Kafka on the Shore, Page 37

  Hoshino suddenly realized the old man was sound asleep. Eyes shut tight, face pointed toward the ceiling, lips firmly pressed together, Nakata was breathing peacefully.

  The flipped-over stone lay near his pillow.

  Man, I've never seen anyone fall asleep as fast as him, Hoshino thought admiringly.

  With time on his hands, he stretched out and watched some television, but he couldn't stand any of the insipid afternoon programs so he decided to go out. He'd run out of clean underwear and needed to buy some. He detested washing clothes. Better to buy some cheap underpants, he always figured, than bother with washing the old scuzzy ones. He went to the front desk of the inn to pay for the next day and told them his companion was asleep and they weren't to wake him up. "Not that you could if you tried," he added.

  He wandered down the streets, sniffing the post-rain scent in the air, dressed in his usual Dragons cap, green-tinted Ray-Bans, and aloha shirt. He picked up a newspaper at a kiosk at the station and checked how the Dragons were doing—they lost to Hiroshima in an away game—then scanned the movie schedule and decided to see the latest Jackie Chan film. The timing was perfect. He asked directions at the police box and found out it was close by, so he walked. He bought his ticket, went inside, and watched the movie, munching on peanuts.

  When he got out of the movie it was already evening. He wasn't all that hungry, but since he couldn't think of anything else to do he decided to have dinner. He popped into a place nearby and ordered sushi and a beer. He was more tired than he realized, and only finished half the beer.

  That makes sense, though, he thought. Lifting that heavy stone, of course I'm beat.

  I feel like I'm the oldest of the Three Little Pigs. All the mean old wolf's gotta do is huff and puff and I'll be blasted all the way to Okayama.

  He left the sushi bar and happened to run across a pachinko place. Before he knew it, he was down twenty dollars. He figured it just wasn't his day, so he gave up on pachinko and wandered around. He remembered he still hadn't bought any underwear.

  Damn—that was the whole point of going out, he told himself. He went into a discount store in the shopping district and bought underpants, white T-shirts, and socks. Now he could finally toss his dirty underwear. He decided it was about time for a new aloha shirt and scoured a few shops looking for one, only to conclude that the pickings in Takamatsu were pretty slim. Summer and winter alike he always wore aloha shirts, but that didn't mean just any aloha shirt would do.

  He stopped at a nearby bakery and bought some bread, in case Nakata woke up hungry in the middle of the night, as well as a small carton of orange juice. Next he went to a bank and used the ATM to withdraw five hundred dollars. Checking his balance, he found there was still quite a lot left. These past few years had been so busy that he'd hardly had time to spend any money.

  By this time it was completely dark, and he had a sudden yearning for a cup of coffee. He looked around, spotting a sign for a café just off the main drag. It turned out to be the kind of old-fashioned coffee shop you don't find much anymore. He went inside, eased back onto a soft, comfortable chair, and ordered a cup. Chamber music filtered out of the solid, British-made walnut speakers. Hoshino was the only customer.

  He sank back in his chair and, for the first time in quite a while, felt completely at ease.

  Everything in the shop was calming, natural, easy to feel comfortable with. The coffee, served in a fancy cup, was rich and delicious. Hoshino closed his eyes, breathing in quietly, and listened to the intertwining of strings and piano. He'd hardly ever listened to classical music before, but it was soothing and put him in an introspective mood.

  Sunk back in his soft chair, eyes closed, lost in the music, a number of thoughts crossed his mind—mostly having to do with himself. But the more he thought about himself, the less reality his existence seemed to have. He began to feel like some meaningless appendage sitting there.

  I've always been a great fan of the Chunichi Dragons, he thought, but what are the Dragons to me, anyway? Say they beat the Giants—how's that going to make me a better person? How could it? So why the heck have I spent all this time getting worked up like the team was some extension of myself?

