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Maing-Catsby Haruki Murakami
Ttranslated by Philip Gabriel
I bought a neer at the harbor and came across an article about an old woman who had beeen by cats. She was seventy years old and lived alone in a small suburb of Athens -- a quiet sort of life, just her ahree cats in a small one-room apartment. One day, she suddenly keeled over face down on the sofa -- a heart attack, most likely. Nobody knew how long it had taken for her to die after she collapsed. The old woman didnt have aives or friends who visited her regularly, and it was a week before her body was discovered. The windows and door were closed, and the cats were trapped. There wasnt any food in the apartment. Grahere robably something in the fridge, but cats havent evolved to the point where they open refrigerators. On the verge of starvation, they were forced to devour their owners flesh.
I read this article to Izumi, who was sitting across from me. On sunny days, wed walk to the harbor, buy a copy of the Athens English-language neer, and order coffee at the cafe door to the tax office, and Id summarize in Japanese anything iing I might e across. That was the extent of our daily schedule on the island. If something in a particular caught our i, wed bat around opinions for a while, Izumis English retty fluent, and she could easily have read the articles herself. But I never once saw her p?９９lｉｂ.ick up a paper.
"I like to have someoo read to me," she explained. "Its been my dream ever since.
I was a child -- to sit in a sunny place, gave at the sky or the sea, and have someone read aloud to me. I dont care what they read -- a neer, a textbook, a novel. It doesnt matter. But no ones ever read to me before. So I suppose that means youre making up for all those lost opportunities. Besides, I love your voice."
We had the sky and the sea there, all right. And I enjoyed reading aloud. When I lived in Japan, I used to read picture books aloud to my son. Reading aloud is different from just sentences with your eyes. Something quite ued wells up in your mind, a kind of indefinable resohat I find impossible to resist.
Taking the occasional sip of bitter coffee, I slowly read the artic1e to Izumi. Id read a few lio myself, mull over how to put them into Japahen translate aloud. A few bees popped up from somewhere to lick the jam that a previous er spilled oable. They spent a moment lapping it up, then, as if suddenly remembering something, flew into the air with a ceremonious buzz, circled the table a couple of times, and then -- again as if something had jogged their memory -- settled once more oabletop. After I had finished reading the whole article, Izumi sat there, unmoving, elbow resting oable. She put the tips of the fingers of her right hand against those of her left to form a tent. I rested the paper on my lap and gazed at her slim hands. She looked at me through the spaces between her fingers.
"Then what happened?" she asked.
"Thats it" I replied, and folded up the paper. I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped the flecks of coffee grounds off my lips. "At least, thats all it says."
"But what happeo The cats?"
I stuffed the handkerchief ba my pocket. "I have no idea. It doesnt say."
Izumi pursed her lips to one side, her own litt1e habit. Whenever she was about to give an opinion ? which always took the form of a mini-declaration ? she pursed her lips like that, as if she were yanking a bed sheet to smooth out a stray wrinkle. When I first met her, I found this habit quite charming.
"Neers are all the same, no matter where you go," she finally announced. "They ell you what you really want to know."
She took a Salem out of its box, put it in her mouth, and struck a match. Every day, she smoked one pack of Salem -- no more, no less. Shed open a new pa the m x and smoke it up by the end of the day. I didnt smoke. My wife had made me quit, five years ear1ier, when she regnant.
"What I really want to know." Izumi began, the smoke from her cigarette silently curling up into the air, "is what happeo the cats afterward. Did the authorities kill them because theyd eaten human fresh? Or did they say, Yon guys have had a tough time of it, give them a pat on the head, ahem on their way? What do you think?"
I gazed at the bees h over the table and thought about it. For a fleeting instant; the restless little bees lig up the jam and the three cats dev the old womans flesh became one in my mind. A distant seagulls shrill squawk overlapped the buzzing of the bees, and for a sed or two my sciousness strayed on the border betweey and the unreal. Where was I? Whet was I doing here? I could a purchase ouation. I took a deep breath, gazed up at the sky, and turo Izumi.
"I have no idea."
"Think about it. If you were that towns mayor or chief of police, what would you do with those cats?"
"How about putting them in an institution to reform them?" I said. "Turn them into vegetarians."
