Chapter 5

I'm asleep when our bus drives across the huge new bridge over the Inland Sea.

I'd seen the bridge only on maps and had been looking forward to seeing it for

real. Somebody gently taps me on the shoulder and I wake up.

"Hey, we're here," the girl says.

I stretch, rub my eyes with the back of my hand, and look out the window. Sure

enough, the bus is just pulling into what looks like the square in front of a

station. Fresh morning sunlight lights up the scene. Almost blinding, but gentle

somehow, the light is different from what I was used to in Tokyo. I glance at my

watch .6:32.

"Gosh, what a long trip," she says tiredly. "I thought my lower back was going to

give out. And my neck's killing me. You aren't going to catch me on an all-night

bus again. I'm taking the plane from now on, even if it's more expensive.

Turbulence, hijackings—I don't care. Give me a plane any day."

I lower her suitcase and my backpack from the overhead rack. "What's your

name?" I ask.

"My name?"

"Yeah."

"Sakura," she says. "What about you?"

"Kafka Tamura," I reply.

"Kafka Tamura," she muses. "Weird name. Easy to remember, though."

I nod. Becoming a different person might be hard, but taking on a different name

is a cinch.

She gets off the bus, sets her suitcase on the ground, and plunks herself down on

top, then pulls a notebook from a pocket in her small backpack, scribbles down

something, rips the page out, and hands it to me. A phone number, by the looks

of it.

"My cell phone number," she says with a wry expression. "I'm staying at my

friend's place for a while, but if you ever feel like seeing somebody, give me a

call. We can go out for a bite or whatever. Don't be a stranger, okay? 'Even

chance meetings'... how does the rest of that go?"

"'Are the result of karma.'"

"Right, right," she says. "But what does it mean?"

"That things in life are fated by our previous lives. That even in the smallest

events there's no such thing as coincidence."

She sits there on her yellow suitcase, notebook in hand, giving it some thought.

"Hmm... that's a kind of philosophy, isn't it. Not such a bad way of thinking

about life.

Sort of a reincarnation, New Age kind of thing. But, Kafka, remember this,

okay? I don't go around giving my cell phone number to just anybody. You know

what I mean?"

I appreciate it, I tell her. I fold up the piece of paper and stick it in the pocket of

my windbreaker. Thinking better of it, I transfer it to my wallet.

"So how long'll you be in Takamatsu?" Sakura asks.

"I don't know yet," I say. "It depends on how things go."

She gazes intently at me, her head tilted slightly to one side. Okay, whatever, she

might be thinking. She climbs into a cab, gives a little wave, and takes off.

Once again I'm all alone. Sakura, I think—not my sister's name. But names are

changed easily enough. Especially when you're trying to try to run away from

somebody.

I have a reservation at a business hotel in Takamatsu. The YMCA in Tokyo had

told me about the place, and through them I got a discount on the room. But

that's only for the first three days, then it goes back to the normal room rate.

If I really wanted to save money, I could just sack out on a bench in front of the

station, or since it's still warm out, I could sleep in my sleeping bag in a park

somewhere.

But then the cops will come and card me—the one thing I have to avoid at all

costs.

That's why I went for the hotel reservation, at least for three days. After that I'll

figure something out.

At the station I pop into the first little diner that catches my eye, and eat my fill

of udon. Born and raised in Tokyo, I haven't had much udon in my life. But now

I'm in Udon Central—Shikoku—and confronted with noodles like nothing I've

ever seen.

They're chewy and fresh, and the soup smells great, really fragrant. And talk

about cheap. It all tastes so good I order seconds, and for the first time in who

knows how long, I'm happily stuffed. Afterward I plop myself down on a bench

in the plaza next to the station and gaze up at the sunny sky. I'm free, I remind

myself. Like the clouds floating across the sky, I'm all by myself, totally free.

I decide to kill time till evening at a library. Ever since I was little I've loved to

spend time in the reading rooms of libraries, so I've come to Takamatsu armed

with info on all the libraries in and around the city. Think about it—a little kid

who doesn't want to go home doesn't have many places he can go. Coffee shops

and movie theaters are off-limits. That leaves only libraries, and they're perfect

—no entrance fee, nobody getting all hot and bothered if a kid comes in. You

just sit down and read whatever you want. I always rode my bike to the local

public library after school. Even on holidays that's where you'd find me. I'd

devour anything and everything—novels, biographies, histories, whatever was

lying around. Once I'd gone through all the children's books, I went on to the

general stacks and books for adults. I might not always get much out of them,

but I forged on to the very last page. When I got tired of reading I'd go into one

of those listening booths with headphones and enjoy some music. I had no idea

about music so I just went down the row of CDs they had there, giving them all a

listen. That's how I got to know about Duke Ellington, the Beatles, and Led

Zeppelin.