  Mr. Nakata said he's empty. Maybe he is, for all I know. But what does that make me? He said an accident when he was little made him that way—empty. But I never had an accident. If Mr. Nakata's empty, that makes me worse than empty! At least he has something about him—whatever it was that made me drop everything and follow him to Shikoku. Don't ask me what that something is, though....

  Hoshino ordered another cup of coffee.

  "You like our coffee, then?" the gray-haired owner came over and asked.

  (Hoshino didn't know this, of course, but the man used to be an official in the Ministry of Education. After retirement, he came back to his hometown of Takamatsu and opened up this coffee shop, where he made fine coffee and played classical music.)

  "It's great. Such a nice aroma."

  "I roast the beans myself. Select each bean individually."

  "No wonder it's so good."

  "The music doesn't bother you?"

  "The music?" Hoshino replied. "No, it's great. I don't mind it at all. Not one bit. Who's playing?"

  "The Rubinstein, Heifetz, and Feuermann trio. The Million-Dollar Trio, they were dubbed. Consummate artists. This is an old 1941 recording, but the brilliance hasn't faded."

  "It really hasn't. Good things never grow old, do they?"

  "Some people prefer a more structured, classic, straightforward version of the Archduke Trio. Like the Oistrach Trio's version."

  "No, I think this one's nice," Hoshino said. "It has a, I don't know, gentle feel to it."

  "Thank you very much," the owner said, thanking him on behalf of the Million-Dollar Trio, and went back behind the counter.

  As Hoshino enjoyed his second cup he went back to his reflections. But I am helping Mr. Nakata out. I read things for him, and I was the one who found the stone, after all. I've hardly ever noticed this before, but it feels kind of nice to be helpful to someone.... I don't regret any of it—skipping out on work, coming over to Shikoku. All those crazy things happening one after another.

  I feel like I'm exactly where I belong. When I'm with Mr. Nakata I can't be bothered with all this Who am I? stuff. Maybe this is going overboard, but I bet Buddha's followers and Jesus' apostles felt the same way. When I'm with the Buddha, I always feel I'm where I belong—something like that. Forget about culture, truth, all that junk. That kind of inspiration's what it's all about.

  When I was little, Grandpa told me stories about Buddha's disciples. One of them was named Myoga. The guy was a complete moron and couldn't memorize even the simplest sutra. The other disciples always teased him. One day the Buddha said to him,

  "Myoga, you're not very bright, so you don't have to learn any sutras. Instead, I'd like you to sit at the entrance and polish everybody's shoes." Myoga was an obedient guy, so he didn't tell his master to go screw himself. So for ten years, twenty years, he diligently polished everybody's shoes. Then one day he achieved enlightenment and became one of the greatest of all the Buddha's followers. That's a story Hoshino always remembered, because he'd thought that had to be the crappiest kind of life, polishing shoes for decades.

  You gotta be kidding, he thought. But when he considered it now, the story started to take on a different undertone. Life's crappy, no matter how you cut it. He just hadn't understood that when he was little.

  These thoughts occupied him till the music, which was helping him meditate, stopped playing.

  "Hey," he called out to the owner. "What was that music called again? I forget."

  "Beethoven's Archduke Trio."

  "March Duke?"

  "Arch. Archduke. Beethoven dedicated it to the Austrian archduke Rudolph. It's not the official name, more like the piece's nickname. Rudolph was the son of Emperor Leopold the Second. He was a very skilled musician, who studied piano and music th
eory with Beethoven starting when he was sixteen. He looked up to Beethoven.

  Archduke Rudolph didn't make a name for himself as either a pianist or a composer, but sort of stood in the shadows lending a helping hand to Beethoven, who didn't know much about getting ahead in the world. If it hadn't been for him, Beethoven would have had a much tougher time."

  "Those kind of people are necessary in life, huh?"

  "Absolutely."

  "The world would be a real mess if everybody was a genius. Somebody's got to keep watch, take care of business."

  "Exactly. A world full of geniuses would have significant problems."

  "I really like that piece."

