'I would think so. I mean, you still have to finish junior high-that's the law. You can't just go anywhere you want to at your age. The law says you still need a guardian.'
I shake my head. 'I don't want to explain anything to anybody. And I don't want to go back home to Tokyo, or back to school.'
Quiet for a time, Oshima looks at me intently. 'That's something you'll have to decide for yourself,' he finally says in a calm tone. 'I think you have a right to live however you want. Whether you're fifteen or fifty-one, what does it matter? But unfortunately society doesn't agree. So let's say you don't explain anything to anybody. You'll be constantly on the run from the police and society. Your life will be pretty harsh. You're only fifteen, with your whole life ahead of you. You're okay with that?'
I don't say anything.
Oshima picks up the paper and scans the article again. 'According to this you're your father's only relative.'
'I have a mother and an older sister,' I explain, 'but they left a long time ago, and I don't know where they are. Even if I did, I seriously doubt they'd come to the funeral.'
'Well, if you're not there, I wonder who's going to take care of everything. The funeral, his business affairs.'
'Like it said in the paper, he has a secretary at his office who's in charge of everything. She knows about his business, so I'm sure she can handle it. I don't want anything of his handed down to me. The house, his estate, whatever-they can get rid of it however they want.' The only thing he's handed down to me, I think, are my genes.
'Correct me if I'm wrong,' Oshima says, 'but you don't seem too sad your father was murdered.'
'No, I do feel sad. He's my father, after all. But what I really regret is that he didn't die sooner. I know that's a terrible thing to say…'
Oshima shakes his head. 'No problem. Now more than ever you have the right to be honest.'
'Well, I think…' My voice seems weak, lacking in authority. Unsure of where they're headed, my words are sucked into the void. Oshima comes over and sits down next to me.
'All kinds of things are happening to me,' I begin. 'Some I chose, some I didn't. I don't know how to tell one from the other anymore. What I mean is, it feels like everything's been decided in advance-that I'm following a path somebody else has already mapped out for me. It doesn't matter how much I think things over, how much effort I put into it. In fact, the harder I try, the more I lose my sense of who I am. It's like my identity's an orbit that I've strayed far away from, and that really hurts. But more than that, it scares me. Just thinking about it makes me flinch.'
Oshima reaches out to touch my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of his hand. 'For the sake of argument, let's say all your choices and all your effort are destined to be a waste. You're still very much yourself and nobody else. And you're forging ahead, as yourself. So relax.'
I raise my head and look at him. He sounds so convincing. 'Why do you think that?'
'Because there's irony involved.'
'Irony?'
Oshima gazes deep into my eyes. 'Listen, Kafka. What you're experiencing now is the motif of many Greek tragedies. Man doesn't choose fate. Fate chooses man. That's the basic worldview of Greek drama. And the sense of tragedy-according to Aristotle-comes, ironically enough, not from the protagonist's weak points but from his good qualities. Do you know what I'm getting at? People are drawn deeper into tragedy not by their defects but by their virtues. Sophocles' Oedipus Rex being a great example. Oedipus is drawn into tragedy not because of laziness or stupidity, but because of his courage and honesty. So an inevitable irony results.'
'But it's a hopeless situation.'
'That depends,' Oshima says. 'Sometimes it is. But irony deepens a person, helps them mature. It's the entrance to salvation on a higher plane, to a place where you can find a more universal kind of hope. That's why people enjoy reading Greek tragedies even now, why they're considered prototypical classics. I'm repeating myself, but everything in life is metaphor. People don't usually kill their father and sleep with their mother, right? In other words, we accept irony through a device called metaphor. And through that we grow and become deeper human beings.'
I don't say anything. I'm too involved in thinking about my own situation.
'How many people know you're in Takamatsu?' Oshima asks.
I shake my head. 'Coming here was my own idea, so I don't think anybody else knows.'
'Then you'd better lay low in the library for a while. Don't go out to work at the reception area. I don't think the police will be able to track you down, but if things get sticky you can always hide out at the cabin.'
I look at Oshima. 'If I hadn't met you, I don't think I would've made it. There's nobody else who can help me.'
Oshima smiles. He takes his hand away from my shoulder and stares at his hand. 'That's not true. If you hadn't met me, I'm sure you would've found another path to take. I don't know why, but I'm certain of it. I just get that feeling about you.' He stands up and brings over another newspaper from the desk. 'By the way, this article was in the paper the day before the other one. I remember it because it was so unusual. Maybe it's just coincidence, but it took place near your house.'
FISH RAIN FROM THE SKY!
2,000 Sardines and Mackerel in Nakano Ward Shopping District At around 6 p.m. on the evening of the 29th, residents of the *-chome district of Nakano Ward were startled when some 2,000 sardines and mackerel rained down from the sky. Two housewives shopping in the neighborhood market received slight facial injuries when struck by the falling fish, but no other injuries were reported. At the time of the incident it was sunny, with no clouds or wind. Many of the fish were still alive and jumped about on the pavement…
I finish reading the article and pass the paper back to Oshima. The reporter speculated about several possible causes of the incident, though none of them are very convincing. The police are investigating the possibility it involved theft and someone playing a kind of practical joke. The Weather Service reported that there weren't any atmospheric conditions present that might have led to fish raining from the sky. And from the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries spokesman, still no comment.
'Do you have any idea why this happened?' Oshima asks me.
I shake my head. I don't have a clue.
'The day after your father was murdered, close to where it happened, two thousand sardines and mackerel fall from the sky. Just coincidence?'
'I suppose so.'
'The newspaper also says that at the Fujigawa rest area on the Tomei Highway, late at night on the very same day, a mess of leeches fell from the sky in one small spot. Several fender benders resulted, they say. Apparently the leeches were quite large. No one can explain why leeches would rain from the sky. It was a clear night, not a cloud in the sky. No idea why this happened, either?'
Again I shake my head.
Oshima folds up the newspaper and says, 'Which leaves us with the fact that strange, inexplicable events are happening one after the other. Maybe it's just a series of coincidences, but it still bothers me. There's something about it I can't shake.'
'Maybe it's a metaphor?' I venture.
'Maybe… But sardines and mackerel and leeches raining down from the sky? What kind of metaphor is that?'
In the silence I try putting into words something I haven't been able to say for a long time. 'You know something? A few years back my father had a prophecy about me.'
'A prophecy?'
'I've never told anybody this before. I figured nobody'd believe me.'
Oshima doesn't say a word. His silence, though, encourages me.
'More like a curse than a prophecy, I guess. My father told me this over and over. Like he was chiseling each word into my brain.' I take a deep breath and check once more what it is I have to say. Not that I really need to check it-it's always there, banging about in my head, whether I examine it or not. But I have to weigh the words one more time. And this is what I say: 'Someday you will murder your father and be with your mother, he