The library was like a second home. Or maybe more like a real home, more than

the place I lived in. By going every day I got to know all the lady librarians who

worked there. They knew my name and always said hi. I was painfully shy,

though, and could barely reply.

Before coming to Takamatsu I found out some wealthy man from an old family

in the suburbs had renovated his personal library into a private library open to

the public.

The place has a lot of rare books, and I heard that the building itself and the

surrounding garden were worth checking out. I saw a photo of the place once in

Taiyo magazine. It's a large, Japanese-style house with this really elegant reading

room that looks more like a parlor, where people are sitting with their books on

comfortable-looking sofas. For some reason that photo really stayed with me,

and I wanted to see this in person if someday the chance came along. The

Komura Memorial Library, the place was called.

I go over to the tourist information booth at the station and ask how to get there.

A pleasant middle-aged lady marks the spot on a tourist map and gives me

instructions on which train to take. It's about a twenty-minute ride, she explains.

I thank her and study the schedule posted inside the station. Trains run about

every twenty minutes. I have some time, so I pick up a takeout lunch at one of

the little shops.

The train is just two little cars coupled together. The tracks cut through a highrise shopping district, then past a mix of small shops and houses, factories and

warehouses. Next comes a park and an apartment building under construction. I

press my face against the window, drinking in the unfamiliar sights. I've hardly

ever been outside of Tokyo, and everything looks fresh and new. The train I'm

on, going out of town, is nearly empty this time of the morning, but the

platforms on the other side are packed with junior and senior high school kids in

summer uniforms, schoolbags slung across their shoulders. All heading to

school. Not me, though. I'm alone, going in the opposite direction. We're on

different tracks in more ways than one. All of a sudden the air feels thin and

something heavy is bearing down on my chest. Am I really doing the right

thing? The thought makes me feel helpless, isolated. I turn my back on the

schoolkids and try not to look at them anymore.

The train runs along the sea for a time, then cuts inland. We pass tall fields of

corn, grapevines, tangerine trees growing on terraced hills. An occasional

irrigation pond sparkles in the sunlight. A river winding through a flat stretch of

land looks cool and inviting, an empty lot is overgrown with summer grasses. At

one point we pass a dog standing by the tracks, staring vacantly at the train

rushing by. Watching this scenery makes me feel warm and calm all over again.

You're going to be okay, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. All you can do is

forge on ahead.

At the station I follow the map and walk north past rows of old stores and

houses.

Both sides of the street are lined with walls around people's homes. I've never

seen so many different kinds—black walls made out of boards, white walls,

granite block walls, stone walls with hedges on top. The whole place is still and

silent, with no one else on the street. Hardly any cars pass by. The air smells like

the sea, which must be nearby. I listen carefully but can't hear any waves. Far

off, though, I hear the faint bee-like buzz of an electric saw, maybe from a

construction site. Small signs with arrows pointing toward the library line the

road from the station, so I can't get lost.

Right in front of the Komura Memorial Library's imposing front gate stand two

neatly trimmed plum trees. Inside the gate a gravel path winds past other

beautifully manicured bushes and trees—pines and magnolias, kerria and azaleas

—with not a fallen leaf in sight. A couple of stone lanterns peek out between the

trees, as does a small pond.

Finally I get to the intricately designed entrance. I come to a halt in front of the

open front door, hesitating for a moment about going inside. This place doesn't

look like any library I've ever seen. But having come all this way I might as well

take the plunge. Just inside the entrance a young man is sitting behind a counter

where you check your bags. I slough off my backpack, then take off my

sunglasses and cap.

"Is this your first visit?" he asks me in a relaxed, quiet voice. It's slightly highpitched, but smooth and soothing.

I nod, but the words don't come. The question takes me by surprise and makes

me kind of tense.

A long, freshly sharpened pencil between his fingers, the young man gazes

intently at my face for a while. The pencil is yellow, with an eraser at the end.