Izumi didnt laugh. She took a drag on her cigarette and ever slowly let out a stream of smoke. "That story reminds me of a lecture I heard just after I started at my Catholiih school. Did I tell you I went to a very strict Catholic schoo1? Just after the entrance ceremony, one of the head nuns had us all assemble in an auditorium, and then she went up to the podium and gave a talk about Catholic doe. She told us a lot of things, but what I remember most ? actually, the only thing I remember ? is this story about being shipwrecked on a desert island with a cat."
"Sound iing," I said.
"Youre in a shipwreck, she told us. The only ones who make it to the lifeboat are you and a cat. You land on some nameless desert island, and theres nothing there to eat. All yon have is enough water and dry biscuit to sustain one person for about ten days. She said, A11 right, everyone, Id like you to imagine yourselves in this situation. Close your eyes and try to picture it. You alone on the desert island, just you and the cat. You have almost no food at all. Do you uand? Youre hungry, thirsty, aually youll die. What should you do? Should you share your meagre store of food with the cat? No you should not. That would be a mistake. You are all precious beings, chosen by God, and the cat is not. Thats why you should<bdi>?９9lｉｂ?</bdi> eat all the food yourself. The nun gave us this deadly serious look. I was a bit shocked. What could possibly be the point of telling a story like that to kids whod just started at the school? I thought, Whoa, what kind of place have I got myself into?"
Izumi and I were living in an efficy apartment on a small Greek island. It was off-season, and the island wasly a tourist spot, so the rent was cheap. her of us had heard of thy island before we got there. It lay he border of Turkey, and on clear day you could just make out the green Turkish mountains. On windy days, the local joked, you could smell the shish kebab. All joking aside, our island was closer to the Turkish shore than to the closest Greek island, and there -- looming right before our eyes -- was Asia Minor.
Iown square, there was a statue of a hero of Greek independence. He had led an insurre on the Greek mainland and planned an uprising against the Turks, who trolled the island then. But the Turk captured him put him to death. They set up a sharpeake in the square beside the harbor, stripped the hapless hero naked, and lowered him onto it. The weight of his body drove the stake through his anus and then the rest of his body until it finally came out of his mouth ? an incredibly slow, excruciating way to die. The statue was erected on the spot where this was supposed to have happened. When it was first built, it must have been impressive, but now, what with the sea wind, dust, and seagull droppings, von could barely make out the maures. The locals hardly gave the shabby statue a passing glance, and for his part the hero looked as though hed turned his ba the people, the island, the world.
When Izumi and I sat at our outdoor cafe, drinking coffee or beer, aimlessly gazing at the boat in the harbor and at the far-off Turkish hills, we were sitting at the edge of Europe. The wind was the wind at the edge of the world. An inescapable retro color filled the place. It made me feel as if I were being quiet1y swa11owed up by an aliey, something fn and just out of reach, vague yet strangely gentle. And the shadow of that substance colored the faces, the eyes, the skin of the people gathered in the harbor.
At times, I couldnt grasp the fact that I art of this se. No matter how much I took in the sery around me, no matter how much I breathed in the air, there was naniioween me and all this.
Two months before, I had been living with my wife and our four-year-o1d son in a three-bedroom apartment in Unoki, in Tokyo. Not a spacious place, just your basic, funal apartment. My wife and I had our own bedroom, so did our son, and the remaining room served as my study. The apartment was quiet, with a nice view. On weekend, the three of us would take wa1k along the banks of the Tama River. In spring, the cherry trees by the river would blossom, and Id put my son on the bay bike, and wed go off to watch the Tokyo Giants Triple A team in spring training.
I worked at a medium-sized design pany that specialized in book and magazine layouts. Calling me a "designer" makes it sound more than it was, sihe work was fairly cut-and-dried. Nothing flamboyant or imaginative. Most of the time, our schedule was a bit too hectid several times a month I had to pull an all-nighter at the office. Some of the work bored me to tears. Still, I didnt mind the job, and the pany was a relaxed place. Because I had seniority, I was able to pid y assig and say pretty much whatever wao. My boss was O.K., and I got along with my co-workers. And the salary wasnt half bad. So if nothing had happened, I probably would have stayed with the pany for the foreseeable future. And my life, like the Moldau River -- or, more precisely, the nameless water that makes up the Moldau River -- would have tio flow, ever so swiftly; into the sea.
But then I met Izumi.
