler, lighter, than that of other people. The only ones who really understood him were the cats. On days off he'd sit on a park bench and spend the whole day chatting with them. Strangely enough, with cats he never ran out of things to talk about.
The owner of the furniture company passed away when Nakata was fifty-two, and the woodworking shop was closed soon afterward. That kind of gloomy, dark, traditional furniture didn't sell as well as it used to. The craftsmen were all getting on in years, and no young people were interested in learning the trade. The shop itself, originally in the middle of a field, was now surrounded by newly built homes, and complaints started to come in about both the noise and the smoke when they burned wood shavings. The owner's son, who worked in town for an accounting firm, had no interest in taking over the business, so as soon as his father passed away he sold the property to a real estate developer. For his part, the developer tore down the shop, had the land graded, and sold it to an apartment complex developer, who constructed a six-story condominium on the property. Every single apartment in the condo sold out on the first day they were put on sale.
That's how Nakata lost his job. The company had some outstanding loans to pay off, so he received only a pittance as retirement pay. Afterward he couldn't find another job. Who was going to hire an illiterate man in his fifties whose only skill was crafting antique furniture nobody wanted anymore?
Nakata had worked steadily for thirty-seven years at the plant without taking a single day of leave, so he did have a fair amount of money in his savings account at the local post office. He generally spent very little on himself, so even without finding another job he should have been able to have a comfortable old age on his savings.
Since he couldn't read or write, a cousin of his who worked at city hall managed his account for him. Though kind enough, this cousin wasn't so quick on the uptake and was tricked into investing in a condominium at a ski resort by an unscrupulous real estate broker and ended up deeply in debt. Around the same time that Nakata lost his job, this cousin disappeared with his entire family to escape his creditors. Some yakuza-type loan sharks were after him, apparently. Nobody knew where this family was, or even if they were still alive.
When Nakata had an acquaintance go with him to the post office to check on the balance in his account, he found out that only a few hundred dollars were left. His retirement pay, which had been deposited directly into the account, had also vanished.
One could only say that Nakata was extremely unlucky—losing his job and finding himself penniless. His relatives were sympathetic, but they'd been asked to put up collateral and likewise lost everything they'd invested with the cousin. So none of them had the resources to help Nakata in his time of need.
In the end the older of Nakata's two younger brothers in Tokyo decided to look after him for the time being. He owned a small apartment building in Nakano that catered to single men—this was part of his inheritance from his parents—and he offered one of the units to his older brother. He also looked after the money his parents had willed to Nakata—not a great amount—and arranged for him to receive a subsidy for the mentally challenged from the Tokyo Metropolitan Government. That was the extent of the brother's "care." Despite his illiteracy, Nakata was able to take care of his daily needs by himself, and as long as his rent was covered he was able to manage.
His two brothers had very little contact with him. They saw him a few times when he first moved back to Tokyo, but that was it. They had lived apart for over thirty years, and their lifestyles were too different. Neither brother had any particular feelings toward him, and in any case they were too busy with their own careers to take care of a retarded sibling.
But this cold treatment by his relatives didn't faze Nakata. He was used to being alone and actually tensed up if people went out of their way to be nice to him. He wasn't angry, either, that his cousin had squandered his life savings. Naturally he understood it was too bad it happened, but he wasn't disappointed by the whole affair. Nakata had no idea what a resort condo was, or what "investing" meant, nor did he understand what taking out a "loan" involved. He lived in a world circumscribed by a very limited vocabulary.
Only amounts up to fifty dollars or so had any meaning to him. Anything above that—a thousand dollars, ten thousand, a hundred thousand—was all the same to him. A lot of money, that's all it meant. He might have savings, but he'd never seen it. They just told him, "This is how much you have in your account," and told him an amount, which to him was an abstract concept. So when it all vanished he never had the sense that he'd actually lost something real.
So Nakata lived a contented life in the small apartment his brother provided, receiving his monthly subsidy, using his special bus pass, going to the local park to chat with the cats. This little corner of Nakano became his new world. Just like dogs and cats, he marked off his territory, a boundary line beyond which, except in unusual circumstances, he never ventured. As long as he stayed there he felt safe and content. No dissatisfactions, no anger at anything. No feelings of loneliness, anxieties about the future, or worries that his life was difficult or inconvenient. Day after day, for mo
re than ten years, this was his life, leisurely enjoying whatever came along.
Until the day that Johnnie Walker showed up.
