1



The W i n d - U p Bird in Winter

*


Between the end of that strange summer and the approach of winter, my life went on
without change. Each day would dawn without incident and end as it had begun. It rained a lot
in September. October had several warm, sweaty days. Aside from the weather, there was
hardly anything to distinguish one day from the next. I worked at concentrating my attention
on the real and useful. I would go to the pool almost every day for a long swim, take walks,
make myself three meals.
But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I
drank, the very air I breathed, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my
hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of
loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o'clock in the morning.



And yet there were a few people who wouldn't leave me alone-people from Kumiko's
family, who wrote me letters. Kumiko could not go on being married to me, they said, and so


I should immediately agree to a divorce. That would supposedly solve all the problems. The
first few letters tried to exert pressure on me in a businesslike manner. When I failed to
answer, they resorted to threats and, in the end, turned to pleading. All were looking for the
same thing.
Eventually, Kumiko's father called.
"I am not saying that I am absolutely opposed to a divorce," I said. "But first I want to see
Kumiko and talk to her, alone. If she can convince me it's what she wants, then I will give her
a divorce. That is the only way I will agree to it."
I turned toward the kitchen window and looked at the dark, rain-filled sky stretching away
into the distance. It had been raining for four straight days, into a wet, black world.
"Kumiko and I talked everything over before we decided to get married, and if we are
going to end that marriage, I want to do it the same way."
Kumiko's father and I went on making parallel statements, arriving nowhere- or nowhere
fruitful, at least.



Several questions remained unanswered. Did Kumiko really want to divorce me? And had
she asked her parents to try to convince me to go along with that?
"Kumiko says she doesn't want to see you," her father had told me, exactly as her brother,
Noboru Wataya, had said. This was probably not an out-and-out lie. Kumiko's parents were
not above interpreting things in a manner convenient to themselves, but as far as I knew, they
were not the sort to manufacture facts out of nothing. They were, for better or worse, realistic
people. If what her father had said was true, then, was Kumiko now being "sheltered" by
them?
But that I found impossible to believe. Love was simply not an emotion that Kumiko had
felt for her parents and brother from the time she was a little girl. She had struggled for years
to keep herself independent of them. It could well be that Kumiko had chosen to leave me
because she had taken a lover. Even if I could not fully accept the explanation she had given
me in her letter, I knew that it was not entirely out of the question. But what I could not accept
was that Kumiko could have gone straight from me to them-or to some place they had
prepared for her-and that she could be communicating with me through them.
The more I thought about it, the less I understood. One possibility was that Kumiko had
experienced an emotional breakdown and could no longer sustain herself. Another was that
she was being held against her will. I spent several days arranging and rearranging a variety of
facts and words and memories, until I had to give up thinking. Speculation was getting me
nowhere.


Autumn was drawing to a close, and a touch of winter hung in the air. As I always did in
that season, I raked the dead leaves in the garden and ', stuffed them into vinyl bags. I set a
ladder against the roof and cleaned
I the leaves out of the gutters. The little garden of the house I lived in had no trees, but the
wind carried leaves in abundance from the broad-spreading deciduous trees in the gardens on
both sides. I didn't mind the work. The time would pass as I watched the withered leaves
floating down in the afternoon sunshine. One big tree in the neighbor's to the right put out
bright-red berries. Flocks of birds would perch there and chirp as if in competition with each
other. These were brightly colored birds, with short, sharp cries that stabbed the air.
I wondered about how best to store Kumiko's summer clothing. I could do as she had said
in her letter and get rid of them. But I remembered the care that she had given each piece. And
it was not as if I had no place to keep them. I decided to leave them for the time being where


they were.
Still, whenever I opened the closet, I was confronted by Kumiko's absence. The dresses
hanging there were the husks of something that had once existed. I knew how she looked in
these clothes, and to some of them were attached specific memories. Sometimes I would find
myself sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the rows of dresses or blouses or skirts. I
would have no idea how long I had been sitting there. It could have been ten minutes or an
hour.
Sometimes, as I sat staring at a dress, I would imagine a man I didn't know helping
Kumiko out of it. His hands would slip the dress off, then go on to remove the underwear
beneath. They would caress her breasts and press her thighs apart. I could see those breasts
and thighs in all their white softness, and the other man's hands touching them. I didn't want
to think about such things, but I had no choice. They had probably happened in reality. I had
to get myself used to such images. I couldn't just shove reality aside.
Now and then, I would recall the night I slept with Creta Kano, but the memory of it was
mysteriously vague. I held her in my arms that night and joined my body with hers any
number of times: that was an undeniable fact. But as the weeks passed by, the feeling of
certainty began to disappear. I couldn't bring back concrete images of her body or of the ways
in which it had joined with mine. If anything, the memories of what I had done with her
earlier, in my mind-in unreality-were far more vivid than the memories of the reality of that
night. The image of her mounted on me, wearing Kumiko's blue dress, in that strange hotel
room, came back to me over and over again with amazing clarity.
Early October saw the death of the uncle of Noboru Wataya who had served as Niigata's
representative to the Lower House. He suffered a heart attack shortly after midnight in his
hospital bed in Niigata, and by dawn, despite the doctors' best efforts, he was nothing but a
corpse. The death had long been anticipated, of course, and a general election was expected
shortly, so the uncle's supporters lost no time in formalizing their earlier plan to have Noboru
Wataya inherit the constituency. The late representative's vote-gathering machinery was
solidly based and solidly conservative. Barring some major unforeseen event, Noboru
Wataya's election was all but assured.
The first thing that crossed my mind when I read the article in a library newspaper was
how busy the Wataya family was going to be from now on. The farthest thing from anybody's
mind would be Kumiko's divorce.



