9

Culverts and an Absolute Insufficiency of Electricity May Kasaharas Inquiry into the Nature of Hairpieces After seeing Kumiko off the next morning, I went to the ward pool for a swim. Mornings were best, to avoid the crowds. Back home again, I brewed myself some coffee and sat drinking it in the kitchen, going over Creta Kanos weird, unfinished story, trying to recall each event of her life in chronological order. The more I recalled, the weirder the story seemed, but soon the revolutions of my brain slowed down and I began to drift into sleep. I went to the living room, lay down on the sofa, and closed my eyes. In a moment, I was asleep and dreaming.

I dreamed about Creta Kano. Before she appeared, though, I dreamed about Malta Kano.

She was wearing a Tyrolean hat with a big, brightly colored feather. The place was crowded (it was some kind of large hall), but Malta Kanos hat caught my attention immediately. She was sitting alone at the bar. She had a big tropical drink kind of thing in front of her, but I couldnt tell whether she was actually drinking it.

I wore my suit and the polka-dot tie. As soon as I spotted Malta Kano, I tried to walk in her direction, but the crowd kept getting in my way. By the time I reached the bar, she was gone. The tropical drink stood there on the bar, in front of her now empty stool. I took the next seat at the bar and ordered a scotch on the rocks. The bartender asked me what kind of scotch Id like, and I answered Cutty Sark. I really didnt care which brand of scotch he served me, but Cutty Sark was the first thing that came to mind.

Before he could give me my drink, I felt a hand take my arm from behind, the touch as soft as if the person were grasping something that might fall apart at any moment. I turned. There stood a man without a face. Whether or not he actually had no face, I could not tell, but the place where his face was supposed to be was wrapped in a dark shadow, and I could not see what lay beyond it. This way, Mr. Okada, he said. I tried to speak, but before I could open my mouth, he said to me, Please, come with me. We have so little time. Hurry. Hand still on my arm, he guided me with rapid steps through the crowd and out into a corridor. I followed him down the corridor, unresisting. He did know my name, after all. It wasnt as if I were letting a total stranger take me anywhere he liked. There was some kind of reason and purpose to all this.

After continuing down the corridor for some time, the faceless man came to a stop in front of a door. The number on the doorplate was 208. It isnt locked. You should be the one to open it. I did as I was told and opened the door. Beyond it lay a large room. It seemed to be part of a suite of rooms in an old-fashioned hotel. The ceiling was high, and from it hung an old-fashioned chandelier. The chandelier was not lit. A small wall lamp gave off a gloomy light, the only source of illumination in the room. The curtains were closed tight.

If its whiskey you want, Mr. Okada, said the faceless man, we have plenty. Cutty Sark, wasnt it? Drink as much as youd like. He pointed to a cabinet beside the door, then closed the door silently, leaving me alone. I stood in the middle of the room for a long time, wondering what to do.

A large oil painting hung on the wall. It was a picture of a river. I looked at it for a while, hoping to calm myself down. The moon was up over the river. Its light fell faintly on the opposite shore, but so very faintly that I could not make out the scenery there. It was all vague outlines, running together.

Soon I felt a strong craving for whiskey. I thought I would open the cabinet and take a drink, as suggested by the faceless man, but the cabinet would not open. What looked like doors were actually well-made imitations of doors. I tried pushing and pulling on the various protruding parts, but the cabinet remained firmly shut.

Its not easy to open, Mr. Okada, said Kano. I realized she was standing there-and in her early-sixties outfit. Some time must go by before it will open. Today is out of the question. You might as well give up.

As I watched, she shed her clothes as easily as opening a pea pod and stood before me naked, without warning or explanation. We have so little time, Mr. Okada, lets finish this as quickly as possible. I am sorry for the rush, but I have my reasons. Just getting here was hard enough. Then she came up to me, opened my fly, and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, took out my penis. Lowering her eyes, with their false lashes, she enclosed my penis with her mouth. Her mouth was far larger than I had imagined. Inside, I immediately came erect. When she moved her tongue, the curled ends of her hair trembled as in a gentle breeze, caressing my thighs. All I could see was her hair and her false eyelashes. I sat on the bed, and she went down on her knees, her face buried in my crotch. Stop it, I said. Noboru Wataya will be here any minute. I dont want to see him here.

