Kafka on the Shore, Page 21

  The tall woman frowns at him severely, her cheekbones jutting forward and her glasses riding up her nose. "We are not investigating airplanes .747s are beside the point."

  "Wouldn't restrooms in both jets and in our library—in principle—give rise to the same sorts of problems?"

  "We are investigating, one by one, public facilities. We're not here to argue over principles."

  Oshima's supple smile never fades during this exchange. "Is that so? I could have sworn that principles were exactly what we were discussing."

  The woman realizes she's blown it. She blushes a bit, though not because of Oshima's sex appeal. She tries a different tack. "At any rate, jumbo jets are irrelevant here. Don't try to confuse the issue."

  "Understood. No more airplanes," Oshima promises. "We'll bring things down to earth."

  The woman glares at him and, after taking a breath, forges on. "One other issue I'd like to raise is how you have authors here separated by sex."

  "Yes, that's right. The person who was in charge before us cataloged these and for whatever reason divided them into male and female. We were thinking of recataloging all of them, but haven't been able to as of yet."

  "We're not criticizing you for this," she says.

  Oshima tilts his head slightly.

  "The problem, though, is that in all categories male authors are listed before female authors," she says. "To our way of thinking this violates the principle of sexual equality and is totally unfair."

  Oshima picks up her business card again, runs his eyes over it, then lays it back down on the counter. "Ms. Soga," he begins, "when they called the role in school your name would have come before Ms. Tanaka, and after Ms. Sekine. Did you file a complaint about that? Did you object, asking them to reverse the order? Does G get angry because it follows F in the alphabet? Does page 68 in a book start a revolution just because it follows 67?"

  "That's not the point," she says angrily. "You're intentionally trying to confuse the issue."

  Hearing this, the shorter woman, who'd been standing in front of a stack taking notes, races over.

  "Intentionally trying to confuse the issue," Oshima repeats, like he's underlining the woman's words.

  "Are you denying it?"

  "That's a red herring," Oshima replies.

  The woman named Soga stands there, mouth slightly ajar, not saying a word.

  "In English there's this expression red herring. Something that's very interesting but leads you astray from the main topic. I'm afraid I haven't looked into why they use that kind of expression, though."

  "Herrings or mackerel or whatever, you're dodging the issue."

  "Actually what I'm doing is shifting the analogy," Oshima says. "One of the most effective methods of argument, according to Aristotle. The citizens of ancient Athens enjoyed using this kind of intellectual trick very much. It's a shame, though, that at the time women weren't included in the definition of 'citizen.'"

  "Are you making fun of us?"

  Oshima shakes his head. "Look, what I'm trying to get across is this: I'm sure there are many more effective ways of making sure that Japanese women's rights are guaranteed than sniffing around a small library in a little town and complaining about the restrooms and the card catalog. We're doing our level best to see that this modest library of ours helps the community. We've assembled an outstanding collection for people who love books. And we do our utmost to put a human face on all our dealings with the public. You might not be aware of it, but this library's collection of poetry-related material from the 1910s to the mid-Showa period is nationally recognized. Of course there are things we could do better, and limits to what we can accomplish. But rest assured we're doing our very best. I think it'd be a whole lot better if you focus on what we do well than what we're unable to do. Isn't that what you call fair?"

  The tall woman looks at the short one, who looks back up at her and opens her mouth for the first time. "You've just been evading the point, mouthing empty arguments that avoid taking responsibility," she says in a really high-pitched voice. "In reality, to use the term for the sake of convenience, what you're doing is an easygoing attempt at self-justification. You are a totally pathetic, historical example of the phallocentric, to put it mildly."

  "A pathetic, historical example," Oshima repeats, obviously impressed. By his tone of voice he seems to like the sound of that phrase.

  "In other words you're a typical sexist, patriarchic male," the tall one pipes in, unable to conceal her irritation.

  "A patriarchic male," Oshima again repeats.