Izumi was ten years youhan I was. We met at a business meeting. Something clicked between us the first time we laid eyes on each other. Not the kind of thing that happens all that ofte a couple of times after that, to go over the details of our joint project. Id go to her offices or shed drop by mine. Our meetings were always short, other people were involved, and it was basically all business. When our project was fihough, a terrible loneliness swept over me; as if something absolutely vital had been forcibly snatched from my grasp. I had like that in years. And I think she felt the same way.
A week later, she phoned my office about some minor matter and we chatted for a bit. I told a joke, and she laughed. "Want to go out for a drink?" I asked. We went to a small bar and had a few drinks. I t recall exactly what we talked about, but we found a million topid could have talked forever. With a laserlike clarity, I could grasp everything she wao say. And things I couldnt explaio anyone else came across to her with ahat took me by surprise. We were both married, with no major plaints about our married lives. We loved our spouses and respected them. Still, this was on the order of a minor miracle ? running across someoo wham you express your feeling so clearly, so p1ete1y. Most people go their entire lives without meeting a person like that. It would have been a mistake to label this "love". It was more like total empathy.
We started going ularly for drinks. Her husbands job kept him out late, so she was free to e and go as she pleased. When got together, though, the time just flew by. Wed look at our watches and discover that we could barely make the last train. It was always hard for me to say goodbye. There was so much more we wao tell each other.
her one of us lured the other to bed, but we did start sleeping together. Wed both been faithful to our spouses up to that point, but somehow we didnt feel guilty, for the simple reason that we had to do it. Undressing her, caressing her skin, holding her close, slipping inside her, ing -- it was all just a natural extension of our versations. So natural that our lovemaking was not a source of heartrending physical pleasure; it was just a calm, pleasant act, stripped of all pretense. Best of all were our quiet talks in bed after sex. Id hold her naked body close, and shed curl up in my arms, and wed whisper secrets in our own private language.
We met whenever we could. Strangely enough, or perhaps not sely, we were absolutely vihat our relationship could go on forever, or married lives on one side of the equation, our owionship oher, with no problems arising. We were vihat our affair would never e to light. Sure we had sex, but how was that hurting anyone? On night when I slept with Izumi, Id get home late and have to make up some lie to tell my wife, and I did feel a pang of sce, but it never seemed be an actual betrayal. Izumi and I had a strictly partmentalized yet totally intimate relationship.
And if nothing had happened, maybe we would have tinued like that forever, sipping our vodka-and-tonics, slippiween the sheets whenever we could. Or maybe we would have got tired of lying to our spouses and decided to let the affair die a natura1 death so that we could return to fortable little life styles. Either way, I dont think things would have turned out badly. I t prove it; I just have that fee1ing. But a twist of fate -- iable, irospect -- intervened, and Izumis husband got wind of our affair. After grilling her, he barged into my home, totally out of trol. As luck would have it, my wife was alo the time, and the whole thing turned ugly. When I got home, she demahat I explain what going on. Izumi had already admitted everything, so I couldnt very well make up some story. I told my wife exactly what happened. "Its not like Im in love," I explained. "Its a special relationship, but p1etely different from what I have with von. Like night and day. You havee4 anything going ht? That proves its not the kind of affair youre imagining."
But my wife refused to listen. It was a shock, and she froze and literally wouldnt speak another word to me. The day, she packed al1 her things in the car and drove to her parents place, in Chigasaiki, taking our son with her. I called a couple of times, but she wouldnt e to the phone. Her father came on instead. "I dont want to hear any of your lame excuse," he warned, "and theres no way Im going to let my daughter go back to a bastard like you." Hed been dead set against our marriage from the start, and his tone of voice said hed finally been proved right.
At a plete loss, I took a few days off and just lay forlornly alone in bd. Izumi phoned me. She was alooo. Her husband had left her, as well, but not before slapping her around a bit. He had taken a pair of scissors to every stitch of clothing she owned. From her overcoat to her underwear, it all lay in tatters. She had no idea where he had gone. "Im exhausted," she said. "I dont know what to do. Everything is ruined, and itll never be the same again. Hes never ing back." She sobbed over the phone. She and her husband had been high~schoo1 sweethearts. I wao fort her, but what could I possibly say?
"Lets go somewhere and have a drink," she finally suggested. We went to Shibuya and drank until drawn at an allnight bar. Vodka gimlet for me, Daiquiris for her. I lost track of how much we drank. For the first time since wed met, we didnt have much to say. At doorked off the liquor by walking over to Harajuku, where we had coffee and breakfast at a Dennys. Thats when she brought up the idea of going to Greece.