Kano took her mouth from my penis and said, Dont worry. We have plenty of time for this, at least.

She ran the tip of her tongue over my penis. I didnt want to come, but there was no way of stopping it. I felt as if it were being sucked out of me. Her lips and tongue held on to me like slippery life forms. I came. I opened my eyes.

Terrific. I went to the bathroom, washed my soiled underpants, and took a hot shower, washing myself with care to get rid of the sticky sensations of the dream. How many years had it been since my last wet dream? I tried to recall exactly but couldnt, it had been so long.

I stepped out of the shower and was still drying myself when the phone rang. It was Kumiko. Having just had a wet dream over another woman, I felt a little tense speaking with her.

Your voice is strange, she said. Whats wrong? Her sensitivity to such things was frightening.

Nothing, I said. I was dozing. You woke me up.

Oh, really? she said. I could feel her suspicions coming through the earpiece, which made me all the more tense.

Anyway, sorry, but Im going to be a little late today, Kumiko said. Maybe as late as nine. So Ill eat out.

Thats OK, I said. Ill find something for myself. Dont worry.

I really am sorry, she said. It had the sound of an afterthought. There was a pause, and then she hung up.

I looked at the receiver for a few seconds. Then I went to the kitchen and peeled an apple.

In the six years since I had married Kumiko, I had never slept with another woman. Which is not to say that I never felt the desire for another woman or never had the chance. Just that I never pursued it when the opportunity arose. I cant explain why, exactly, but it probably has something to do with lifes priorities.

I did once happen to spend the night with another woman. She was someone I liked, and I knew she would have slept with me. But finally, I didnt do it.

We had been working together at the law firm for several years. She was probably two or three years younger than I. Her job was to take calls and coordinate everyones schedules, and she was very good at it. She was quick, and she had an outstanding memory. You could ask her anything and she would know the answer: who was working where at what, which files were in which cabinet, that kind of thing. She handled all appointments. Everybody liked her and depended on her. On an individual basis, too, she and I were fairly close. We had gone drinking together several times. She was not exactly what you would call a beauty, but I liked her looks.

When it came time for her to quit her job to get married (she would have to move to Kyushu in connection with her husbands work), several colleagues and I invited her out for a last drink together. Afterward, she and I had to take the same train home, and because it was late, I saw her to her apartment. At the front door, she invited me in for a cup of coffee. I was worried about missing the last train, but I knew we might never see each other again, and I also liked the idea of sobering up with coffee, so I decided to go in. The place was a typical single girls apartment. It had a refrigerator that was just a little too grand for one person, and a bookshelf stereo. A friend had given her the refrigerator. She changed into something comfortable in the next room and made coffee in the kitchen. We sat on the floor, talking.

At one point when we had run out of things to say, she asked me, as if it had suddenly occurred to her, Can you name something-some concrete thing-that youre especially afraid of?

Not really, I said, after a moments thought. I was afraid of all kinds of things, but no one thing in particular. How about you?

Im scared of culverts, she said, hugging her knees. You know what a culvert is, dont you?

Some kind of ditch, isnt it? I didnt have a very precise definition of the word in mind.

Yeah, but its underground. An underground waterway. A drainage ditch with a lid on. A pitch-dark flow.

I see, I said. A culvert.

I was born and raised in the country. In Fukushima. There was a stream right near my house-a little stream, just the runoff from the fields. It flowed underground at one point into a culvert. I guess I was playing with some of the older kids when it happened. I was just two or three. The others put me in a little boat and launched it into the stream. It was probably something they did all the time, but that day it had been raining, and the water was high. The boat got away from them and carried me straight for the opening of the culvert. I would have been sucked right in if one of the local farmers hadnt happened by. Im sure they never would have found me.

