And once that was over he'd head back to Nagoya. Back home.
It was nearly four by this time, and getting light out. Time to get going. Hoshino stuffed his clothes into his bag, including—just to be on the safe side—his sunglasses and Chunichi Dragons ball cap. Getting snagged by the police before he could finish would mess up the whole thing. He took along a bottle of cooking oil to use to light the fire. He remembered his CD of the Archduke Trio and tossed it in his bag as well.
Finally, he went into the room where Nakata lay in bed. The AC was still on full blast, and the room was freezing. "Hey there, Mr. Nakata," he said, "I'm about ready to take off. Sorry, but I can't stay here forever. I'll call the cops from the station so they can come take care of your body. We'll just have to leave the rest up to some kind patrolmen, okay? We'll never see each other again, but I'll never forget you. Even if I tried to, I don't think I could."
With a loud rattle the air conditioner shut off.
"You know what, Gramps?" he went on. "I think that whenever something happens in the future I'll always wonder—What would Mr. Nakata say about this? What would Mr. Nakata do? I'll always have someone I can turn to. And that's kind of a big deal, if you think about it. It's like part of you will always live inside me. Not that I'm the best container you could find, but better than nothing, huh?"
But the person he was addressing was nothing more than a shell of Mr. Nakata.
The most important part of him had long since left for another place. And Hoshino understood this.
"Hey there," he said to the stone, and reached out to touch its surface. It was back to being just an ordinary stone, cool and rough to the touch. "I'm heading out. Going back home to Nagoya. I'll have to let the cops take care of you too. I know I should take you back to the shrine where you came from, but my memory isn't so good and I don't have any idea which shrine it is. You'll have to forgive me. Don't put a curse on me or anything, okay? I only did what Colonel Sanders told me to. So if you're gonna put a curse on anybody, he's your guy. Anyhow, I'm happy I could meet you. I'll never forget you, either."
Hoshino put on his thick-soled Nike sneakers and walked out of the apartment, leaving the door unlocked. In one hand he held his bag with all his things, in the other the bag with that white thing's corpse.
"Gentlemen," he said, gazing up at the dawn rising in the east, "it's time to light my fire!"
Chapter 49
Just after nine the next morning, I hear the sound of a car approaching and go outside.
It's a small four-wheel-drive Datsun truck, the kind with massive tires and the body jacked up high. It looks like it hasn't been washed in at least a half a year. In the bed are two long, well-used surfboards. The truck grinds to a stop in front of the cabin. When the engine cuts off silence returns. The door opens and a tall young man climbs out, wearing an oversize white T-shirt, an oil-stained No Fear shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers that have seen better days. The guy looks around thirty, with wide shoulders.
He's tanned all over and has three days' worth of stubble on his face. His hair's long enough to hide his ears. I'm guessing this must be Oshima's older brother, the one who runs a surf shop in Kochi.
"Hey," he says.
"Morning," I reply.
He sticks out his hand, and we shake hands on the porch. He has a strong grip. I guessed right. He does turn out to be Oshima's older brother.
"Everybody calls me Sada," he tells me. He talks slowly, choosing his words deliberately, like he's in no hurry. Like he has all the time in the world. "I got a call from Takamatsu to come pick you up and take you back," he explains. "Sounds like some urgent business came up."
"Urgent business?"
"Yeah. I don't know what, though."
"Sorry you had to go to all this trouble," I tell him.
"No need to apologize," he says. "Can you get ready to leave soon?"
"Give me five minutes."
While I'm stuffing my things in my backpack, he helps me close up the place, whistling all the while. He shuts the window, pulls the curtains, checks that the gas is off, gathers up the remaining food, does a quick scrub of the sink. I can tell from watching him that he feels like the cabin's an extension of himself.
"Seems like my brother likes you," Sada says. "He doesn't like all that many people. He's sort of a difficult person."
"He's been really kind to me."
Sada nods. "He can be pretty nice when he wants to be."
I climb into the passenger seat of the truck and toss my backpack at my feet.
Sada turns on the ignition, shifts into gear, leans out the window to check out the cabin one more time, then steps on the gas. "This cabin is one of the few things the two of us share as brothers," he says as he expertly maneuvers down the mountain road.
"When the mood hits us, we sometimes come here and spend a few days alone." He mulls this over for a while, then goes on. "This was always an important place for the two of us, and still is. It's like there's a power here that recharges us. A quiet sort of power. You know what I mean?"
"I think so," I tell him.
"My brother said you would," Sada says. "People that don't get it never will."
The faded cloth seats are covered with white dog hair. The dog smell mixes with that of the sea, plus the scent of surfboard wax and cigarettes. The knob for the AC is broken off. The ashtray's full of butts, the side pocket stuffed full of random cassette tapes, minus their boxes.
"I went into the woods a few times," I say.
"Deep in there?"
"Yes," I reply. "Oshima warned me not to."
"But you went in anyway."
"Yeah," I say.
