Kafka on the Shore (16 page)

"I'm trying to make my stomach shrink," I explain.

"On purpose?" he asks.

I nod.

"You're doing that to save money?"

Again I nod.

"I can understand that, but at your age you need to eat, and fill up whenever you get the chance. You need your nutrition."

The sandwich he's offering me looks delicious. I thank him and start eating.

Smoked salmon, watercress, and lettuce on soft white bread. The crust is nicely crunchy, and horseradish and butter complete the sandwich.

"Did you make this yourself?" I ask.

"No one's about to make it for me," he says.

He pours black coffee from his thermos into a mug, while I drink milk from a little carton.

"What are you reading these days?"

"Natsume Soseki's complete works," I say. "I still haven't read some of his novels, so this is a great chance to read them all."

"You like him enough to want to read everything he wrote?" Oshima asks.

I nod.

Steam's rising from the cup in his hand. It's dark and cloudy outside, but at least the rain's stopped.

"Which of his novels have you read since you came here?"

"I finished The Miner, and now I'm on Poppies."

"The Miner, huh?" Oshima says, apparently searching out a vague memory of the book. "That's the story of a college student from Tokyo who winds up working in a mine, right? And he goes through all these tough times with the other miners and finally returns to the world outside? A sort of medium-length novel, as I recall. I read it a long time ago. The plot isn't what you normally expect from Soseki, and the style's kind of unpolished, too. Not one of his best. What do you like about it?"

I try putting into words my impressions of the novel, but I need Crow's help—need him to show up from wherever he is, spread his wings wide, and search out the right words for me.

"The main character's from a rich family," I say, "but he has an affair that goes sour and he gets depressed and runs away from home. While he's sort of wandering around, this shady character comes up to him and asks him to work in a mine, and he just tags along after him and finds himself working in the Ashio Mine. He's way down underground, going through all kinds of experiences he never could have imagined. This innocent rich boy finds himself crawling around in the dregs of society."

I sip my milk and try to piece together the rest of what I want to say. It takes a while before Crow comes back, but Oshima waits patiently.

"Those are life-and-death-type experiences he goes through in the mines.

Eventually he gets out and goes back to his old life. But nothing in the novel shows he learned anything from these experiences, that his life changed, that he thought deeply now about the meaning of life or started questioning society or anything. You don't get any sense, either, that he's matured. You have a strange feeling after you finish the book.

It's like you wonder what Soseki was trying to say. It's like not really knowing what he's getting at is the part that stays with you. I can't explain it very well."

"So The Miner's structured very differently from, say, Soseki's Sanshiro, your typical modern bildungsroman?"

I nod. "I don't know about that, but you might be right. Sanshiro grows up in the story. Runs into obstacles, ponders things, overcomes difficulties, right? But the hero of The Miner's different. All he does is watch things happen and accept it all. I mean, occasionally he gives his own opinions, but nothing very deep. Instead, he just broods over his love affair. He comes out of the mine about the same as when he went in. He has no sense that it was something he decided to do himself, or that he had a choice.

He's like totally passive. But I think in real life people are like that. It's not so easy to make choices on your own."

"Do you see yourself as sort of like the hero of The Miner?"

I shake my head. "No, I never thought of it that way."

"But people need to cling to something," Oshima says. "They have to. You're doing the same, even though you don't realize it. It's like Goethe said: Everything's a metaphor."

I mull this over for a while.

Oshima takes a sip of coffee. "At any rate, that's an interesting take on The Miner.

Especially since you're both runaways. Makes me want to read it again."

I finish the sandwich, crush the now empty milk carton, and toss it in the waste can. "Oshima," I say, deciding to come right out with it, "I'm sort of in a fix and you're the only one I can ask for advice."

He opens both hands wide with a go-right-ahead gesture.

"It's a long story, but I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I've got a sleeping bag, so I don't need a futon or bed or anything. Just a roof over my head. Do you know of any place around here like that?"