She ran her left index finger over her mouth as if to check that she was still alive.

I can still picture everything that happened. Im lying on my back and being swept along by the water. The sides of the stream tower over me like high stone walls, and overhead is the blue sky. Sharp, clear blue. Im being swept along in the flow. Swish, swish, faster and faster. But I cant understand what it means. And then all of a sudden I do understand- that theres darkness lying ahead. Real darkness. Soon it comes and tries to drink me down. I can feel a cold shadow beginning to wrap itself around me. Thats my earliest memory.

She took a sip of coffee.

Im scared to death, she said. Im so scared I can hardly stand it. I feel like I did back then, like Im being swept along toward it and I cant get away.

She took a cigarette from her handbag, put it in her mouth, and lit it with a match, exhaling in one long, slow breath. This was the first time I had ever seen her smoke.

Are you talking about your marriage? I asked. Thats right, she said. My marriage. Is there some particular problem? I asked. Something concrete? She shook her head. I dont think so, she said. Not really. Just a lot of little things. I didnt know what to say to her, but the situation demanded that I say something. Everybody experiences this feeling to some extent when theyre about to get married, I think. Oh, no, Im making this terrible mistake! Youd probably be abnormal if you didnt feel it. Its a big decision, picking somebody to spend your life with. So its natural to be scared, but you dont have to be that scared. Thats easy to say-Everybody feels like that. Everybodys the same, she said. Eleven oclock had come and gone. I had to find a way to bring this conversation to a successful conclusion and get out of there. But before I could say anything, she suddenly asked me to hold her. Why? I asked, caught off guard. To charge my batteries, she said. Charge your batteries?

My body has run out of electricity. I havent been able to sleep for days now. The minute I get to sleep I wake up, and then I cant get back to sleep. I cant think. When I get like that, somebody has to charge my batteries. Otherwise, I cant go on living. Its true.

I peered into her eyes, wondering if she was still drunk, but they were once again her usual cool, intelligent eyes. She was far from drunk.

But youre getting married next week. You can have him hold you all you want. Every night. Thats what marriage is for. Youll never run out of electricity again.

The problem is now, she said. Not tomorrow, not next week, not next month. Im out of electricity now.

Lips clamped shut, she stared at her feet. They were in perfect alignment. Small and white, they had ten pretty toenails. She really, truly wanted somebody to hold her, it seemed, and so I took her in my arms. It was all very weird. To me, she was just a capable, pleasant colleague. We worked in the same office, told each other jokes, and had gone out for drinks now and then. But here, away from work, in her apartment, with my arms around her, we were nothing but warm lumps of flesh. We had been playing our assigned roles on the office stage, but stepping down from the stage, abandoning the provisional images that we had been exchanging there, we were both just unstable, awkward lumps of flesh, warm pieces of meat outfitted with digestive tracts and hearts and brains and reproductive organs. I had my arms wrapped around her back, and she had her breasts pressed hard against my chest. They were larger and softer than I had imagined them to be. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, and she was slumped against me. We stayed in that position for a long time, holding each other without a word.

Is this all right? I asked, in a voice that did not sound like my own. It was as if someone else were speaking for me.

She said nothing, but I could feel her nod.

She was wearing a sweatshirt and a thin skirt that came down to her knees, but soon I realized that she had nothing on underneath. Almost automatically, this gave me an erection, and she seemed to be aware of it. I could feel her warm breath on my neck.

In the end, I didnt sleep with her. But I did have to go on charging her batteries until two in the morning. She pleaded with me to stay with her until she was asleep. I took her to her bed and tucked her in. But she remained awake for a long time. She changed into pajamas, and I went on holding and recharging her. In my arms, I felt her cheeks grow hot and her heart pound. I couldnt be sure I was doing the right thing, but I knew of no other way to deal with the situation. The simplest thing would have been to sleep with her, but I managed to sweep that possibility from my mind. My instincts told me not to do it.