The man's face is on the small side, his features regular. Pretty, rather than

handsome, might describe him best. He's wearing a button-down white cotton

shirt and olive green chinos, with not a single wrinkle on either. When he looks

down his longish hair falls over his brow, and occasionally he notices this and

fingers it back. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing slender white

wrists. Delicately framed glasses nicely complement his features. The small

plastic name tag pinned to his chest says Oshima. Not exactly the type of

librarian I'm used to.

"Feel free to use the stacks," he tells me, "and if you find a book you'd like to

read, just bring it to the reading room. Rare books have a red seal on them, and

for those you'll need to fill out a request card. Over there to the right is the

reference room.

There's a card index and a computer you can use to search for material. We don't

allow any books to be checked out. We don't carry any magazines or

newspapers. No cameras are allowed. And neither is making copies of anything.

All food and beverages should be consumed outside on the benches. And we

close at five." He lays his pencil on the desk and adds, "Are you in high school?"

"Yes, I am," I say after taking a deep breath.

"This library is a little different from the ones you're probably used to," he says.

"We specialize in certain genres of books, mainly old books by tanka and haiku

poets.

Naturally, we have a selection of general books as well. Most of the people who

ride the train all the way out here are doing research in those fields. No one

comes here to read the latest Stephen King novel. We might get the occasional

graduate student, but very seldom someone your age. So—are you researching

tanka or haiku, then?"

"No," I answer.

"That's what I thought."

"Is it still okay for me to use the library?" I ask timidly, trying to keep my voice

from cracking.

"Of course." He smiles and places both hands on the desk. "This is a library, and

anybody who wants to read is welcome. This can be our little secret, but I'm not

particularly fond of tanka or haiku myself."

"It's a really beautiful building," I say.

He nods. "The Komura family's been a major sake producer since the Edo

period," he explains, "and the previous head of the family was quite a

bibliophile, nationally famous for scouring the country in search of books. His

father was himself a tanka poet, and many writers used to stop by here when

they came to Shikoku.

Wakayama Bokusui, for instance, or Ishikawa Takuboku, and Shiga Naoya.

Some of them must have found it quite comfortable here, because they stayed a

long time. All in all, the family spared no expense when it came to the literary

arts. What usually happens with a family like that is eventually a descendant

squanders the inheritance, but fortunately the Komuras avoided that fate. They

enjoyed their hobby, in its place, but made sure the family business did well."

"So they were rich," I say, stating the obvious.

"Very much so." His lips curve ever so slightly. "They aren't as rich now as they

were before the war, but they're still pretty wealthy. Which is why they can

maintain such a wonderful library. Of course making it a foundation helps lower

their inheritance tax, but that's another story. If you're really interested in this

building I suggest you take the little tour at two. It's only once a week, on

Tuesdays, which happens to be today.

There's a rather unique collection of paintings and drawings on the second floor,

and the building itself is, architecturally, quite fascinating. I know you'll enjoy

it."

"Thank you," I say.

You're quite welcome, his smile suggests. He picks his pencil up again and starts

tapping the eraser end on the desk like he's gently encouraging me.

"Are you the one who does the tour?"

Oshima smiles. "No, I'm just a lowly assistant, I'm afraid. A lady named Miss

Saeki is in charge here—my boss. She's related to the Komuras and does the tour

herself.

I know you'll like her. She's a wonderful person."

I go into the high-ceilinged stacks and wander among the shelves, searching for

a book that looks interesting. Magnificent thick beams run across the ceiling of

the room, and gentle early-summer sunlight is shining through the open window,

the chatter of birds in the garden filtering in. The books in the shelves in front of

me, sure enough, are just like Oshima said, mainly books of Japanese poetry.

Tanka and haiku, essays on poetry, biographies of various poets. There are also a

lot of books on local history. A shelf farther back contains general humanities—

collections of Japanese literature, world literature, and individual writers,

classics, philosophy, drama, art history, sociology, history, biography,

geography.... When I open them, most of the books have the smell of an earlier

time leaking out between the pages—a special odor of the knowledge and

emotions that for ages have been calmly resting between the covers. Breathing it

in, I glance through a few pages before returning each book to its shelf.

Finally I decide on a multivolume set, with beautiful covers, of the Burton

translation of The Arabian Nights, pick out one volume, and take it back to the

reading room. I've been meaning to read this book. Since the library has just

opened for the day, there's no one else there and I have the elegant reading room

all to myself. It's exactly like in the photo in the magazine—roomy and

comfortable, with a high ceiling. Every once in a while a gentle breeze blows in

through the open window, the white curtain rustling softly in air that has a hint of

the sea. And I love the comfortable sofa. An old upright piano stands in a corner,

and the whole place makes me feel like I'm in some friend's home.