"Greece" I asked,
"We t very well stay in Japan," she said, looking deep into my eyes.
I turhe idea around in my mind. Greece? My vodka-soaked brain couldnt follow the logic.
"Ive always wao go to Greece," she said. "Its been my dream. I wao go on my honeymoon, but we didnt have enough money. So lets go ? the two of us. And just live there, you know, with no worries about anything. Staying in Japans just going to depress us, and nothing good will e of it."
I didnt have any particular i in Greece, but I had to agree with her. We calculated how much money we had between us. She had two and a half million yen in savings, while I could e up with about one and a half million. Four million yen altogether --about forty thousand dollars.
"Forty thousand dollars should last a few years in the Geek tryside," Izumi said. Dist plaickets would set us back around four thousand. That leaves thirty-six. Figure a thousand a month, and thats enough for three years. Two and a half, to be on the safe side. What do you say? Lets go. Well let things sort themselves out later on."
<bdo></bdo>I looked around. The early-m Dennys was crowded with young couples. We were the only couple over thirty. And surely the only couple discussing taking all our money and fleeing to Greece after a disastrous affair. What a mess, I thought. I gazed at the palm of my hand for the loime. Was this really what my life had e to?
"All right," I said finally. "Lets do it."
At work day, I handed in my letter nation. My boss had heard rumors and decided that it was best to put me oended leave for the time being. My colleagues were startled to hear that 1 wao quit, but no oried very hard to talk me out of it. Quitting a job is not so difficult, after all, I discovered. Onake up your mind to get rid of something, theres very little you t discard. No ? not very little. Once you put your mind to it, theres nothing you t get rid of. And once you start tossing things out, you find yourself wanting to get rid of everything. Its as if youd gambled away almost all your money and decided, What the hell, Ill bet whats left. Too much trouble to g to the rest.
I packed everything I thought and need into one medium-sized blue Samsonite suitcase. Izumi took about the same amount of baggage.
As we were flying ypt, I was suddenly gripped by a terrible fear that someone else had taken my bag by mistake. There had to be tens of thousands of identical blue Samsonite bags in the world. Maybe Id get to Greece, open up the suitcase, and find it stuffed with some elses possessions. A severe ay attack swept over me. If the suitcase got lost, there would be nothio lio my own life ? just Izumi. I suddenly felt as if I had vanished. It was the weirdest sensation. The person sitting on that plane was no longer me. My brain had mistakenly attached itself to some ve packaging that looked like me. My mind was in utter chaos. I had to go back to Japan a baside my real body. But here was in a jet, flying ypt, and there was n back. This flesh I was temporarily occupyi as if it were made out of plaster. If I scratched myself, pieces would flake off. I began to shiver untrollably, and I couldnt stop. I khat if these shakes tinued much lohe body I was in would crack apart and turn to dust. The plane was air-ditioned, but I broke out in a sweat. My shirt stuy skin. An awful smell arose from me. All the while, Izumi held my hand tightly and gave me the occasional hug. She didnt say a word, but she kneas feeling. The shake went on food half hour; I wao die -- to stick the barrel of a revolver in my ear and pull the trigger, so that my mind and my flesh would turn to dust.
After the shakes subsided, though, I suddenly felt lighter. I relaxed my tense shoo1der and gave myself up to the flow of time. I fell into a deep sleep, and when I opened my eye, there below me lay the azure waters of the Aegean.
The biggest problem fag us on the island was an almost total lack of things to do. We didnt work, we had no friends. The island had no movie theatres or tennis courts or books to read. Wed left Japan so abruptly that I had pletely fotten t books. I read two novels Id picked up at the airport, a copy of Aeschylus tragedies that
Izumi had brought along. I read them all twice. To cater to tourists, the kiosk at the harbor stocked a few English paperbacks, but nothing caught my eye. Reading was my passion, and Id always imagihat if I had free time Id wallow in books, but, ironical1y, here I was -- with all the time in the world and nothing to read.
Izumi started studying Greek. Shed brought along a Greek-language text, and made a chart of verb jugations that she carried around, reg verbs aloud like a spell. She got to the point where she was able to talk to the shopkeepers in her broken Greek, and to the waiters wheepped by the cafe, so we mao make a few acquaintances. Not to be outdone, I dusted off my French. I figured it would e in handy someday, but on this seedy little island I never ran across a sou1 who spoke French. In toere able to get by with English. Some of the old people kalian erman. French, though, was useless.