"I'm guessing that you're not thinking of a hotel or inn?"

I shook my head. "Money's a factor. But I'm also hoping not to be too conspicuous."

"To the juvenile section of the police, I bet."

"Yeah."

Oshima thinks it over for a time and says, "Well, you could stay here."

"In the library?"

"Sure. It has a roof, and a vacant room, too, that nobody uses at night."

"But do you think it's all right?"

"Of course we'll have to make some arrangements first. But it is possible. Or not impossible, I should say. I'm sure I can manage it."

"How so?"

"You like to read good books, to figure things out on your own. You look like you're in good shape physically, and you're an independent kind of guy. You like to lead a well-regulated life and have a lot of willpower. I mean, even the willpower to make your stomach smaller, right? I'll talk with Miss Saeki about you becoming my assistant and staying in the empty room here at the library."

"You want me to be your assistant?"

"You won't have to do much," Oshima says. "Basically help me open and close the place. We hire professionals to do the heavy cleaning or to input things on the computer. Apart from this, there's not a whole lot to do. You can just read whatever you like. Sound good?"

"Yeah, of course it does...." I'm not sure what to say. "But I don't think Miss Saeki's going to go for it. I'm only fifteen, and a runaway she doesn't know anything about."

"But Miss Saeki's... how should I put it?" Oshima begins, then uncharacteristically comes to a halt, searching for the right word. "A little different."

"Different?"

"She has a different take on things than other people."

I nod. A different take on things? What does that mean? "You mean she's an unusual person?"

Oshima shakes his head. "No, I wouldn't say that. If you're talking about unusual, that would be me. She just isn't bound by conventional ways of doing things."

I'm still trying to figure out the difference between different and unusual, but decide to hold off on any more questions. For the time being.

After a pause Oshima says, "Staying here tonight, though, is a problem. So I'll take you someplace else, where you can stay for a couple of days till we get things settled. You don't mind, do you? It's a little far away."

"No problem," I tell him.

"The library closes at five," Oshima says, "and I have to straighten things up, so we'll leave around five-thirty. I'll drive you there in my car. Nobody's staying there now.

And not to worry—the place has a roof."

"I appreciate it."

"You can thank me after we get there. It might not be what you're imagining."

I go back to the reading room and pick up where I left off in Poppies. I'm not a fast reader. I like to linger over each sentence, enjoying the style. If I don't enjoy the writing, I stop. Just before five I finish the novel, put it back on the shelf, then sit back down on the sofa, close my eyes, and think about what happened last night. About Sakura. About her room. What she did to me. All the twists and turns as events take their course.

At five-thirty I'm standing outside the library waiting for Oshima. He leads me to the parking lot out around back and we get into his green sports car. A Mazda Miata with the top down. My backpack's too big for the little trunk, so we tie it down tight on the rear rack.

"It's a long drive, so we'll stop along the way for dinner," Oshima says. He turns the ignition key and starts up the engine.

"Where are we headed?"

"Kochi," he replies. "Ever been there?"

I shake my head. "How far is it?"

"It'll take us about two and a half hours to get where we're going. Toward the south, over the mountains."

"You don't mind going so far?"

"It's okay. It's a straight shot, and it's still light out. And I've got a full tank."

We drive through the twilit city streets, then get on the highway heading west.

Oshima changes lanes smoothly, slipping in between other cars, effortlessly shifting gears. Each time the hum of the engine changes slightly. When he shifts gears and floors it, the little car's soon zipping along at over ninety.

"The car's specially tuned, so it's got a lot of pickup. This isn't your ordinary Miata. Do you know much about cars?"

I shake my head. Cars are definitely not my specialty. "Do you enjoy driving?" I ask.

"The doctor made me give up any risky sports. So instead I drive. Compensation."

"Is something wrong with you?"

"The medical name's kind of long, but it's a type of hemophilia," Oshima says casually. "Do you know what that is?"