  The short one ignores this and goes on. "You're employing the status quo and the cheap phallocentric logic that supports it to reduce the entire female gender to second-class citizens, to limit and deprive women of the rights they're due. You're doing this unconsciously rather than deliberately, but that makes you even guiltier. You protect vested male interests and become inured to the pain of others, and don't even try to see what evil your blindness causes women and society. I realize that problems with restrooms and card catalogs are mere details, but if we don't begin with the small things we'll never be able to throw off the cloak of blindness that covers our society. Those are the principles by which we act."

  "That's the way every sensible woman feels," the tall one adds, her face expressionless.

  "How could any woman of generous spirit behave otherwise, given the torments that I face," Oshima says.

  The two women stand there as silent as icebergs.

  "Electra, by Sophocles. A wonderful play. And by the way, the term gender was originally used to indicate grammatical gender. My feeling is the word 'sex' is more accurate in terms of indicating physical sexual difference. Using 'gender' here is incorrect. To put a linguistic fine point on it."

  A frozen silence follows.

  "At any rate, what you've been saying is fundamentally wrong," Oshima says, calmly yet emphatically. "I am most definitely not a pathetic, historical example of a patriarchic male."

  "Then explain, simply, what's wrong with what we've said," the shorter woman says defiantly.

  "Without sidestepping the issue or trying to show off how erudite you are," the tall one adds.

  "All right. I'll do just that—explain it simply and honestly, minus any sidestepping or displays of brilliance," Oshima says.

  "We're waiting," the tall one says, and the short one gives a compact nod to show she agrees.

  "First of all, I'm not a male," Oshima announces.

  A dumbfounded silence follows on the part of everybody. I gulp and shoot Oshima a glance.

  "I'm a woman," he says.

  "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't joke around," the short woman says, after a pause for breath. Not much confidence, though. It's more like she felt somebody had to say something.

  Oshima pulls his wallet out of his chinos, takes out the driver's license, and passes it to the woman. She reads what's written there, frowns, and hands it to her tall companion, who reads it and, after a moment's hesitation, gives it back to Oshima, a sour look on her face.

  "Did you want to see it too?" Oshima asks me. When I shake my head, he slips the license back in his wallet and puts the wallet in his pants pocket. He then places both hands on the counter and says, "As you can see, biologically and legally I am undeniably female. Which is why what you've been saying about me is fundamentally wrong. It's simply impossible for me to be, as you put it, a typical sexist, patriarchic male."

  "Yes, but—" the tall woman says but then stops. The short one, lips tight, is playing with her collar.

  "My body is physically female, but my mind's completely male," Oshima goes on.

  "Emotionally I live as a man. So I suppose your notion of being a historical example may be correct. And maybe I am sexist—who knows. But I'm not a lesbian, even though I dress this way. My sexual preference is for men. In other words, I'm a female but I'm gay. I do anal sex, and have never used my vagina for sex. My clitoris is sensitive but my breasts aren't. I don
't have a period. So, what am I discriminating against? Could somebody tell me?"

  The three of us listening are flabbergasted and don't say a word. One of the women clears her throat, and the jarring sound reverberates through the room. The clock on the wall loudly ticks away the seconds.

  "I'm very sorry," Oshima says, "but I'm in the middle of lunch. I'm having a tuna-spinach wrap and had eaten half of it when you asked me over. If I leave it much longer the neighborhood cats will make a grab for it. People throw away kittens they don't want in the woods near the sea, so this neighborhood is full of cats. If you don't mind I'd like to get back to my lunch. So excuse me, but please take your time and enjoy the library. Our library is open to everyone. As long as you follow the rules and don't bother the other patrons, feel free to do whatever you'd like. You can look at whatever you want. Go ahead and write whatever you like in your report. We won't mind. We don't receive any funding from anywhere and pretty much do things our own way. And that's the way we like it."

  After Oshima leaves the two women share a look, then they both stare at me.

  Maybe they figure me for Oshima's lover or something. I don't say a word and start arranging catalog cards. The two of them whisper to each other in the stacks, and before long they gather their belongings and start to pull up stakes. Frozen looks on their faces, they don't say a word of thanks when I hand back their daypacks.