With nothing much to do, we walked everywhere. We tried fishing in the harbor but didnt catch a thing. Lack of fish wasnt the problem; it was water was too clear. Fish could see al1 the way from the hook up to the face of the pers to catch the. Youd have to be a pretty dumb fish to get caught that way. I bought sketchbook and a set of watercolors at a local shop and tramped around the island sketg the sery and the people. Izumi would sit beside me, looking at my paintings, memorizing her Greek jugations. Local people often came to watch me sketch. To kill time, Id draw their portrait, which seemed to be a big hit. If I gave them the picture, theyd ofte us to a beer. Once, a fisherman gave us a whole octopus.
"You could make a living doing portraits, Izumi said. "Yood, and you could male a tle business out of it. Play up the fact that youre a Japaist. t be many of them around here."
I laughed, but her expression was serious. I pictured myself trekking around the Greek isles, pig up spare ge drawing portraits, enjoying the occasional free beer. Not such a bad idea, I cluded.
"And Ill be a tour coordinator for Japaourists," Izumi tinued. "There should be more of them as time goes by, and that will help make ends meet. Of course, that means Ill have to get serious about learning Greek."
"Do you really think end two and a half years doing nothing?" I asked.
"As long as we do robbed or sick or something. Barring the unforeseen, we should be able to get by. Still, its always good to prepare for the ued."
Until then, Id almost never been to a doctor, I told her.
Izumi stared straight at me, pursed her lips, and moved them to one side.
"Say I gnant;" she began. "What would you do? You protect yourself the best you , but people make mistakes. If that happened, our money would run out pretty quick"
If it es to that, we should probably go back to Japan." I said.
"You do. do you?" she said quietly "We ever go back to Japan."
Izumi tinued her study of Greek, I my sketg. This was the most peaceful time in my whole life. We ate simply and carefully sipped the cheapest wines. Every day, wed climb a nearby hill. There was a small village on top, and from there we could see other islands far away. With all the fresh air and exercise, I was soon in good shape. After the su on the island, you cou1dnt hear a sound. And in that silence Izumi and I would quietly make love and talk about all kinds of things. No more w about making the last train, or ing up with lies tell our spouses. It was wonderful beyond belief. Autumn deepened bit by bit, and early winter came on. The wind picked up, and there were witecaps in the sea.
It was around this time that we read the story about the maing cat. In the same paper, there ort about the Japanese emperors dition worsening, but wed bought it only to cheek on exge rates. The yen was tinuing to gain against the drachma. This was vital for us; the strohe yen, the more money we had.
"Speaking of cats," I said. a few days after wed read the article, "when I was a child I had a cat who disappeared ira way."
Izumi seemed to want to hear more. She lifted her face from her jugation chart and looked at me "How so?"
"I was in sed, maybe third grade. We lived in a pany house that had a big garden. There was this a piree in the garden, so tall you could barely see the top of it. One day, I was sitting on the back porch reading a book, while our tortoiseshell car laying in the garden. The cat was leaping about by itself, the way cats do sometimes. It was all worked up something, pletely oblivious of the fact that I was watg it. The 1onger I watched, the more frightened I became. The cat seemed possessed, jumping around, its fur standing on end. It was as if it was something that I. couldnt. Finally, it started rag around and around the piree, just like the tiger in Little Black Sambo. Then it screeched to an abrupt halt and scrambled up the tree to the highest branches. I could just make out its little face iopmost brahe cat was still excited and te was hiding in the branches, staring out at something. I called its name, but it acted like it didnt hear me."
"What was the cats name?" Izumi asked.
"I fet," I told her. "Gradually, evening came on, and it grew darker. I was worried and waited for a long time for the cat to climb down. Finally, it got pitch dark And we never saw the cat again."
"Thats not so unusual," Izumi said. "Cats often disappear like that. Especially when theyre i. They get overexcited and then t remember how to get home. The cat must have e down from the piree and gone off somewhere when you werent watg."
"I suppose," I said. "But I was still a kid then, and I ositive that the cat had decided to live up iree. There had to be some reason that it couldnt e down. Every day, Id sit on the pord look up at the piree, hoping to see the cat peeking out between the branches."
