He glances in the rearview mirror, then looks in front again. 'I've never talked about that to anyone,' he says. 'Not even to my brother. Brother, sister-whatever you want to call him. Brother works for me. He doesn't know anything about those soldiers.'
I nod silently.
'And I doubt I'll ever tell anybody about it. Even you. And I don't think you'll ever talk about it to anyone, either. Even to me. You know what I'm trying to say?'
'I think so,' I tell him.
'What is it?'
'It's not something you can get across in words. The real response is something words can't express.'
'There you go,' Sada replies. 'Exactly. If you can't get it across in words then it's better not to try.'
'Even to yourself?' I ask.
'Yeah, even to yourself,' Sada says. 'Better not to try to explain it, even to yourself.'
He offers me a stick of Cool Mint gum. I take one and start chewing.
'You ever try surfing?' he asks.
'No.'
'If you have the chance I'll teach you,' he says. 'If you'd like to learn, I mean. The waves are pretty decent along the Kochi shore, and there aren't so many surfers. Surfing's a more profound kind of sport than it looks. When you surf you learn not to fight the power of nature, even if it gets violent.'
He takes out a cigarette from the pocket of his T-shirt, sticks it in his mouth, and lights it up with the dashboard lighter. 'That's another thing that words can't explain. One of those things that's neither a yes or a no answer.' He narrows his eyes and blows smoke out the window. 'In Hawaii,' he goes on, 'there's a spot they call the Toilet Bowl. There're these huge whirlpools because it's where the incoming and outgoing tides meet and crash into each other. It goes around and around like when you flush a toilet. If you wipe out there, you get pulled underwater and it's hard to float up again. Depending on the waves you might never make it back to the surface. So there you are, underwater, pounded by waves, and there's nothing you can do. Flailing around's not gonna get you anywhere. You'll just use up your energy. You've never been so scared in your life. But unless you get over that fear you'll never be a real surfer. You have to face death, get to really know it, then overcome it. When you're down in that whirlpool you start thinking about all kinds of things. It's like you get to be friends with death, have a heart-to-heart talk with it.'
At the gate he gets out of the truck and locks it back up, jiggling the chain a couple of times to make sure it'll hold.
After this we don't talk much. He leaves an FM station on as he drives, but I can tell he's not really listening to it. Having the radio on's just a token gesture. Even when we go into a tunnel and all we hear is static, he doesn't mind. With the AC broken, we leave the windows open when we get on the highway.
'If you ever feel like learning how to surf, stop by and see me,' Sada says as the Inland Sea comes into view. 'I have an extra room, and you can stay as long as you like.'
'Thanks,' I say. 'I'll take you up on that. I don't know when, though.'
'You pretty busy?'
'I have a couple of things I have to take care of.'
'Same with me,' Sada says.
We don't say anything for a long time. He's thinking over his problems, I'm thinking over mine. He keeps his eyes on the road, left hand on top of the steering wheel, and smokes an occasional cigarette. Unlike Oshima, he doesn't speed. With his elbow propped on the open window, he drives down the highway at a leisurely pace. The only time he passes other cars is when they're going way too slow. Then he reluctantly steps on the gas, goes around, then slips right back into his lane.
'Have you been surfing for a long time?' I ask him.
'Hmm,' he says, and then there's silence. Finally, when I've almost forgotten the question, he answers.
'I've been surfing since high school. Then it was just for fun. Didn't really get serious about it till six years ago. I was working at a big ad agency in Tokyo. I couldn't stand it so I quit, moved back here, and started surfing. I took out a loan, borrowed some money from my folks, and opened a surf shop. I run it alone, so I can pretty much do whatever I want.'
'Did you want to come back to Shikoku?'
'That was part of it,' he says. 'I don't know, I don't feel right unless I've got the sea and mountains nearby. People are mostly a product of where they were born and raised. How you think and feel's always linked to the lay of the land, the temperature. The prevailing winds, even. Where were you born?'
'Tokyo. In Nogata, in Nakano Ward.'
'Do you want to go back there?'
I shake my head. 'No.'
'Why not?'
'There's no reason for me to go back.'
'Okay,' he says.
'I'm not very connected to the lay of the land, the prevailing winds and all that,' I say.
'Yeah?' he says.
We're silent again. Silence doesn't seem to bother him a bit. Or me either. I just sit there, my mind a blank, listening to the music on the radio. He's staring at the road straight ahead. Eventually we exit the highway, turn north, and come into the Takamatsu city limits.
It's a little before one p. m. when we arrive at the Komura Library. Sada drops me off in front but doesn't get out himself. The engine's still on, and he's heading right back to Kochi.
'Thanks,' I say.
'Hope we can see each other soon,' he says. He sticks his hand out the window, gives a short wave, then peels out on his thick tires. Heading back to catch some big waves, to his own world, his own issues.
I put on my backpack and pass through the gate. I catch a whiff of the freshly mown lawn in the garden. It feels like I've been away for months, but it's only been four days.
Oshima's at the counter, wearing a tie, something I've never seen before. A white button-down shirt, and a mustard-yellow-and-green-striped tie. He's rolled the sleeves up to his elbows and doesn't have a jacket on. In front of him, predictably, there's a coffee cup and two neatly sharpened pencils.
'Hey,' he greets me, adding his usual smile.
'Hi,' I say back.
'Guess you caught a ride with my brother?'
'That's right.'
'Bet he didn't talk much,' Oshima says.
'Actually, we did talk a little.'
'You're lucky. Depending on who he's with, sometimes he won't say a word.'
'Did something happen here?' I ask. 'He told me there was something urgent.'
Oshima nods. 'There are a couple of things you need to know about. First of all, Miss Saeki passed away. She had a heart attack. I found her collapsed facedown on her desk upstairs on Tuesday afternoon. It happened all of a sudden, and it doesn't seem like she suffered.'
I set my pack on the floor and sit down in a chair. 'Tuesday afternoon?' I ask. 'Today's Friday, right?'
'Yes, that's right. She died after the regular Tuesday tour. I probably should've gotten in touch with you sooner, but I couldn't think straight.'
Sunk back in the chair, I find I can't move. The two of us sit there in silence for a long time. I can see the stairs leading to the second floor, the well-polished black banister, the stained glass on the landing. Those stairs always held a special significance for me, because they led to her, to Miss Saeki. But now they're just empty stairs, with no meaning at all. She's no longer there.
'As I mentioned before, I think this was all predestined,' Oshima says. 'I knew it, and so did she. Though when it actually happens, of course, it's pretty hard to take.'
When he pauses, I feel like I should say something, but the words won't come.
'According to her wishes, there won't be a funeral,' Oshima continues. 'She was quietly cremated. She left a will in a drawer in her desk upstairs. She left her entire estate to the foundation that runs the library. She left me