  After a while Oshima finishes his lunch and comes back inside. He hands me two spinach wraps made of tuna and vegetables wrapped in a kind of green tortilla with a white cream sauce on top. I have these for lunch. I boil up some water and have a cup of Earl Grey to wash it down.

  "Everything I said a while ago is true," Oshima tells me when I come back from lunch.

  "So that's what you meant when you told me you were a special person?"

  "I wasn't trying to brag or anything," he says, "but you understand that I wasn't exaggerating, right?"

  I nod silently.

  Oshima smiles. "In terms of sex I'm most definitely female, though my breasts haven't developed much and I've never had a period. But I don't have a penis or testicles or facial hair. In short, I have nothing. A nice no-extra-baggage kind of feeling, if you want to put a positive spin on it. Though I doubt you can understand how that feels."

  "I guess not," I say.

  "Sometimes I don't understand it myself. Like, what the heck am I, anyway?

  Really, what am I?"

  I shake my head. "Well, I don't know what I am, either."

  "A classic identity crisis."

  I nod.

  "But at least you know where to begin. Unlike me."

  "I don't care what you are. Whatever you are, I like you," I tell him. I've never said this to anybody in my whole life, and the words make me blush.

  "I appreciate it," Oshima says, and lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I know I'm a little different from everyone else, but I'm still a human being. That's what I'd like you to realize. I'm just a regular person, not some monster. I feel the same things everyone else does, act the same way. Sometimes, though, that small difference feels like an abyss. But I guess there's not much I can do about it." He picks up a long, sharpened pencil from the counter and gazes at it like it's an extension of himself. "I wanted to tell you all this as soon as I could, directly, rather than have you hear it from someone else. So I guess today was a good opportunity. It wasn't such a pleasant experience, though, was it?"

  I nod.

  "I've experienced all kinds of discrimination," Oshima says. "Only people who've been discriminated against can really know how much it hurts. Each person feels the pain in his own way, each has his own scars. So I think I'm as concerned about fairness and justice as anybody. But what disgusts me even more are people who have no imagination. The kind T. S. Eliot calls hollow men. People who fill up that lack of imagination with heartless bits of straw, not even aware of what they're doing. Callous people who throw a lot of empty words at you, trying to force you to do what you don't want to. Like that lovely pair we just met." He sighs and twirls the long slender pencil in his hand. "Gays, lesbians, straights, feminists, fascist pigs, communists, Hare Krishnas—none of them bother me. I don't care what banner they raise. But what I can't stand are hollow people. When I'm with them I just can't bear it, and wind up saying things I shouldn't. With those women—I should've just let it slide, or else called Miss Saeki and let her handle it. She would have given them a smile and smoothed things over. But I just can't do that. I say things I shouldn't, do things I shouldn't do. I can't control myself. That's one of my weak points. Do you know why that's a weak point of mine?"

  "'Cause if you take every single person who lacks much imagination seriously, there's no end to it," I say.

  "That's it," Oshima says. He taps his temple lightly with the eraser end of the pencil. "But there's one thing I want you to remember, Kafka. Those are exactly the kind of people who murdered Miss Saeki's childhood sweetheart. Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe. Of course it's important to know what's right and what's wrong. Individual errors in judgment can usually be corrected. As long as you have the courage to admit mistakes, things can be turned around. But intolerant, narrow minds with no imagination are like parasites that transform the host, change form, and continue to thrive. They're a lost cause, and I don't want anyone like that coming in here."

  Oshima points at the stacks with the tip of his pencil. What he means, of course, is the entire library.

  "I wish I could just laugh off people like that, but I can't."

  Chapter 20

  It was already past eight p. m. when the eighteen-wheeler refrigerated truck pulled off the Tomei Highway and let Nakata out in the parking lot of the Fujigawa rest area.

  Canvas bag and umbrella in hand, he clambered down from the passenger seat to the asphalt.