Izumi seemed to have lost i. She lit her sed Salem, then raised her head and looked at me.
"Do you think about your child sometime?" She asked.
I had no idea how to respond. "Sometimes I do," I said holy. "But not all the time. Occasionally something will remind me."
"Dont you want to see him?"
"Sometime I do," I said. But that was a lie, I just thought that that was the way I was supposed to feel. Whenever I was living with my son, I thought he was the cutest thing Id ever seen. Whenever I got home late, Id always go to my sons room first, to see his sleeping face. Sometimes I was seized by a desire to squeeze him so hard he might break. Now everything about him -- his face, his voice, his as -- existed in a distant land. All I could recal1 with any clarity was the smell of his soap. I liked to take baths with him and scrub him. He had sensitive skin, so my wife always kept a special bar of soap just for him. All I could recall about my own son was the smell of that soap.
"If you want to go back to Japan, do me stop you," lzumi said, "Dont worry about me. Id manage somehow."
I nodded. But I khat it wasnt going to happen.
"I wonder if your child will think of you that way when hes grown up," Izumi said. "Like you were a cat who disappeared up a piree."
I laughed. "Maybe so," I said.
Izumi crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. "Lets go home and make love, all right?" she said.
"Its still m", I said.
"Whats wrong with that?"
"Not a thing," I said.
Later, when I woke up in the middle of the night, Izumi wasnt there. I looked at my watext to the bed. Twelve-thirty; I fumbled for the lamp, switched it on, and gazed around the room. Everything was as quiet as if someone had stolen in while I slept and sprinkled silent dust all around. Two bent Sa1em butts were in the ashtray, a balled-up empty cigarette pack beside them. I got out of bed and looked out at the living room. Izumi wasnt there. She wasnt i or the bathroom. I opehe door and looked out at the front yard. Just a pair of vinyl lounge chairs, bathed in the brilliant moonlight. "Izumi," I called out in a small voiothing. I called out again, this time more loudly. My heart pounded. Was this my voice? It souoo loud, unnatural. Still no reply. A faint breeze from the sea rustled the tips of the pampas grass. I shut the door; went back to the kit, and poured myself half a glass of wio calm down.
Radiant moonlight poured i window, throwing weird shadow, the walls and floor. The whole thing looked like the symbolic set of some avant-garde play. I suddenly remembered; the night the cat had disappeared up the piree had beely like this one, a full moon with not a wisp of cloud. After dihat night, Id goo the porch again to look for the cat. As the night had deepehe moonlight had brightened. For some inexp1icab1e reason, I couldnt take my eyes off the piree. From time to time I was sure that I could make out the cats eyes, sparkliween the branches. But it was just an illusion.
I tugged on a thick sweater and a pair of jeans, snatched up the s oable, put them in my pocket, a outside. Izumi must have had trouble sleeping and go for a walk. That had to be it. The wind had pletely died down All I could hear was the sound of my tennis shoes g along the gravel, like in an exaggerated movie soundtrack. Izumi must have goo the harbor, I decided. There was only one road to the harbor, so I cou1dnt miss her. The lights in the house along the road were all off, the moonlight dyeing the ground silver. It looked like the bottom of the sea.
About halfway to the harbor, I heard the faint sound of musid came to a halt. At first I thought it was a halluation ? like when the air pressure ges and you hear a ringing in your ears. But, listening carefully, I was able to make out a melody. I held my breath and listened as hard as I could. No doubt about it, it was musiebody playing an instrument. Live, unamplified music. But what kind of instrument was it? The mandolinlike instrument that Anthony Quinn dao in "Zorba the Greek"? A bouzouki? But who would be playing a bouzouki in the middle of the night? And where?
The music seemed to be ing from the village at the top of the hill we climbed every day for exercise. I stood at the crossroads, w what to do, which dire to take. Izumi must have heard the same music at this very spot. And I had a distinct feeling that if she had she would have headed toward it.
I took the plunge and turned right at the crossroads, heading up the slope I knew so well. There were no trees lining the path, just knee-high thorny bushes away in the shadows of the cliffs. The farther I walked the louder and more distinct the music grew. I could make out the melody more clearly; too. There was a festive flashio it. I imagined some sort of ba being held in the village on top of the hill. Then I remembered that earlier that day, at the harbor, we had seen a lively wedding procession. This must be the wedding ba, g<mark>９９lib.</mark>oing on into the night.
