Kafka on the Shore (47 page)

"Wait a sec. You're not going to pull one of those thirty-six-hour marathons, are you?"

"I don't know. I don't decide how long I'm going to sleep and then stick to that."

"Well, I guess that makes sense," Hoshino admitted. "Nobody does that. Okay—just sleep as long as you like. It's been a rough day. All that thunder, plus talking with the stone, right? And that entrance thing opening up. Not something you see every day, that's for sure. You had to use your head a lot, so you must be tired. Don't worry about anything, just relax and catch some shut-eye. Let old Hoshino handle the rest."

"Much obliged. I'm always putting you out, aren't I? Nakata can never thank you enough for all you've done. If you hadn't been with me, I wouldn't have known what to do. And you have your own important work to do."

"Yeah, I guess so," Hoshino said in a gloomy voice. So many things had happened, he'd completely forgotten about his job. "Now that you mention it, I really should be getting back to work soon. The boss's blowing a gasket as we speak, I'll bet. I phoned him and said I had to take a few days off to take care of something, but haven't checked in since. Once I get back he'll really let me have it."

He lit up a fresh Marlboro, leisurely exhaling the smoke. He stared at a crow perched on top of a telephone pole and made silly faces at it. "But who cares? He can say what he likes—blow steam out of his ears for all I care. Look, I've been pulling more than my weight for years, working my tail off. Hey, Hoshino, we're shorthanded, so how 'bout making a night run to Hiroshima? Okay, boss, I'm on it.... Always did what they told me to do, never a complaint. Thanks to which my back got shot to hell. If you didn't fix it for me things would've gone from bad to worse. I'm only in my mid-twenties, so why should I ruin my health over some crummy job, right? What's wrong with a few days off now and then? But you know, Mr. Nakata, I—"

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 theory 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?