As I relax on the sofa and gaze around the room a thought hits me: This is

exactly the place I've been looking for forever. A little hideaway in some

sinkhole somewhere.

I'd always thought of it as a secret, imaginary place, and can barely believe that

it actually exists. I close my eyes and take a breath, and like a gentle cloud the

wonder of it all settles over me. I slowly stroke the creamish cover of the sofa,

then stand up and walk over to the piano and lift the cover, laying all ten fingers

down on the slightly yellowed keys. I shut the cover and walk across the faded

grape-patterned carpet to the window and test the antique handle that opens and

closes it. I switch the floor lamp on and off, then check out all the paintings

hanging on the walls. Finally I plop back down on the sofa and pick up reading

where I left off, focusing on The Arabian Nights for a while.

At noon I take my bottle of mineral water and box lunch out to the veranda that

faces the garden and sit down to eat. Different kinds of birds fly overhead,

fluttering from one tree to the next or flying down to the pond to drink and

groom themselves.

There are some I've never seen before. A large brown cat makes an appearance,

which is their signal to clear out of there, even though the cat looks like he

couldn't care less about birds. All he wants is to stretch out on the stepping

stones and enjoy the warm sunlight.

"Is your school closed today?" Oshima asks when I drop off my backpack on my

way back to the reading room.

"No," I reply, carefully choosing my words, "I just decided to take some time

off."

"Refusing to go to school," he says.

"I guess so."

Oshima looks at me with great interest. "You guess so."

"I'm not refusing to go to school. I just decided not to."

"Very calmly, all on your own, you stopped going to school?"

I merely nod. I have no idea how to reply.

"According to Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, in the ancient world of myth

there were three types of people," Oshima says. "Have you heard about this?"

"No."

"In ancient times people weren't just male or female, but one of three types:

male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was

made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this

arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife

and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was

divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time

running around trying to locate their missing other half."

"Why did God do that?"

"Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There's

that whole wrath-of-God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess

is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the

Fall and so forth."

"Original sin," I say.

"That's right, original sin." Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and

index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing the balance. "Anyway, my

point is that it's really hard for people to live their lives alone."

Back in the reading room I return to "The Tale of Abu-l-Hasan, the Wag," but

my mind wanders away from the book. Male/male, male/female, and

female/female?

At two o'clock I lay down my book and get up from the sofa to join the tour of

the building. Miss Saeki, leading the tour, is a slim woman I'd guess is in her

mid-forties.

She's a little on the tall side for someone of her generation. She's wearing a blue

half-sleeved dress and a cream-colored cardigan, and has excellent posture. Her

long hair is loosely tied back, her face very refined and intelligent looking, with

beautiful eyes and a shadowy smile playing over her lips, a smile whose sense of

completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special

patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place. My house back

in Tokyo has one just like that in the garden, and ever since I was little I loved

that bright little spot.

She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic.

Wouldn't it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every

time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman. The chances that Miss

Saeki's actually my mother are close to zero, I realize. Still, since I have no idea

what my mother looks like, or even her name, the possibility does exist, right?

There's nothing that rules it out completely.

The only other people taking the tour are a middle-aged couple from Osaka. The

wife is short and pudgy with glasses as thick as a Coke bottle. The husband's a

skinny guy with hair so stiff I bet he needs a wire brush to tame it. With narrow

eyes and a broad forehead, he reminds me of some statue on a southern island,

eyes fixed on the horizon. The wife keeps up a one-sided conversation, her

husband just grunting out a monosyllable every once in a while to let her know

he's still alive. Other than that, he gives the occasional nod to show he's properly

impressed or else mutters some fragmentary comment I can't catch. Both of them

are dressed more for mountain climbing than for visiting a library, each wearing

a waterproof vest with a million pockets, sturdy lace-up boots, and hiking hats.

Maybe this is how they always dress when they go on a trip, who knows. They

seem okay—not that I'd want them as parents or anything—and I'm relieved not

to be the only one taking the tour.

Miss Saeki begins by explaining the library's history—basically the same story

Oshima told me. How they opened to the public the books and paintings the

umpteenth head of the family had collected, devoting the library to the region's

cultural development. A foundation was set up based on the Komura fortune and

now managed the library and occasionally sponsored lectures, chamber music

concerts, and the like.