  "Good luck in finding another ride," the driver said, his head sticking out the window. "If you ask around, I'm sure you'll find something."

  "Much obliged. Nakata appreciates all your help."

  "Take it easy," the driver said, then waved and pulled back onto the highway.

  Fu-ji-ga-wa, the driver had said. Nakata had no idea where Fu-ji-ga-wa was, though he did understand he'd left Tokyo and was heading west. No need for a compass or a map to tell him that, he knew it instinctively. Now if only a truck going west would give him a ride.

  Nakata was hungry and decided to have a bowl of ramen in the rest area restaurant. The rice balls and chocolate in his bag he wanted to save for an emergency.

  Not being able to read, it took him a while to figure out how to purchase a meal. Before going into the dining hall you had to buy meal tickets from a vending machine, but he had to have somebody help him read the buttons. "My eyes are bad, so I can't see too well," he told a middle-aged woman, and she inserted the money for him, pushed the right button, and handed him his change. Experience had taught him it was better not to let on that he didn't know how to read. Because when he did, people stared at him like he was some kind of monster.

  After his meal, Nakata, umbrella in hand, bag slung over his shoulder, made the rounds of the trucks in the parking lot, asking for a ride. I'm heading west, he explained, and I wonder if you'd be kind enough to give me a ride? But the drivers all took one look at him and shook their heads. An elderly hitchhiker was pretty unusual, and they were naturally wary of anything out of the ordinary. Our company doesn't allow us to pick up hitchhikers, they all said. Sorry.

  It had taken a long time to make it from Nakano Ward to the entrance to the Tomei Highway. He'd never been out of Nakano before, and had no idea where the highway was. He had a special pass for the city bus line he could use, but he'd never ridden by himself on the subway or train, where you needed to buy a ticket.

  It was just before ten a. m. when he packed a change of
clothes, a toilet kit, and some snacks in his bag, carefully put the cash he'd hidden under the tatami in a money belt for safekeeping, and then, the large umbrella in hand, left his apartment. When he asked the city bus driver how he could get to the highway, the man laughed.

  "This bus only goes to Shinjuku Station. City buses don't go on the highway.

  You'll have to take a highway bus."

  "Where can I get a highway bus that goes on the To-mei Highway?"

  "Tokyo Station," the driver replied. "Take this bus to Shinjuku Station, then take a train to Tokyo Station, where you can buy a reserved-seat ticket. The buses there will take you to the Tomei Highway."

  Nakata wasn't at all sure what he meant, but went ahead and took the bus as far as Shinjuku. But when he got there he was overwhelmed. The massive station was jammed with people, and he had trouble moving through the crowds. There were so many train lines, too, that he couldn't figure out which one went to Tokyo Station. Since he couldn't read the signs, he asked a few passersby, but their explanations were too fast, too complicated, and full of place-names he didn't recognize. I might as well be talking to Kawamura, Nakata thought to himself. There was always a police box to ask directions at, but he was afraid they'd mistake him for a senile old person and take him into custody, something he'd experienced once before. As he wandered around near the station the exhaust and noise got to him and he started to feel sick. Avoiding the crowded sidewalks, he found a small park set between two high-rise buildings and sat down on a bench.

  Nakata was at a complete loss. He sat there, muttering occasionally, rubbing the top of his close-cropped head. There wasn't a cat to be seen in the park. There were plenty of crows, though, squawking down and rummaging through the trash baskets.

  Nakata looked up at the sky a few times, and from the sun's position could guess the approximate time. Because of all the exhaust, perhaps, the sky was covered in a strange color.

  At noon, office workers from the nearby buildings flooded out to eat lunch in the park. Nakata ate the bean-jam buns he'd brought with him, washing them down with hot tea from his thermos. Two young women sat down together on the bench besides his, and he decided to talk to them. How can I get to the To-mei Highway? he asked. They told him the same thing the city bus driver had said. Take the Chuo Line to Tokyo Station, then a Tomei Highway bus.