Please dont hate me for this, she said. My electricity is just so low I cant help it. Dont worry, I said. I understand. I knew I should call home, but what could I have said to Kumiko? I didnt want to lie, but I knew it would be impossible for me to explain to her what was happening. And after a while, it didnt seem to matter anymore. Whatever happened would happen. I left her apartment at two oclock and didnt get home until three. It was tough finding a cab.

Kumiko was furious, of course. She was sitting at the kitchen table, wide awake, waiting for me. I said I had been out drinking and playing mah-jongg with the guys from the office. Why couldnt I have made a simple phone call? she demanded. It had never crossed my mind, I said. She was not convinced, and the lie became apparent almost immediately. I hadnt played mah-jongg in years, and I just wasnt cut out for lying in any case. I ended up confessing the truth. I told her the entire story from beginning to end-without the erection part, of course-maintaining that I had done nothing with the woman.

Kumiko refused to speak to me for three days. Literally. Not a word. She slept in the other room, and she ate her meals alone. This was the greatest crisis our marriage had faced. She was genuinely angry with me, and I understood exactly how she felt.

After her three days of silence, Kumiko asked me, What would you think if you were in my position? These were the very first words she spoke. What if I had come home at three oclock Sunday morning without so much as a telephone call? Ive been in bed with a man all this time, but dont worry, I didnt do anything, please believe me. I was just recharging his batteries. OK, great, lets have breakfast and go to sleep. You mean to say you wouldnt get angry, youd just believe me?

I kept quiet.

And what you did was even worse than that, Kumiko continued. You lied to me! You said you were drinking and playing mah-jongg. A total lie! How do you expect me to believe you didnt sleep with her?

Im sorry I lied, I said. I should never have done that. But the only reason I lied was because the truth was so difficult to explain. I want you to believe me: I really didnt do anything wrong.

Kumiko put her head down on the table. I felt as if the air in the room were gradually thinning out.

I dont know what to say, I said. I cant explain it other than to ask you to believe me. All right. If you want me to believe you, I will, she said. But I want you to remember this: Im probably going to do the same thing to you someday. And when that time comes, I want you to believe me. I have that right.

Kumiko had never exercised that right. Every once in a while, I imagined how I would feel if she did exercise it. I would probably believe her, but my reaction would no doubt be as complex and as difficult to deal with as Kumikos. To think that she had made a point of doing such a thing-and for what? Which was exactly how she must have felt about me back then.

Mr. Wind-Up Bird! came a voice from the garden. It was May Kasahara.

Still toweling my hair, I went out to the veranda. She was sitting on the edge, biting a thumbnail. She wore the same dark sunglasses as when I had first met her, plus cream-colored cotton pants and a black polo shirt. In her hand was a clipboard.

I climbed it, she said, pointing to the cinder-block wall. Then she brushed away the dirt clinging to her pants. I kinda figured I had the right place. Im glad it was yours! Think if I had come over the wall into the wrong house!

She took a pack of Hope regulars from her pocket and lit up. Anyhow, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, how are you? OK, I guess. Im going to work now, she said. Why dont you come along? We work in teams of two, and itd be sooo much better for me to have somebody I know. Some new guyd ask me all kinds of questions-How old are you? Why arent you in school? Its such a pain! Or maybe hed turn out to be a pervert. It happens, you know! Do it for me, will you, Mr. Wind- Up Bird?

Is it that job you told me about- some kind of survey for a toupee maker?

Thats it, she said. All you have to do is count bald heads on the Ginza from one to four. Its easy! And itll be good for you. Youll be bald someday too, the way youre going, so you better check it out now while you still have hair.

Yeah, but how about you? Isnt the truant officer going to get you if they see you doing this stuff on the Ginza in the middle of the day?

Nah. I just tell em its fieldwork for social studies. It always works.