  "It's beautiful. You never get tired of listening to it. I'd say it's the most refined of all Beethoven's piano trios. He wrote it when he was forty, and never wrote another. He must have decided he'd reached the pinnacle in the genre."

  "I think I know what you mean. Reaching the pinnacle's important in everything,"

  Hoshino said.

  "Please come again."

  "Yeah, I'll do that."

  When he got back to the room Nakata was, as expected, out cold. He'd gone through this before, so this time it didn't strike him as odd. Just let him sleep as much as he wants, he decided. The stone was still there, right next to his pillow, and Hoshino put his sack of bread down beside it. He took a bath and changed into his new underwear, then balled up his old set inside a paper bag and tossed it in the trash. He crawled into his futon and was soon sound asleep.

  He woke up the next morning just before nine. Nakata was still asleep, his breathing quiet and regular.

  Hoshino went to eat breakfast alone, asking the maid not to wake up his companion. "You can just leave the futon like it is," he said.

  "Is he all right, sleeping that long?" the maid asked.

  "Don't worry, he's not about to die on us. He needs to sleep to regain his strength. I know exactly what's best for him."

  He bought a paper at the station and sat on a bench and looked through the movie listings. A theater near the station was having a François Truffaut retrospective. Hoshino had no idea who Truffaut was, or even if it was a man or a woman, but a double feature was a good way of killing time till evening, so he decided to go. The featured films were The 400 Blows and Shoot the Pianist. There were only a handful of customers in the theater. Hoshino wasn't by any means a movie buff. Occasionally he'd go see one, a kung fu or action film. So these early works of Truffaut were over his head in spots, the pace, as you'd expect of older films, a bit sluggish. Still, he enjoyed the unique mood, the overall look of the films, how suggestively the characters' inner worlds were portrayed. At the very least he wasn't bored. I wouldn't mind seeing some more films by that guy, he told himself afterward.

  He exited the theater, walked to the shopping district, and went inside the same coffee shop as the night before. The owner remembered him. Hoshino sat in the same chair and ordered coffee. As before, he was the sole customer. Something with stringed instruments was playing on the stereo.

  "Haydn's first cello concerto. Pierre Fournier's playing the solo," the owner explained as he brought over Hoshino's coffee.

  "It's a real natural sound," Hoshino commented.

  "It is, isn't it?" the owner said. "Pierre Fournier's one of my absolute favorite musicians. Like an elegant wine, his playing has an aroma and substance that warms the blood and gently encourages you. I always refer to him as Maestro Fournier out of respect. I don't know him personally, of course, but I've always felt like he's my mentor."

  Listening to Fournier's flowing, dignified cello, Hoshino was drawn back to his childhood. He used to go to the river every day to catch fish. Nothing to worry about back then, he reminisced. Just live each day as it came. As long as I was alive, I was something. That was just how it was. But somewhere along the line it all changed.

  Living turned me into nothing. Weird... People are born in order to live, right? But the longer I've lived, the more I've lost what's inside me—and ended up empty. And I bet the longer I live, the emptier, the more worthless, I'll become. Something's wrong with this picture. Life isn't supposed to turn out like this! Isn't it possible to shift direction, to change where I'm headed?

  "Excuse me...," Hoshino called out to the owner at the register.

  "Can I help you?"

  "I was wondering, if you had time, could you come over and talk with me? I'd like to know more about this Haydn guy."

  The owner was happy to give a mini lecture on Haydn, the man and his music. He was basically a reserved sort of person, but when it came to classical music he was eloquent. He explained how Haydn became a hired musician, serving different patrons over his long life, composing who knows how many compositions to order. Haydn was practical, affable, humble, and generous, he said, yet also a complex person with a silent darkness all his own inside.