Nakata hadn't seen the sea in years, for there was no sea in Nagano Prefecture, or in Nakano Ward. Now for the first time, he realized that he'd lost the sea for so long. He hadn't even thought about it all those many years. He nodded several times to himself, confirming this fact. He took off his hat, rubbed his closely-cropped head with his palm, put his hat back on, and gazed out at the sea. This is the extent of his knowledge of the sea: it was very big, it was salty, and fish lived there.
He sat there on the bench, breathing in the scent of the sea, watching seagulls circle overhead, gazing at ships anchored far offshore. He didn't tire of the view. An occasional white seagull would alight on the fresh summer grass in the park. The white against the green was beautiful. Nakata tried calling out to the seagull as it walked over the grass, but it didn't reply and just stared at him coolly. There were no cats around.
The only animals in the park were seagulls and sparrows. As he sipped hot tea from his thermos, rain began pelting down, and Nakata opened up his precious umbrella.
By the time Hoshino came back to the park, just before twelve, it had stopped raining. Nakata was seated on the bench just as he'd left him, umbrella folded, staring out at the sea. Hoshino had parked his truck somewhere and arrived in a taxi.
"Hey, I'm sorry it took so long," he apologized. A vinyl Boston bag hung from his shoulder. "I thought I'd be finished sooner but all kinds of things came up. It's like every department store has one guy who's got to be a pain in the butt."
"Nakata didn't mind at all. I was just sitting here, looking at the sea."
"Hmm," Hoshino murmured. He looked out in the same direction, but all he saw was a shabby old pier and oil floating on the surface of the water.
"I haven't seen the sea in a long time."
"That right?"
"The last time I saw it was in elementary school. I went to the seaside at Enoshima."
"I bet that was a long time ago."
"Japan was occupied by the Americans back then. The seashore at Enoshima was filled with American soldiers."
"You gotta be kidding."
"No, I'm not kidding."
"Come on," Hoshino said. "Japan was never occupied by America."
"Nakata doesn't know the details, but America had planes called B-29s. They dropped a lot of bombs on Tokyo, so I went to Yamanashi Prefecture. That's where I got sick."
"Yeah? Whatever... I told you I don't like long stories. Anyway, let's head on out. It took longer than I thought, and it's gonna be dark soon if we don't get a move on."
"Where are we going?"
"Shikoku, of course. We'll cross the bridge. You said you're going to Shikoku, didn't you?"
"I did. But what about your job?"
"Don't worry about it. It'll still be there when I get back. I've been putting in some long hours and was thinking I should take a few days off. To tell the truth, I've never been to Shikoku either. Might as well check it out. Plus you can't read, right? So it'll be a whole lot easier if I'm with you to help buy the tickets. Unless you don't want me along."
"No, Nakata would be happy to have you along."
"Then let's do it. I already checked out the bus schedule. Shikoku—here we come!"
Chapter 23
I don't know if ghost is the right word, but it definitely isn't something of this world—that much I can tell at a glance.
I sense something and suddenly wake up and there she is. It's the middle of the night but the room is strangely light, moonlight streaming through the window. I know I closed the curtains before going to bed, but now they're wide open. The girl's silhouette is clearly outlined, bathed by the bone white light of the moon.
She's about my age, fifteen or sixteen. I'm guessing fifteen. There's a big difference between fifteen and sixteen. She's small and slim, holds herself erect, and doesn't seem delicate at all. Her hair hangs down to her shoulders, with bangs on her forehead. She's wearing a blue dress with a billowing hem that's just the right length.
She doesn't have any shoes or socks on. The buttons on the cuffs of her dress are neatly done up. Her dress has a rounded, open collar, showing off her well-formed neck.
She's sitting at the desk, chin resting in her hands, staring at the wall and thinking about something. Nothing too complex, I'd say. It looks more like she's lost in some pleasant, warm memory of not so long ago. Every once in a while a hint of a smile gathers at the corners of her mouth. But the shadows cast by the moonlight keep me from making out any details of her expression. I don't want to interrupt whatever it is she's doing, so I pretend to be asleep, holding my breath and trying not to be noticed.
She's got to be a ghost. First of all, she's just too beautiful. Her features are gorgeous, but it's not only that. She's so perfect I know she can't be real. She's like a person who stepped right out of a dream. The purity of her beauty gives me a feeling close to sadness—a very natural feeling, though one that only something extraordinary could produce.
