Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami Page A

the machine."
    "That makes sense," Oshima says and lays a hand on my shoulder, the gesture natural, and friendly. "I imagine Franz Kafka would agree with you."
    He takes the cordless phone and disappears back into the building. I stay on the veranda for a while, finishing my lunch, drinking my mineral water, watching the birds in the garden. For all I know they're the same birds from yesterday. The sky's covered with clouds, not a speck of blue in sight.
    Oshima most likely found my explanation of the Kafka story convincing. To some extent at least. But what I really wanted to say didn't get across. I wasn't just giving some general theory of Kafka's fiction, I was talking about something very real.
    Kafka's complex, mysterious execution device wasn't some metaphor or allegory—it's actually here, all around me. But I don't think anybody would get that. Not Oshima. Not anybody.
    I go back to the reading room, where I sink down in the sofa and into the world of The Arabian Nights. Slowly, like a movie fadeout, the real world evaporates. I'm alone, inside the world of the story. My favorite feeling in the world.
    When at five I'm about to leave Oshima's still behind the counter, reading the same book, his shirt still without a single wrinkle. Like always, a couple strands of hair have fallen across his face. The hands of the electric clock on the wall behind him soundlessly tick forward. Everything around him is silent and clean. I doubt the guy ever sweats or hiccups. He looks up and hands me my backpack. He frowns a bit, like it's too heavy for him. "Do you take the train here from town?"
    I nod.
    "If you're going to come every day, you should have this." He hands me a sheet of paper, the train schedule, it turns out, between Takamatsu Station and the station where I get off for the library. "They usually run on time."
    "Thanks," I say, slipping the sheet in my backpack.
    "Kafka—I don't have any idea where you came from, or what your plans are, but you can't stay in a hotel forever, right?" he says, choosing his words carefully. With the fingers of his left hand he checks the tips of his pencils. Not that it's necessary, since they're all as sharp as can be.
    I don't say anything.
    "I'm not trying to butt in, believe me. I just thought I might as well ask. A boy your age in a place you've never been before—I can't imagine it's easy going."
    I nod again.

    "Are you headed someplace else after here? Or are you going to be here for a while?"
    "I haven't decided yet, but I think I'll be here for a while. No other place to go," I admit.
    Maybe I should tell Oshima everything. I'm pretty sure he won't put me down, give me a lecture, or try to force some common sense on me. But right now I'm trying to keep my words to a minimum. Plus I'm not exactly used to telling people how I feel.
    "For the time being, then, you think you can manage?" Oshima asks.
    I give a short nod.
    "Good luck, then," he says.
    Except for a few minor details, I spend the next seven days in the same way.
    (Except for Monday, of course, when the library's closed, and I spend the day at a big public library.) The alarm clock gets me up at six-thirty every morning, and I gulp down the hotel's pseudo-breakfast. If the chestnut-haired girl's behind the front desk, I give her a little wave. She always nods and repays me with a smile. I think she likes me, and I kind of like her, too. Could she be my sister? The thought does cross my mind.
    Every morning I do some easy stretching exercises in my room, and when the time rolls around I go to the gym and run through the usual circuit training. Always the same amount of weight, the same number of reps. No more, no less. I take a shower and wash every inch of me. I weigh myself, to make sure my weight's staying steady. Before noon I take the train to the Komura Library. Exchange a few words with Oshima when I give him my backpack, and when I pick it up. Eat lunch out on the veranda. And read.
    When I finish The Arabian