  "Haydn was an enigmatic figure. Nobody really knows the amount of intense pathos he held inside him. In the feudal time he was born in, though, he was compelled to skillfully cloak his ego in submissiveness and display a smart, happy exterior. Otherwise he would have been crushed. A lot of people compare him unfavorably to Bach and Mozart—both his music and the way he lived. Over his long life he was innovative, to be sure, but never exactly on the cutting edge. But if you really pay attention as you listen, you can catch a hidden longing for the modern ego. Like a far-off echo full of contradictions, it's all there in Haydn's music, silently pulsating. Listen to that chord—hear it? It's very quiet—right?—but it has a persistent, inward-moving spirit that's filled with a pliant, youthful sort of curiosity."

  "Like François Truffaut's films."

  "Exactly!" the owner exclaimed happily, patting Hoshino's arm reflexively.

  "You've hit it right on the head. You find the same spirit animating Truffaut. A persistent, inward-moving spirit that's filled with a pliant, youthful sort of curiosity," he repeated.

  When the Haydn concerto was over Hoshino asked him to play the Rubinstein-Heifetz-Feuermann version of the Archduke Trio again. While listening to this, he again was lost in thought. Damn it, I don't care what happens, he finally decided. I'm going to follow Mr. Nakata as long as I live. To hell with the job!

  Chapter 35

  When the phone rings at seven a. m. I'm still sound asleep. In my dream I was deep inside a cave, bent over in the dark, flashlight in hand, searching for something. I hear a voice far away at the cave's entrance calling out a name faintly. I yell out a reply, but whoever it is doesn't seem to hear me. The person calls out my name, over and over.

  Reluctantly I stand up and start heading for the entrance. A little longer and I would've found it, I think. But inside I'm also relieved I didn't find it. That's when I wake up. I look around, collecting the scattered bits of my consciousness. I realize the phone's ringing, the phone at the library's reception desk. Bright sunlight's shining in through the curtains, and Miss Saeki's no longer next to me. I'm alone in bed.

  I get out of bed in my T-shirt and boxers and go out to the phone. It takes me a while to get there but the phone keeps on ringing.

  "Hello?"

  "Were you asleep?" Oshima asks.

  "Yeah."

  "Sorry to get you up so early on a day off, but we've got a problem."

  "A problem?"

  "I'll tell you about it later, but you'd better not hang around there for a while. We're going to head off soon, so get your things together. When I get there, just come out to the parking lot and get right in the car without saying anything. Okay?"

  "Okay," I reply.

  I go back to my room and pack up. There's no need to rush since it only takes five minutes to get ready. I take down the laundry I had hanging in the bathroom, stuff my toilet kit, books, and diary in my backpack, then get dressed and straighten up the bed.

  Pull the sheets tight, plump up the pillows, straighten out the covers. Covering up all traces of what went on here. I sit down in the chair and think about Miss
Saeki, who'd been with me until a few hours before.

  I have time for a quick bowl of cornflakes. Wash up the bowl and spoon and put them away. Brush my teeth, wash my face. I'm checking out my face in the mirror when I hear the Miata pull into the parking lot.

  Even though the weather's perfect, Oshima has the tan top up. I shoulder my pack, walk over to the car, and climb into the passenger seat. As before, Oshima does a good job of tying my pack down on top of the trunk. He's wearing a pair of Armani-type sunglasses, and a striped linen shirt over a white V-neck T-shirt, white jeans, and navy blue, low-cut Converse All-Stars. Casual day-off clothes.

  He hands me a navy blue cap with a North Face logo on it. "Didn't you say you lost your hat somewhere? Use this one. It'll help hide your face a little."

  "Thanks," I say, and tug on the cap.

  Oshima checks me out in the cap and nods his approval. "You have sunglasses, right?"

  I nod, take my sky blue Revos from my pocket, and put them on.

  "Very cool," he says. "Try putting the cap on backward."

  I do as he says, turning the cap around.

  Oshima nods again. "Great. You look like a rap singer from a nice family." He shifts to first, slowly steps on the gas, and lets out the clutch.

  "Where are we going?" I ask.

  "The same place as before."

  "The mountains in Kochi?"

  Oshima nods. "Right. Another long drive." He flips on the stereo. It's a cheerful Mozart orchestral piece I've heard before. The "Posthorn Serenade," maybe?