The black-and-blue mark on my face neither grew nor shrank. It produced neither fever
nor pain. I gradually forgot I even had it. I stopped trying to hide the mark by wearing
sunglasses or a hat with the brim pulled down low. I would be reminded of it now and then
when I went out shopping and people would stare at me or look away, but even these
reactions stopped bothering me after a while. I wasn't harming them by having a mark on my
face. I would examine it each morning when I washed and shaved, but I could see no change.
Its size, color, and shape remained the same.
The number of individual human beings who voiced concern about the sudden appearance
of a mark on my cheek was exactly four: the owner of the cleaning shop by the station, my
barber, the young man from the Omura liquor store, and the woman at the counter of the
neighborhood library. In each case, when asked about it, I made a show of annoyance and said
something vague, like, "I had a little accident." They would mumble, "My, my" or "That's
too bad," as if apologizing for having mentioned it.
I seemed to be growing more distant from myself with each day that went by. If I stared at
my hand for a while, I would begin to feel that I was looking through it. I spoke with almost
no one. No one wrote to me or called. All I found in my mailbox were utility bills and junk


mail, and most of the junk mail consisted of designer-brand catalogs addressed to Kumiko,
full of colorful photos of spring dresses and blouses and skirts. The winter was a cold one, but
I sometimes forgot to turn on the heat, unsure whether the cold was real or just something
inside me. I would throw the switch only after a look at the thermometer had convinced me
that it really was cold, but even so, the cold I felt did not diminish.



I wrote to Lieutenant Mamiya with a general description of what had been happening to
me. He might be more embarrassed than pleased to receive the letter, but I couldn't think of
anyone else I could write to. I opened with that exact apology. Then I told him that Kumiko
left me on the very day he had visited my house, that she had been sleeping with another man
for some months, that I had spent close to three days in the bottom of a well, thinking, that I
was now living here all alone, and that the keepsake from Mr. Honda had been nothing but an
empty whiskey box.
Lieutenant Mamiya sent me an answer a week later.
To tell you the truth, you have been in my thoughts to an almost strange degree since we
last met. I left your home feeling that we really ought to go on talking, to "spill our guts" to
each other, so to speak, and the fact that we did not has been no small source of regret to me.
Unfortunately, however, some urgent business had come up, which required me to return to
Hiroshima that night. Thus, in a certain sense, I was very glad to have had the opportunity to
receive a letter from you. I wonder if it was not Mr. Honda's intention all along to bring the
two of us together. Perhaps he believed that it would be good for me to meet you and for you
to meet me. The division of keepsakes may well have been an excuse to have me visit you. This
may explain the empty box. My visit to you itself would have been his keepsake.
I was utterly amazed to hear that you had spent time down in a well, for I, too, continue to
feel myself strongly attracted to wells. Considering my own close call, one would think that I
would never have wanted to see another well, but quite the contrary, even to this day,
whenever I see a well, I can't help looking in. And if it turns out to be a dry well, I feel the
urge to climb down inside. I probably continue to hope that I will encounter something down
there, that if I go down inside and simply wait, it will be possible for me to encounter a
certain something. Not that I expect it to restore my life to me. No, I am far too old to hope for
such things. What I hope to find is the meaning of the life that I have lost. By what was it
taken away from me, and why? I want to know the answers to these questions with absolute
certainty. And I would go so far as to say that if I could have those answers, I would not mind
being even more profoundly lost than I am already. Indeed, I would gladly accept such a
burden for whatever years of life may be left to me.
I was truly sorry to hear that your wife had left you, but that is a matter on which I am
unable to offer you any advice. I have lived far too long a time without the benefit of love or
family and am thus unqualified to speak on such matters. I do believe, however, that if you
feel the slightest willingness to wait a while longer for her to come back, then you probably
should continue to wait there as you are now. That is my opinion, for what it is worth. I
realize full well how hard it must be to go on living alone in a place from which someone has
left you, but there is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope
for.
If possible, I would like to come to Tokyo sometime in the near future and see you again,
but unfortunately I am having a little problem with one leg, and the treatment for it will take
some time. Please take care and be well.
Sometimes I climbed the garden wall and went down the winding alley to where the
vacant Miyawaki house had stood. Dressed in a three-quarter-length coat, a scarf wrapped
under my chin, I trod the alley's dead winter grass. Short puffs of frozen winter wind whistled