"I did the same once. Must be like ten years ago." He's silent for a time, concentrating on his driving. We're on a long curve, the thick tires spraying pebbles as we go. Every so often there're crows beside the road. They don't try to fly away, just watch intently, with curious eyes, as we pass by.
"Did you run across the soldiers?" Sada asks as casually as if he'd asked me what time it was.
"You mean those two soldiers?"
"Right," Sada responds, glancing at me. "You went in that far, huh?"
"Yeah, I did," I reply.
His hands lightly gripping the wheel as he maneuvers it, he doesn't respond, and his expression doesn't tell me anything.
"Sada?" I ask.
"Hm?" he says.
"When you met those soldiers ten years ago, what did you do?"
"What did I do when I met those soldiers?" he repeats.
I nod and wait for his answer.
He glances in the rearview mirror, then looks in front again. "I've never talked about that to anyone," he says. "Not even to my brother. Brother, sister—whatever you want to call him. Brother works for me. He doesn't know anything about those soldiers."
I nod silently.
"And I doubt I'll ever tell anybody about it. Even you. And I don't think you'll ever talk about it to anyone, either. Even to me. You know what I'm trying to say?"
"I think so," I tell him.
"What is it?"
"It's not something you can get across in words. The real response is something words can't express."
"There you go," Sada replies. "Exactly. If you can't get it across in words then it's better not to try."
"Even to yourself?" I ask.
"Yeah, even to yourself," Sada says. "Better not to try to explain it, even to yourself."
He offers me a stick of Cool Mint gum. I take one and start chewing.
"You ever try surfing?" he asks.
"No."
"If you have the chance I'll teach you," he says. "If you'd like to learn, I mean. The waves are pretty decent along the Kochi shore, and there aren't so many surfers. Surfing's a more profound kind of sport than it looks. When you surf you learn not to fight the power of nature, even if it gets violent."
He takes out a cigarette from the pocket of his T-shirt, sticks it in his mouth, and lights it up with th
e dashboard lighter. "That's another thing that words can't explain. One of those things that's neither a yes or a no answer." He narrows his eyes and blows smoke out the window. "In Hawaii," he goes on, "there's a spot they call the Toilet Bowl. There're these huge whirlpools because it's where the incoming and outgoing tides meet and crash into each other. It goes around and around like when you flush a toilet. If you wipe out there, you get pulled underwater and it's hard to float up again. Depending on the waves you might never make it back to the surface. So there you are, underwater, pounded by waves, and there's nothing you can do. Flailing around's not gonna get you anywhere. You'll just use up your energy. You've never been so scared in your life. But unless you get over that fear you'll never be a real surfer. You have to face death, get to really know it, then overcome it. When you're down in that whirlpool you start thinking about all kinds of things. It's like you get to be friends with death, have a heart-to-heart talk with it."
At the gate he gets out of the truck and locks it back up, jiggling the chain a couple of times to make sure it'll hold.
After this we don't talk much. He leaves an FM station on as he drives, but I can tell he's not really listening to it. Having the radio on's just a token gesture. Even when we go into a tunnel and all we hear is static, he doesn't mind. With the AC broken, we leave the windows open when we get on the highway.
"If you ever feel like learning how to surf, stop by and see me," Sada says as the Inland Sea comes into view. "I have an extra room, and you can stay as long as you like."
"Thanks," I say. "I'll take you up on that. I don't know when, though."
"You pretty busy?"
"I have a couple of things I have to take care of."
"Same with me," Sada says.
We don't say anything for a long time. He's thinking over his problems, I'm thinking over mine. He keeps his eyes on the road, left hand on top of the steering wheel, and smokes an occasional cigarette. Unlike Oshima, he doesn't speed. With his elbow propped on the open window, he drives down the highway at a leisurely pace. The only time he passes other cars is when they're going way too slow. Then he reluctantly steps on the gas, goes around, then slips right back into his lane.
"Have you been surfing for a long time?" I ask him.
"Hmm," he says, and then there's silence. Finally, when I've almost forgotten the question, he answers.
"I've been surfing since high school. Then it was just for fun. Didn't really get serious about it till six years ago. I was working at a big ad agency in Tokyo. I couldn't stand it so I quit, moved back here, and started surfing. I took out a loan, borrowed some money from my folks, and opened a surf shop. I run it alone, so I can pretty much do whatever I want."
"Did you want to come back to Shikoku?"
"That was part of it," he says. "I don't know, I don't feel right unless I've got the sea and mountains nearby. People are mostly a product of where they were born and raised. How you think and feel's always linked to the lay of the land, the temperature. The prevailing winds, even. Where were you born?"
"Tokyo. In Nogata, in Nakano Ward."
"Do you want to go back there?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Why not?"
"There's no reason for me to go back."
"Okay," he says.
"I'm not very connected to the lay of the land, the prevailing winds and all that," I say.
"Yeah?" he says.
We're silent again. Silence doesn't seem to bother him a bit. Or me either. I just sit there, my mind a blank, listening to the music on the radio. He's staring at the road straight ahead. Eventually we exit the highway, turn north, and come into the Takamatsu city limits.