Just then -- without warning -- I disappeared.
Maybe it was the moonlight, or that midnight music. With each step I took, I felt myself sinking deeper into a quid where my identity vanished; it was the same emotion Id had on the plane, flying ypt. This wasnt me walking in the moonlight. It was a stand-in, fashioned out of plaster. I rubbed my hand against my face. But it wasnt my face. And it wasnt my hand. My heart pounded in my chest, sending the blood c through my body at a crazy speed. This body laster puppet, a voodoo doll into whie sorcerer had breathed a fleeting life. The glow of real life was missing. My makeshift, phony muscles were just going through the motions. I pet, to be some sacrifice.
So where is the real me? I wondered.
Suddenly, Izumis voice came out of nowhere. The real you has beeen by the cats. While youve been standing here, those hungry cats have devoured you -- eaten you all up. All thats left is bones.
I looked around. It was an illusion, of course. All I could see was the rockstrewn ground, the low bushes, and their tiny shadow. The voice had been n my head.
Stop thinking such dark thoughts, I told myself. As if trying to avoid a huge wave, I g to a rock at the bottom of the sea and held my breath. The wave would surely pass by. Youre just tired, I told myself, and overwrought. Grab on to whats real. It doesnt matter what ? just grab something real. I reached into my pocket for the s. They grew sweaty in my hand.
I tried hard to think of something else. My sunny apartment ba Unoki. The record colle Id left behind. My tle jazz colley specialty was white jazz pianist of the fifties and sixties. Leristano, Al Haig, Claude Williamson, Lou Levy, Russ Freeman … Most of the albums were out of print, and it had taken a lot of time and moo collect them. I had diligently made the rounds of record shops, making trades with other collectors, slowly building up my archives. Most of the performances werent what youd call "first-rate." But I loved the unique, intimate atmosphere those musty old records veyed. The world would be a pretty dull place if it were made up of only the first-rate, right? Every detail of those record jackets came bae ? the weight a of the albums in my hands.
But now they were all gone forever. And Id obliterated them myself. Never again in this lifetime would I hear those records.
I remembered the smell of tobacco when I kissed Izumi. The feel of her lips and tongue. I closed my eyes. I wanted her beside me. I wanted her to hold my hand, as sec had when we flew ypt, and never let go.
The wave finally passed over me and away; and with it the music.
Had they stopped playing? Certainly that ossibility. After all, it was nearly one ocloaybe there had never been any music to begin with. That, too, was entirely possible. I no lorusted my hearing. I closed my eyes again and sank down into my sciousness ? dropped a thied line down into that darkness. Bu I couldnt hear a thing. Not even an echo.
I looked at my watch. And realized I wasnt wearing one. Sighing, I stuck both hands in my pockets. I didnt really care about the time. I looked up at the sky. The moon was a cold rock, its skien away by the violence of the years. The shadows on its surface were like a cer extending its awful feelers. The moonlight plays tricks with peoples minds. And makes cats disappear. Maybe it had made Izumi disappear. Maybe it had all been carefully chraphed, beginning with that one night long ago.
I stretched, bent my arms, my fingers. Should I tinue, o back the way I came? Where had Izumi gone? Without her, how was I supposed to go on living, all by myself on this backwater island? She was the only thing that held together the fragile, provisional me
I tio climb uphill. Id e this far and might as well reach the top. Had there really been music there? I had to see for myself, even if only the fai of clues remained. In five minutes, I had reached the summit. To the south, the hill sloped down to the sea, the harbor, and the sleeping town. A scattering of street lights lit the coast road. The other side of the mountain was ed in darkness. There was no indication whatsoever that a lively festival had taken place here only a short while before.
I returo the cottage and downed a glass of brandy. I tried to go to sleep, bit I couldnt. Until the eastern sky grew light, I was held in the grip of the moon. Then, suddenly, I pictured those cats, starving to death in a 1ocked apartment. I -- the real me -- was dead, and they were alive, eating my flesh, biting into my heart, sug My blood, dev my penis. Far away, I could hear they lapping up my brains. Like Macbeths witches, the three lithe cats surrounded my broken head, slurping up that thick soup ihe tips of their rough<big>?９９ｌｉb?</big> tongues licked the soft folds of my mind. And with each lick my sciousness flickered like a flame and faded away.
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