With no plans for the afternoon, I decided to tag along. May Kasahara phoned her company to say we would be coming in. On the telephone, she turned into a very proper young woman: Yes, sir, I would like to team up with him, yes, that is correct, thank you very much, yes, I understand, yes, we can be there after noon. I left a note for Kumiko saying I would be back by six, in case she got home early, then I left the house with May Kasahara.

The toupee company was in Shimbashi. On the subway, May Kasahara explained how the survey worked. We were to stand on a street corner and count all the bald men (or those with thinning hair) who walked by. We were to classify them according to the degree of their baldness: C, those whose hair might have thinned somewhat; B, those who had lost a lot; and A, those who were really bald. May took a pamphlet from her folder and showed me examples of the three stages.

You get the idea pretty much, right, which heads fit which categories? I wont go into detail. Itd take all day. But you get it pretty much, right, which is which?

Pretty much, I said, without exuding a great deal of confidence.

On May Kasaharas other side sat an overweight company type-a very definite B-who kept glancing uneasily at the pamphlet, but she seemed not to notice how nervous this was making him.

Ill be in charge of putting them into categories, and you stand next to me with a survey sheet. You put them in A, B, or C, depending on what I tell you. Thats all there is to it. Easy, right? I guess so, I said. But whats the point of taking a survey like this? I dunno, she said. Theyre doing them all over Tokyo-in Shinjuku, Shibuya, Aoyama.

Maybe theyre trying to find out which neighborhood has the most bald men? Or they want to know the proportions of A, B, and C types in the population? Who knows? Theyve got so much money, they dont know what to do with it. So they can waste it on stuff like this. Profits are huge in the wig business. The employees get much bigger bonuses than in just any old company. Know why? No. Why?

Wigs dont last long. Bet you didnt know: toupees are good for two, maybe three years max. The better made they are, the faster they get used up. Theyre the ultimate consumer product. Its cause they fit so tightly against the scalp: the hair underneath gets thinner than ever. Once that happens, you have to buy a new one to get that perfect fit again. And think about it: What if you were using a toupee and it was no good after two years-what would go through your mind? Would you think, OK, my wigs worn out. Cant wear it anymore. But itll cost too much to buy a new one, so tomorrow Ill start going to work without one? Is that what youd think?

I shook my head. Probably not, I said.

Of course not. Once a guy starts using a wig, he has to keep using one. Its, like, his fate. Thats why the wig makers make such huge profits. I hate to say it, but theyre like drug dealers. Once they get their hooks into a guy, hes a customer for life. Have you ever heard of a. bald guy suddenly growing a head of hair? I never have. A wigs got to cost half a million yen at least, maybe a million for a tough one. And you need a new one every two years! Wow! Even a car lasts longer than that-four or five years. And then you can trade it in!

I see what you mean, I said.

Plus, the wig makers run their own hairstyling salons. They wash the wigs and cut the customers real hair. I mean, think about it: you cant just plunk yourself down in an ordinary barbers chair, rip off your wig, and say, Id like a trim, can you? The income from these places alone is tremendous.

You know all kinds of things, I said, with genuine admiration. The B-category company type next to May was listening to our conversation with obvious fascination.

Sure, she said. The guys at the office like me. They tell me everything. The profits in this business are huge. They make the wigs in Southeast Asia and places like that, where labor is cheap. They even get the hair there- in Thailand or the Philippines. The women sell their hair to the wig companies. Thats how they earn their dowries in some places. The whole worlds so weird! The guy sitting next to you might actually be wearing the hair of some woman in Indonesia.

By reflex, I and the B-man looked around at the others in the car.