It's a little before one p. m. when we arrive at the Komura Library. Sada drops me off in front but doesn't get out himself. The engine's still on, and he's heading right back to Kochi.
"Thanks," I say.
"Hope we can see each other soon," he says. He sticks his hand out the window, gives a short wave, then peels out on his thick tires. Heading back to catch some big waves, to his own world, his own issues.
I put on my backpack and pass through the gate. I catch a whiff of the freshly mown lawn in the garden. It feels like I've been away for months, but it's only been four days.
Oshima's at the counter, wearing a tie, something I've never seen before. A white button-down shirt, and a mustard-yellow-and-green-striped tie. He's rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and doesn't have a jacket on. In front of him, predictably, there's a coffee cup and two neatly sharpened pencils.
"Hey," he greets me, adding his usual smile.
"Hi," I say back.
"Guess you caught a ride with my brother?"
"That's right."
"Bet he didn't talk much," Oshima says.
"Actually, we did talk a little."
"You're lucky. Depending on who he's with, sometimes he won't say a word."
"Did something happen here?" I ask. "He told me there was something urgent."
Oshima nods. "There are a couple of things you need to know about. First of all, Miss Saeki passed away. She had a heart attack. I found her collapsed facedown on her desk upstairs on Tuesday afternoon. It happened all of a sudden, and it doesn't seem like she suffered."
I set my pack on the floor and sit down in a chair. "Tuesday afternoon?" I ask.
"Today's Friday, right?"
"Yes, that's right. She died after the regular Tuesday tour. I probably should've gotten in touch with you sooner, but I couldn't think straight."
Sunk back in the chair, I find I can't move. The two of us sit there in silence for a long time. I can see the stairs leading to the second floor, the well-polished black banister, the stained glass on the landing. Those stairs always held a special significance for me, because they led to her, to Miss Saeki. But now they're just empty stairs, with no meaning at all. She's no longer there.
"As I mentioned before, I think this was all predestined," Oshima says. "I knew it, and so did she. Though when it actually happens, of course, it's pretty hard to take."
When he pauses, I feel like I should say something, but the words won't come.
"According to her wishes, there won't be a funeral," Oshima continues. "She was quietly cremated. She left a will in a drawer in her desk upstairs. She left her entire estate to the foundation that runs the library. She left me her Mont Blanc pen as a keepsake. And a painting for you. The one of the boy on the shore. You'll take it, won't you?"
I nod.
"It's all wrapped up over there, ready to go."
"Thanks," I say, finally able to speak.
"Tell me something, Kafka Tamura," Oshima says. He picks up a pencil and gives it his usual twirl. "Is it okay if I ask you a question?"
I nod.
"I didn't need to tell you she died, did I? You already knew."
Again I nod. "I think I did."
"I thought so," Oshima says, and draws a deep breath. "Would you like some water or something? To tell you the truth, you look as parched as a desert."
"Thanks, I could use some." I am pretty thirsty, but hadn't realized it until he mentioned it. I down the ice water he brings me in a single gulp, so fast my head starts to ache. I put the empty glass back on the table.
"Care for some more?"
I shake my head.
"What are your plans now?" Oshima asks.
"I'm going to go back to Tokyo," I reply.
"What are you going to do there?"
"Go to the police, first of all, and tell them what I know. If I don't, they'll be after me the rest of my life. And then I'll most likely go back to school. Not that I want to, but I have to at least finish junior high. If I just put up with it for a few months and graduate, then I can do whatever I want."
"Makes sense," Oshima says. He narrows his eyes and looks at me. "That sounds like the best plan."
"More and more I've been thinking that's the way to go."
"You can run but you can't hide?"
"You've grown up."
I shake my head. I can't say a thing.
Oshima lightly taps the eraser end of a pencil against his temple a couple of times.
The phone rings, but he ignores it.
"Every one of us is losing something precious to us," he says after the phone stops ringing. "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads—at least that's where I imagine it—there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library."
I stare at the pencil in his hand. It pains me to look at it, but I have to be the world's toughest fifteen-year-old, at least for a while longer. Or pretend to be. I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with air, and manage to inhale that lump of emotion. "Is it all right if I come back here someday?" I ask.
"Of course," Oshima says, and lays his pencil back on the counter. He links his hands behind his head and looks straight at me. "The word is that I'll be in charge of the library for a while. And I imagine I'll need an assistant. Once you're free of the police, school, what have you—and provided you want to, of course—I'd love to have you back. The town and I aren't going anywhere, not for the time being. People need a place they can belong."
"Thanks," I tell him.
"You're quite welcome," he says.
"Your brother said he'd teach me how to surf."
"That's great. He doesn't take to most people," he says. "He's a bit of a difficult person."
I nod, and smile. They really are quite alike, these two brothers.
"Kafka," Oshima says, looking deep into my eyes. "I could be wrong, but I think that's the first time I've ever seen you smile."
"You could be right," I say. I most definitely am smiling. And blushing.
"When are you going back to Tokyo?"
"Right now, I think."
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