The building itself dated from the early Meiji period, when it was built to serve

double duty as the family library and guesthouse. In the Taisho period it was

completely renovated as a two-story building, with the addition of magnificent

guest rooms for visiting writers and artists. From the Taisho to the early Showa

period, many famous artists visited the Komuras, leaving behind mementos—

poems, sketches, and paintings—in gratitude for having been allowed to stay

here.

"You'll be able to view some selected items from this valuable collection in the

second-floor gallery," Miss Saeki adds. "Before World War II, a vibrant local

culture was established less through the efforts of local government than those of

wealthy connoisseurs such as the Komura family. They were, in short, patrons of

the arts.

Kagawa Prefecture has produced quite a number of talented tanka and haiku

poets, and one reason for this was the dedication with which the Komura family

founded and supported the local art scene. Quite a number of books, essays, and

reminiscences have been published on the history of these fascinating artistic

circles, all of which are in our reading room. I hope you'll take the opportunity to

look at them.

"The heads of the Komura family down through the years have been well versed

in the arts, with an especially refined appreciation of the truly excellent. This

might have run in the blood. They were very discerning patrons of the arts,

supporting artists with the highest aims who produced the most outstanding

works. But as you're surely aware, in the arts there is no such thing as an

absolutely perfect eye. Unfortunately, some exceptional artists did not win their

favor or were not received by them as they deserved to be. One of these was the

haiku poet Taneda Santoka. According to the guestbook, Santoka stayed here on

numerous occasions, each time leaving behind poems and drawings. The head of

the family, however, called him a 'beggar and a braggart,' wouldn't have much to

do with him, and in fact threw away most of these works."

"What a terrible waste," the lady from Osaka says, apparently truly sorry to hear

this. "Nowadays Santoka fetches a hefty price."

"You're exactly right," Miss Saeki says, beaming. "But at the time, he was an

unknown, so perhaps it couldn't be helped. There are many things we only see

clearly in retrospect."

"You got that right," the husband pipes in.

After this Miss Saeki guides us around the first floor, showing us the stacks, the

reading room, the rare-books collection.

"When he built this library, the head of the family decided not to follow the

simple and elegant style favored by artists in Kyoto, instead choosing a design

more like a rustic dwelling. Still, as you can see, in contrast to the bold structure

of the building, the furnishings and picture frames are quite elaborate and

luxurious. The carving of these wooden panels, for instance, is very elegant. All

the finest master craftsmen in Shikoku were assembled to work on the

construction."

Our little group starts upstairs, a vaulted ceiling soaring over the staircase. The

ebony railing's so highly polished it looks like you'll leave a mark if you touch it.

On a stained-glass window next to the landing, a deer stretches out its neck to

nibble at some grapes. There are two parlors on the second floor, as well as a

spacious hall that in the past was probably lined with tatami for banquets and

gatherings. Now the floor is plain wood, and the walls are covered with framed

calligraphy, hanging scrolls, and Japanese-style paintings. In the center, a glass

case displays various mementos and the story behind each. One parlor is in the

Japanese style, the other Western. The Western-style room contains a large

writing desk and a swivel chair that look like someone's still using.

There's a line of pines outside the window behind the desk, and the horizon's

faintly visible between the trees.

The couple from Osaka walks around the parlor, inspecting all the items, reading

the explanations in the pamphlet. Every time the wife makes a comment, the

husband chimes in to second her opinion. A lucky couple that agrees on

everything. The things on display don't do much for me, so I check out the

details of the building's construction.

While I'm nosing around the Western parlor Miss Saeki comes up to me and

says, "You can sit in that chair, if you'd like to. Shiga Naoya and Tanizaki both

sat there at one time or another. Not that this is the same chair, of course."

I sit down on the swivel chair and quietly rest my hands on the desk.

"How is it? Feel like you could write something?"

I blush a little and shake my head. Miss Saeki laughs and goes back to the

couple.

From the chair I watch how she carries herself, every motion natural and elegant.

I can't express it well, but there's definitely something special about it, as if her

retreating figure is trying to tell me something she couldn't express while facing

me. But what this is, I haven't a clue. Face it, I remind myself—there're tons of

things you don't have a clue about.