through the electric lines overhead. The house had been completely demolished, the yard now
surrounded by a high plank fence. I could look in through the gaps in the fence, but there was
nothing in there to see- no house, no paving stones, no well, no trees, no TV antenna, no bird
sculpture: just a flat, black stretch of cold-looking earth, compacted by the treads of a
bulldozer, and a few scattered clumps of weeds. I could hardly believe there had once been a
deep well in the yard and that I had climbed down into it.
I leaned against the fence, looking up at May Kasahara's house, to where her room was,
on the second floor. But she was no longer there. She wouldn't be coming out anymore to say,
"Hi, Mr. Wind-Up Bird."



On a bitter-cold afternoon in mid-February, I dropped in at the real estate office by the
station that my uncle had told me about, Setagaya Dai-ichi Realtors. When I walked in, the
first person I saw was a middle-aged female receptionist. Several desks were lined up near the
entrance, but their chairs were empty, as if all the brokers were out on appointments. A large
gas heater glowed bright red in the middle of the room. On a sofa in a small reception area
toward the back sat a slightly built old man, engrossed in a newspaper. I asked the receptionist
if a Mr. Ichikawa might be there. "That's me," said the old man, turning in my direction. "Can
I help you?"
I introduced myself as my uncle's nephew and mentioned that I lived in one of the houses
that my uncle owned.
"Oh, I see," said the old man, laying his paper down. "So you're Mr. Tsuruta's nephew!"
He folded his reading glasses and gave me a head-to-toe inspection. I couldn't tell what kind
of impression I was making on him. "Come in, come in. Can I offer you a cup of tea?"
I told him not to bother, but either he didn't hear me or he ignored my refusal. He had the
receptionist make tea. It didn't take her long to bring it to us, but by the time he and I were
sitting opposite each other, drinking tea, the stove had gone out and the room was getting
chilly. A detailed map showing all the houses in the area hung on the wall, marked here and
there in pencil or felt-tip pen. Next to it hung a calendar with van Gogh's famous bridge
painting: a bank calendar.
"I haven't seen your uncle in quite a while. How is he doing?" the old man asked after a
sip of tea.
"I think he's fine, busy as ever. I don't see him much myself," I said.
"I'm glad to hear he's doing well. How many years has it been since I last saw him? I
wonder. At least it seems like years." He took a cigarette from his jacket pocket, and after
apparently taking careful aim, he struck a match with a vigorous swipe. "I was the one who
found that house for him, and I managed it for him for a long time too. Anyhow, it's good to
hear he's keeping busy."
Old Mr. Ichikawa himself seemed anything but busy. I imagined he must be half retired,
showing up at the office now and then to take care of longtime clients.
"So how do you like the house? No problems?"
"No, none at all," I said.
The old man nodded. "That's good. It's a nice place. Maybe on the small side, but a nice
place to live. Things have always gone well for the people who lived there. For you too?"
"Not bad," I said to him. At least I'm alive, I said to myself. "I had something I wanted to
ask you about, though. My uncle says you know more than anybody about this area."
The old man chuckled. "This area is one thing I do know," he said. "I've been dealing in
real estate here for close to forty years."
"The thing I want to ask you about is the Miyawaki place behind ours. They've bulldozed
it, you know."