We stopped off at the companys Shimbashi office to pick up an envelope containing survey sheets and pencils. This company supposedly had a number two market share, but it was utterly discreet, without even a name plaque at the entrance, so that customers could come and go with ease. Neither the envelope nor the survey sheets bore the company name. At the survey department, I filled out a part-time workers registration form with my name, address, educational background, and age. This office was an incredibly quiet place of business. There was no one shouting into the telephone, no one banging away at a computer keyboard with sleeves rolled up. Each individual worker was neatly dressed and pursuing his or her own task with quiet concentration. As might be expected at a toupee makers office, not one man here was bald. Some might even be wearing the companys product, but it was impossible for me to tell those who were from those who werent. Of all the companies I had ever visited, this had the strangest ambience. We took the subway to the Ginza. Early and hungry, we stopped at the Dairy Queen for a hamburger. Tell me, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, said May Kasahara, would you wear a toupee if you were bald? I wonder, I said. I dont like things that take time and trouble. I probably wouldnt try to fight it if I went bald. Good, she said, wiping the ketchup from her mouth with a paper napkin. Thats the way. Bald men never look as bad as they think. To me, its nothing to get so upset about. I wonder, I said.

For the next three hours, we sat at the subway entrance by the Wako Building, counting the bald-headed men who passed by. Looking down at the heads going up and down the subway stairs was the most accurate method of determining the degree of baldness of any one head. May Kasahara would say A or B or C, and I would write it down. She had obviously done this many times. She never fumbled or hesitated or corrected herself, but assigned each head to its proper category with great speed and precision, uttering the letters in low, clipped tones so as not to be noticed by the passersby. This called for some rapid-fire naming whenever a large group of bald heads passed by at once: CCBABCAAC-CBBB. At one point, an elegant-looking old gentleman (who himself possessed a full head of snow- white hair) stopped to watch us in action, Pardon me, he said to me after a while, but might I ask what you two are doing?

Survey, I said. What kind of survey? he asked. Social studies, I said. C A C A B C, said May Kasahara. The old gentleman seemed less than convinced, but he went on watching us until he gave up and wandered off somewhere. When the Mitsukoshi clock across the street signaled four oclock, we ended our survey and went back to the Dairy Queen for a cup of coffee. It had not been strenuous work, but I found my neck and shoulders strangely stiff. Maybe it was from the covert nature of the job, a guilty feeling I had about counting bald men in secret. All the time we were on the subway heading back to company headquarters in Shimbashi, I found myself automatically assigning each bald head I saw to category A or B or C, which almost made me queasy. I tried to stop myself, but by then a kind of momentum had set in. We handed in our survey forms and re- ceived our pay-rather good pay for the amount of time and effort involved. I signed a receipt and put the money in my pocket. May Kasahara and I rode the subway to Shinjuku and from there took the Odakyu Line home. The afternoon rush hour was starting. This was my first ride on a crowded train in some time, but it hardly filled me with nostalgia.

Pretty good job, dont you think? said May Kasahara, standing next to me on the train. Its easy, pays not bad.

Pretty good, I said, sucking on a lemon drop. Go with me next time? We can do it once a week. Why not? I said. You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, May Kasahara said after a short silence, as if a thought had suddenly come to her, I bet the reason people are afraid of going bald is because it makes them think of the end of life. I mean, when your hair starts to thin, it must feel as if your life is being worn away ... as if youve taken a giant step in the direction of death, the last Big Consumption.

I thought about it for a while. Thats one way to look at it, Im sure, I said.

You know, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, I sometimes wonder what it must feel like to die little by little over a long period of time. What do you think?

Unsure exactly what she was getting at, I changed my grip on the hand strap and looked into her eyes. Can you give me a concrete example of what you mean by that-to die little by little?

Well... I dont know. Youre trapped in the dark all alone, with nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and little by little you die....

It must be terrible, I said. Painful. I wouldnt want to die like that if I could help it.

But finally, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, isnt that just what life is? Arent we all trapped in the dark somewhere, and theyve taken away our food and water, and were slowly dying, little by little ... ?

I laughed. Youre too young to be so ... pessimistic, 1 said, using the English word.

Pessi-what?

Pessimistic. It means looking only at the dark side of things.

Pessimistic ... pessimistic ... She repeated the English to herself over and over, and then she looked up at me with a fierce glare. Im only sixteen, she said, and I dont know much about the world, but I do know one thing for sure. If Im pessimistic, then the adults in this world who are not pessimistic are a bunch of idiots.