Still seated, I give the room a once-over. On the wall is an oil painting,

apparently of the seashore nearby. It's done in an old-fashioned style, but the

colors are fresh and alive. On top of the desk is a large ashtray and a lamp with a

green lampshade. I push the switch and, sure enough, the light comes on. A

black clock hangs on the opposite wall, an antique by the looks of it, though the

hands tell the right time. There are round spots worn here and there into the

wooden floor, and it creaks slightly when you walk on it.

At the end of the tour the Osaka couple thanks Miss Saeki and disappears. It

turns out they're members of a tanka circle in the Kansai region. I wonder what

kind of poems they compose—the husband, especially. Grunts and nods don't

add up to poetry. But maybe writing poetry brings out some hidden talent in the

guy.

I return to the reading room and pick up where I'd left off in my book. Over the

afternoon a few other readers filter in, most of them with those reading glasses

old people wear and that everybody looks the same in. Time passes slowly.

Nobody says a word, everyone lost in quiet reading. One person sits at a desk

jotting down notes, but the rest are sitting there silently, not moving, totally

absorbed. Just like me.

At five o'clock I shut my book and put it back on the shelf. At the exit I ask,

"What time do you open in the morning?"

"Eleven," Oshima replies. "Planning on coming back tomorrow?"

"If it's no bother."

Oshima narrows his eyes as he looks at me. "Of course not. A library's a place

for people who want to read. I'd be happy if you came back. I hope you don't

mind my asking, but do you always carry that backpack with you? It looks pretty

heavy. What in the world could be inside? A stack of Krugerrands, perhaps?"

I blush.

"Don't worry—I'm not really trying to find out." Oshima presses the eraser end

of his pencil against his right temple. "Well, see you tomorrow."

"Bye," I say.

Instead of raising his hand, he lifts his pencil in farewell.

I take the train back to Takamatsu Station. For dinner I stop inside a cheap diner

near the station and order chicken cutlet and a salad. I have a second helping of

rice and a glass of warm milk after the meal. At a mini-mart outside I buy a

bottle of mineral water and two rice balls in case I get hungry in the middle of

the night, then start for my hotel. I walk not too fast or too slow, at an ordinary

pace just like everybody else, so no one notices me.

The hotel is pretty large, a typical second-rate business hotel. I fill in the register

at the front desk, giving Kafka instead of my real first name, a phony address

and age, and pay for one night. I'm a little nervous, but none of the clerks seem

suspicious.

Nobody yells out, Hey, we can see right through your ruse, you little fifteenyear-old runaway! Everything goes smooth as silk, business as usual.

The elevator clanks ominously to the sixth floor. The room is minuscule,

outfitted with an uninviting bed, a rock-hard pillow, a miniature excuse for a

desk, a tiny TV, sun-bleached curtains. The bathroom is barely the size of a

closet, with none of those little complimentary shampoo or conditioner bottles.

The view out the window is of the wall of the building next door. I shouldn't

complain, though, since I have a roof over my head and hot water coming out of

the tap. I plunk my backpack on the floor, sit down on the chair, and try to

acclimatize myself to the surroundings.

I'm free, I think. I shut my eyes and think hard and deep about how free I am, but

I can't really understand what it means. All I know is I'm totally alone. All alone

in an unfamiliar place, like some solitary explorer who's lost his compass and his

map. Is this what it means to be free? I don't know, and I give up thinking about

it.

I take a long, hot bath and carefully brush my teeth in front of the sink. I flop

down in bed and read, and when I get tired of that I watch the news on TV.

Compared to everything I've gone through that day, though, the news seems stale

and boring. I switch off the TV and get under the covers. It's ten p. m., but I can't

get to sleep. A new day in a brand-new place. And my fifteenth birthday, besides

—most of which I spent in that charming, offbeat library. I met a few new

people. Sakura. Oshima. Miss Saeki. Nobody threatening, thank God. A good

omen?

I think about my home back in Nogata, in Tokyo, and my father. How did he feel

when he found I'd suddenly disappeared? Relieved, maybe? Confused? Or

maybe nothing at all. I'm betting he hasn't even noticed I'm gone.

I suddenly remember my father's cell phone and take it out of my backpack. I

switch it on and dial my home number. It starts ringing, 450 miles away, as

clearly as if I were calling the room next door. Startled by this, I hang up after

two rings. My heart won't stop pounding. The phone still works, which means

my father hasn't canceled the contract. Maybe he hasn't noticed the phone's

missing from his desk. I shove the phone back in the pocket of my backpack,

turn off the light, and close my eyes. I don't dream.

Come to think of it, I haven't had any dreams in a long time.