"Yes, I know," said the old man, pursing his lips as though rummaging through the
drawers in his mind. "It sold last August. They finally got all the mortgage and title and legal
problems straightened out and put it on the market. A speculator bought it, to tear down the
house and sell the land. Leave a house vacant that long, I don't care how good it is, it's not
going to sell. Of course, the people who bought it are not local. Nobody local would touch the
place. Have you heard some of the stories?"
"Yes, I have, from my uncle."
"Then you know what I'm talking about. I suppose we could have bought it and sold it to
somebody who didn't know any better, but we don't do business that way. It just leaves a bad
taste in your mouth."
I nodded in agreement. "So who did buy it, then?"
The old man knit his brow and shook his head, then told me the name of a well-known
real estate corporation. "They probably didn't do any research, just snapped it up when they
saw the location and the price, figured they'd turn a quick profit. But it's not going to be so
easy."
"They haven't been able to sell it?"
"They came close a few times," the old man said, folding his arms. "It's not cheap, buying
a piece of land. It's a lifetime investment. People are careful. When they start looking into
things, any stories come out, and in this case, not one of them is good. You hear stories like
that, and the ordinary person is not going to buy. Most of the people who live around here
know the stories about that place."
"What are they asking?"
"Asking?"
"The price of the land where the Miyawaki house was." Old Mr. Ichikawa looked at me as
if to say I had aroused his curiosity. "Well, let's see. The lot is a little over thirty-five hundred
square feet. Not quite a hundred tsubo. The market price would be one and a half million yen
per tsubo. I mean, that's a first-rate lot-wonderful setting, southern exposure. A million and a
half, no problem, even with the market as slow as it is. You might have to wait a little while,
but you'd get your price at that location. Ordinarily. But there's nothing ordinary about the
Miyawaki place. That's not going to move, no matter how long you wait. So the price has to
go down. It's already down to a million ten per tsubo, so with a little more bargaining you
could probably get the whole place for an even hundred million."
"Do you think the price will continue to fall?" The old man gave a sharp nod. "Of course
it's going to fall. To nine hundred thousand per tsubo easy. That's what they bought it for.
They're really getting worried now. They'd be thrilled if they could break even. I don't know
if they'd go any lower. They might take a loss if they're hurting for cash. Otherwise, they
could afford to wait. I just don't know what's going on inside the company. What I do know
is that they're sorry they bought the place. Getting mixed up with that piece of land is not
going to do anybody any good." He tapped his ashes into the ashtray.
"The yard has a well, doesn't it?" I asked. "Do you know anything about the well?"
"Hmm, it does have a well, doesn't it," said Mr. Ichikawa. "A deep well. But I think they
filled it in. It was dry, after all. Useless."
"Do you have any idea when it dried up?"
The old man glared at the ceiling for a while, with his arms folded. "That was a long time
ago. I can't remember, really, but I'm sure I heard it had water sometime before the war. It
must have dried up after the war. I don't know when, exactly. But I know it was dry when the
actress moved in. There was a lot of talk then about whether or not to fill in the well. But
nobody ever did anything about it. I guess it was too much bother."
"The well in the Kasahara place across the alley still has plenty of water- good water, I'm
told."
"Maybe so, maybe so. The wells in that area always produced good-tasting water. It's got


something to do with the soil. You know, water veins are delicate things. It's not unusual to
get water in one place and nothing at all right close by. Is there something about that well that
interests you?"
"To tell you the truth, I'd like to buy that piece of land."
The old man raised his eyes and focused them on mine. Then he lifted his teacup and took
a silent sip. "You want to buy that piece of land?"
My only reply was a nod.
The old man took another cigarette from his pack and tapped it against the tabletop. But
then, instead of lighting it, he held it between his fingers. His tongue flicked across his lips.
"Let me say one more time that that's a place with a lot of problems. No one-and I mean no
one- has ever done well there. You do realize that? I don't care how cheap it gets, that place
can never be a good buy. But you want it just the same?"
"Yes, I still want it, knowing what I know. But let me point out one thing: I don't have
enough money on hand to buy the place, no matter how far the price falls below market value.
But I intend to raise the money, even if it takes me a while. So I would like to be kept
informed of any new developments. Can I count on you to let me know if the price changes or
if a buyer shows up?"
For a time, the old man just stared at his unlit cigarette, lost in thought. Then, clearing his
throat with a little cough, he said, "Don't worry, you've got time; that place is not going to
sell for a while, I guarantee you. It's not going to move until they're practically giving it
away, and that won't happen for a while. So take all the time you need to raise the money. If
you really want it."
I told him my phone number. The old man wrote it down in a little sweat-stained black
notebook. After returning the notebook to his jacket pocket, he looked me in the eye for a
while and then looked at the mark on my cheek.



February came to an end, and March was half gone when the freezing cold began to relent
somewhat. Warm winds blew up from the south. Buds appeared on the trees, and new birds
showed up in the garden. On warm days I began to spend time sitting on the veranda, looking
at the garden. One evening I got a call from Mr. Ichikawa. The Miyawaki land was still
unsold, he said, and the price had dropped somewhat.
"I told you it wouldn't move for a while," he added, with a touch of pride. "Don't worry,
from now on it's just going to creep down. Meanwhile, how are you doing? Funds coming
together?"



I was washing my face at eight o'clock that night when I noticed that my mark was
beginning to run a slight fever. When I laid my finger against it, I could feel a touch of
warmth that had not been there before. The color, too, seemed more intense than usual, almost
purplish. Barely breathing, I stared into the mirror for a long time-long enough for me to
begin to see my own face as something other than mine. The mark was trying to tell me
something: it wanted something from me. I went on staring at my self beyond the mirror, and
that self went on staring back at me from beyond the mirror without a word.
I have to have that well. Whatever happens, I have to have that well.
This was the conclusion I had reached.