I'm wrapped in my covers, holding my breath. She continues to sit there at the desk, chin propped in her hands, barely stirring. Occasionally her chin shifts a fraction, changing the angle of her head ever so slightly. As far as anything moving in the room, that's it. I can see the large flowering dogwood just outside the window, glistening silently in the moonlight. There's no wind, and I can't hear a sound. The whole thing feels like I might've died, unknowingly. I'm dead, and this girl and I have sunk to the bottom of a deep crater lake.
All of a sudden she pulls her hands away from her chin and places them on her lap. Two small pale knees show at her hemline. She stops gazing at the wall and turns in my direction. She reaches up and touches the hair at her forehead—her slim, girlish fingers rest for a time on her forehead, as if she's trying to draw out some forgotten thought. She's looking at me. My heart beats dully in my chest, but strangely enough I don't feel like I'm being looked at. Maybe she's not looking at me but beyond me.
In the depths of our crater lake, everything is silent. The volcano's been extinct for ages. Layer upon layer of solitude, like folds of soft mud. The little bit of light that manages to penetrate to the depths lights up the surroundings like the remains of some faint, distant memory. At these depths there's no sign of life. I don't know how long she looks at me—not at me, maybe, but at the spot where I am. Time's rules don't apply here.
Time expands, then contracts, all in tune with the stirrings of the heart.
And then, without warning, the girl stands up and heads toward the door on her slender legs. The door is shut, yet soundlessly she disappears.
I stay where I am, in bed. My eyes open just a slit, and I don't move a muscle. For all I know she might come back, I think. I want her to, I realize. But no matter how long I wait she doesn't return. I raise my head and glance at the fluorescent numbers on the alarm clock next to my bed .3:25. I get out of bed, walk over to the chair she was sitting on, and touch it. It's not warm at all. I check out the desktop, in hopes of finding something—a single hair, perhaps?—she left behind. But there's nothing. I sit down on the chair, massaging my cheeks with the palms of my hands, and breathe a deep sigh.
I close the curtains and crawl back under the covers, but there's no way I can go back to sleep now. My head's too full of that enigmatic girl. A strange, terrific force unlike anything I've ever experienced is sprouting in my heart, taking root there, growing. Shut up behind my rib cage, my warm heart expands and contracts independent of my will—over and over.
I switch on the light and wait for the dawn, sitting up in bed. I can't read, can't listen to music. I can't do anything but just sit there, waiting for morning to come. As the sky begins to lighten I finally sleep a bit. When I wake up, my pillow's cold and damp with tears. But tears for what? I have no idea.
Around nine Oshima roars up in his Miata, and we get the library ready to open.
&
nbsp; After we get everything done I make him some coffee. He taught me how to do it just right. You grind the beans by hand, boil up some water in a narrow spouted pot, let it sit for a while, then slowly—and I mean slowly—pour the water through a paper filter. When the coffee's ready Oshima puts in the smallest dab of sugar, just for show, basically, but no cream—the best way, he insists. I make myself some Earl Grey tea.
Oshima has on a shiny brown short-sleeved shirt and white linen trousers. Wiping his glasses with a brand-new handkerchief he pulls from his pocket, he turns to me.
"You don't look like you got much sleep."
"There's something I'd like you to do for me," I say.
"Name it."
"I want to listen to 'Kafka on the Shore.' Can you get hold of the record?"
"Not the CD?"
"If possible I'd like to listen to the record, to hear how it originally sounded. Of course we'd have to find a record player, too."
Oshima rests his fingers on his temple and thinks. "There might be an old stereo in the storeroom. Can't guarantee it still works, though."
We go into a small room facing the parking lot. There are no windows, only a skylight high up. A mess of objects from various periods are strewn around—furniture, dishes, magazines, clothes, and paintings. Some of them are obviously valuable, but some, most, in fact, don't look like they're worth much.
"Someday we've got to get rid of all this junk," Oshima remarks, "but nobody's been brave enough to take the plunge."
In the middle of the room, where time seems to have drifted to a halt, we find an old Sansui stereo. Covered in a thin layer of white dust, the stereo itself looks in good shape, though it must be over twenty-five years since this was up-to-date audio equipment. The whole set consists of a receiver, amp, turntable, and bookshelf speakers.
We also find a collection of old LPs, mostly sixties pop music—Beatles, Stones, Beach Boys, Simon and Garfunkel, Stevie Wonder. About thirty albums, all told. I take some out of their jackets. Whoever listened to these took good care of them, because there's no trace of mold and not a scratch anywhere.
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