I think I do, I said. Then I glanced at the phone in the living room. It sat on the table, cloaked in silence. It looked like a deep-sea creature pretending to be an inanimate object, crouching there in wait for its prey.
Someday, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, I'll tell you all about him. When I feel like it. But not now. I just don't feel like it now.
She looked at her watch. Gotta get home. Thanks for the beer.
I saw her out to the garden wall. A nearly full moon was pouring its grainy light down to the earth. The sight of the full moon reminded me that Kumiko's period was approaching. But that would probably have nothing to do with me anymore. The thought sent a sharp pain through my chest. The intensity of it caught me off guard: it resembled sorrow.
With her hand on the wall, May Kasahara looked at me. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, you do love Kumiko, don't you?
I think I do.
Even though she might have gone off with a lover? If she said she wanted to come back to you, would you take her back?
I released a sigh. That's a tough question, I said. Id have to think about it once it really happened.
Sorry for sticking my nose in, said May Kasahara, with a little click of the tongue. But don't get mad. I'm just trying to learn. I want to know what it means for a wife to run away. There're all kinds of things I don't know.
I'm not mad, I said. Then I looked up at the full moon again.
All right, then, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. You take care of yourself. I hope your wife comes back and everything works out. Moving with incredible lightness, May Kasahara swung herself over the wall and disappeared into the summer night.
With May Kasahara gone, I was alone again. I sat on the veranda, thinking about the questions she had raised. If Kumiko had gone off somewhere with a lover, could I take her back again? I didn't know the answer. I really didn't know. There were all kinds of things that I didn't know.
Suddenly the phone rang. My hand shot out in a conditioned reflex and picked up the receiver.
The voice at the other end belonged to a woman. This is Malta Kano, she said. Please forgive me for calling you so often, Mr. Okada, but I was wondering if you might happen to have any plans for tomorrow.
I had no plans, I said. Plans were simply something I did not have.
In that case, I wonder if it might be possible for me to see you after noon.
Does this have something to do with Kumiko?
I do believe that it does, said Malta Kano, choosing her words carefully. Noboru Wataya will also be joining us, most likely.
I almost dropped the receiver when I heard this. You mean the three of us will be getting together to talk?
Yes, I believe that is the case, said Malta Kano. The present situation makes this necessary. I am sorry, but I cannot go into any further detail on the telephone.
I see. All right, then, I said.
Shall we meet at one o'clock? In the same place we met before: the tearoom of the Shinagawa Pacific Hotel.
One o'clock in the tearoom of the Shinagawa Pacific Hotel, I said, and hung up.
May Kasahara called at ten o'clock. She had nothing in particular to say; she just wanted to talk to somebody. We chatted about harmless topics for a while. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, she said in the end. Have you had any good news since I was there? No good news, I said. Nothing.
3 Noboru Wataya Speaks
The Story of the Monkeys of the Shitty Island
I arrived at the tearoom ten minutes early, but Noboru Wataya and Malta Kano had already found a table and were waiting for me. The lunchtime crowd was thick, but I spotted Malta Kano immediately. Not too many people wore red vinyl hats on sunny summer afternoons. It must have been the same hat she had on the day I met her, unless she owned a collection of vinyl hats, all the same style and color. She dressed with the same tasteful simplicity as before: a short-sleeved linen jacket over a collarless cotton top. Both pieces were perfectly white and perfectly free of wrinkles. No accessories, no makeup. Only the red vinyl hat clashed with the rest of the outfit, both in ambience and in material. As if she had been waiting for my arrival to do so, she removed the hat when I took my seat, placing it on the table. Beside the hat lay a small yellow leather handbag. She had ordered some sort of tonic water but had not touched it, as before. The liquid seemed vaguely uncomfortable in its tall glass, as if it had nothing better to do than produce its little bubbles.
Noboru Wataya was wearing green sunglasses. As soon as I sat down, he removed them and stared at the lenses for a while, then he put them back on. He wore what looked like a brand-new white polo shirt under a navy cotton sports coat. There was a glass of iced tea on the table in front of him, but he had apparently not touched his drink yet, either.
I ordered coffee and took a sip of ice water.
No one said anything. Noboru Wataya appeared not to have even noticed that I had arrived. In order to make sure that I had not suddenly turned transparent, I put a hand on the table and watched it as I turned it over and back a few times. Eventually, the waiter came, set a cup in front of me, and filled it with coffee. After he left, Malta Kano made little throat- clearing sounds as if testing a microphone, but still she said nothing.
The first to speak was Noboru Wataya. I have very little time to spare, so lets make this as simple and straightforward as possible. He seemed to be talking to the stainless-steel sugar bowl in the middle of the table, but of course he was speaking to me. The sugar bowl was just a convenient midpoint between us, toward which he could direct his speech.
Make what as simple and straightforward as possible? I asked straightforwardly.
At last Noboru Wataya took off his sunglasses, folded them, placed them on the table, and looked directly at me. More than three years had gone by since I had last met and spoken to the man, but I felt no sense of the intervening time- thanks, I assumed, to having had his face thrust in front of me so often by the media. Certain kinds of information are like smoke: they work their way into peoples eyes and minds whether sought out or not, and with no regard to personal preference.
Forced now to see the man in person, I couldn't help but notice how much the three years had changed the impression his face made. That almost stagnant, muddy look of his had been pushed into the background, to be covered over by something slick and artificial. Noboru Wataya had managed to find for himself a new, more sophisticated mask-a very well-made mask, to be sure: perhaps even a new skin. Whatever it was, mask or skin, I had to admit-yes, even I had to admit-that it had a certain kind of attractive power. And then it hit me: looking at this face was like looking at a television image. He talked the way people on television talked, and he moved the way people on television moved. There was always a layer of glass between us. I was on this side, and he was on that side.
As I am sure you must realize, we are here today to talk about Kumiko, said Noboru Wataya. About Kumiko and you. About your future. What you and she are going to do.
Going to do? I said, lifting my coffee cup and taking a sip. Can you be a little more concrete?
Noboru Wataya looked at me with strangely expressionless eyes. A little more concrete? Kumiko has taken a lover. Shes left you. Surely you are not suggesting that anyone involved in the present situation wants it to continue indefinitely. That would not be good for anyone.
Taken a lover? I asked.