"I think so," I say. I learned about it in biology class. "Once you start bleeding you can't stop. It's genetic, where the blood doesn't coagulate."

"That's right. There're all kinds of hemophilia, and the type I have is pretty rare. It's not such a bad type of the disease, but I have to be careful not to get injured. Once I start bleeding I have to go to the hospital. Besides, these days there're problems with the blood supply in hospitals. Dying a slow death from AIDS isn't an option for me. So I've made some connections in town to supply me with safe blood, just in case. Because of my disease I don't go on trips. Except for regular checkups at the university hospital in Hiroshima, I hardly ever leave town. It's not so bad, though—I never did like traveling or sports all that much anyway. I can't use a kitchen knife, so doing any real cooking's out, which is kind of a shame."

"Driving's a risky enough sport," I tell him.

"It's a different kind of risk. Whenever I drive I try to go as fast as I can. If I'm in an accident driving fast I won't just wind up getting a cut finger. If you lose a lot of blood, there's no difference between a hemophiliac and anybody else. It evens things out, since your chances of survival are the same. You don't have to worry about things like blood coagulation or anything, and can die without any regrets."

"I see."

"Don't worry," Oshima laughs. "I'm not going have an accident. I'm a careful driver and don't push it. I keep my car in top condition, too. Besides, when I die I want to die quietly, all by myself."

"Taking someone else with you, then, isn't an option either."

"You got it."

We pull into a rest stop restaurant for dinner. I have chicken and a salad, he orders the seafood curry and a salad. Just something to fill our stomachs, is the best you could say about it. Oshima pays the bill, and we climb into the car again. It's already gotten dark. He steps on the accelerator and the tachometer shoots way up.

"Do you mind if I put on some music?" Oshima asks.

"Of course not," I reply.

He pushes the CD's play button and some classical piano music starts. I listen for a while, figuring out the music. I know it's not Beethoven, and not Schumann. Probably somebody who came in between.

"Schubert?" I ask.

"Good guess," he replies. His hands at ten-and-two on the steering wheel, he glances over at me. "Do you like Schubert?"

"Not particularly," I tell him.

"When I drive I like to listen to Schubert's piano sonatas with the volume turned up. Do you know why?"

"I have no idea."

"Because playing Schubert's piano sonatas well is one of the hardest things in the world. Especially this, the Sonata in D Major. It's a tough piece to master. Some pianists can play one or maybe two of the movements perfectly, but if you listen to all four movements as a unified whole, no one has ever nailed it. A lot of famous pianists have tried to rise to the challenge, but it's like there's always something missing. There's never one where you can say, Yes! He's got it! Do you know why?"

"No," I reply.

"Because the sonata itself is imperfect. Robert Schumann understood Schubert's sonatas well, and he labeled this one 'Heavenly Tedious.'"

"If the composition's imperfect, why would so many pianists try to master it?"

"Good question," Oshima says, and pauses as music fills in the silence. "I have no great explanation for it, but one thing I can say. Works that have a certain imperfection to them have an appeal for that very reason—or at least they appeal to certain types of people. Just like you're attracted to Soseki's The Miner. There's something in it that draws you in, more than more fully realized novels like Kokoro or Sanshiro. You discover something about that work that tugs at your heart—or maybe we should say the work discovers you. Schubert's Sonata in D Major is sort of the same thing."

"To get back to the question," I say, "why do you listen to Schubert's sonatas? Especially when you're driving?"

"If you play Schubert's sonatas, especially this one straight through, it's not art. Like Schumann pointed out, it's too long and too pastoral, and technically too simplistic. Play it through the way it is and it's flat and tasteless, some dusty antique. Which is why every pianist who attempts it adds something of his own, something extra. Like this—hear how he articulates it there? Adding rubato. Adjusting the pace, modulation, whatever. Otherwise they can't hold it all together. They have to be careful, though, or else all those extra devices destroy the dignity of the piece. Then it's not Schubert's music anymore. Every single pianist who's played this sonata struggles with the same paradox."