said.'
Once I've spoken this, put this thought into concrete words, a hollow feeling grabs hold of me. And inside that hollow, my heart pounds out a vacant, metallic rhythm.
Expression unchanged, Oshima gazes at me for a long time.
'So he said that someday you would kill your father with your own hands, that you would sleep with your mother.'
I nod a few more times.
'The same prophecy made about Oedipus. Though of course you knew that.'
I nod. 'But that's not all. There's an extra ingredient he threw into the mix. I have a sister six years older than me, and my father said I would sleep with her, too.'
'Your father actually said this to you?'
'Yeah. I was still in elementary school then, and didn't know what he meant by 'be with.' It was only a few years later that I caught on.'
Oshima doesn't say anything.
'My father told me there was nothing I could do to escape this fate. That prophecy is like a timing device buried inside my genes, and nothing can ever change it. I will kill my father and be with my mother and sister.'
Oshima stays silent for quite some time, like he's inspecting each word I'd spoken, one by one, examining them for clues to what this is all about. 'Why in the world would your father tell you such an awful thing?' he finally asks.
'I have no idea. He didn't explain it beyond that,' I say, shaking my head. 'Maybe he wanted revenge on his wife and daughter who left him. Wanted to punish them, perhaps. Through me.'
'Even if it meant hurting you?'
I nod. 'To my father I'm probably nothing more than one of his sculptures. Something he could make or break as he sees fit.'
'That's a pretty twisted way of thinking,' Oshima says.
'In our home everything was twisted. And when everything's twisted, what's normal ends up looking weird too. I've known this for a long time, but I was a child. Where else could I go?'
'I've seen your father's works a number of times,' Oshima replies. 'He's a wonderful sculptor. His pieces are original, provocative, powerful. Uncompromising, is how I'd put it. Most definitely the real thing.'
'Maybe so. But the dregs left over from creating these he spread everywhere, like a poison you can't escape. My father polluted everything he touched, damaged everyone around him. I don't know if he did it because he wanted to. Maybe he had to. Maybe it's just part of his makeup. Anyhow, I get the feeling he was connected to something very unusual. Do you have any idea what I mean?'
'Yeah, I think so,' Oshima says. 'Something beyond good and evil. The source of power, you might call it.'
'And half my genes are made up of that. Maybe that's why my mother abandoned me. Maybe she wanted to cut herself off from me because I was born from this terrible source. Since I was polluted.'
Oshima lightly presses his fingertips against his temples as he mulls this over. He narrows his eyes and stares at me. 'Is there any chance he's not your biological father?'
I shake my head. 'A few years ago we got tested at a hospital. The two of us had a DNA check done on our blood. No doubt about it-biologically we're father and son a hundred percent. They showed me the results of the tests.'
'Very cautious of him.'
'I guess he wanted me to know I was one of the works he'd created. Something he'd finished and signed.'
Oshima's fingers stay pressed to his temples. 'But your father's prophecy didn't come true, did it? You didn't murder him. You were here in Takamatsu when it happened. Somebody else killed him in Tokyo.'
Silently I spread my hands out in front of me and stare at them. Those hands that, in the darkness of night, had been covered with blood. 'I'm not so sure of that,' I tell him.
And I proceed to tell him everything. About how that night, on my way back to the hotel, I'd lost consciousness for a few hours. About waking up in the woods behind the shrine, my shirt sticky with somebody's blood. About washing the blood off in the restroom. About how several hours had been erased from my memory. To save time I don't go into how I stayed overnight at Sakura's. Oshima asks the occasional question, and files away the details in his head. But he doesn't voice any opinions.
'I have no idea how that blood got all over me, or whose blood it could be. It's a complete blank,' I tell him. 'But maybe I did kill my father with my own hands, not metaphorically. I really get the feeling that I did. Like you said, I was in Takamatsu that day-I definitely didn't go to Tokyo. But In dreams begin responsibilities, right?'
Oshima nods. 'Yeats.'
'So maybe I murdered him through a dream,' I say. 'Maybe I went through some special dream circuit or something and killed him.'
'To you that might feel like the truth, but nobody's going to grill you about your poetic responsibilities. Certainly not the police. Nobody can be in two places at once. It's a scientific fact-Einstein and all that-and the law accepts that principle.'
'But I'm not talking about science or law here.'
'What you're talking about, Kafka,' Oshima says, 'is just a theory. A bold, surrealistic theory, to be sure, but one that belongs in a science fiction novel.'
'Of course it's just a theory. I know that. I don't think anybody else is going to believe such a stupid thing. But my father always used to say that without counterevidence to refute a theory, science would never progress. A theory is a battlefield in your head-that was his pet phrase. And right now I can't think of any evidence to counter my hypothesis.'
Oshima is silent. And I can't think of anything else to say.
'Anyway,' Oshima finally says, 'that's why you ran away to Shikoku. To escape your father's curse.'
I nod, and point to the folded-up newspaper. 'But it looks like there's no escape.'
Distance won't solve anything, the boy named Crow says.
'Well, you definitely need a hiding place,' Oshima says. 'Beyond that there's not much I can say.'
I suddenly realize how exhausted I am. I lean against Oshima, and he wraps his arms around me.
I push my face up against his flat chest. 'Oshima, I don't want to do those things. I don't want to kill my father. Or be with my mother and sister.'
'Of course you don't,' he replies, running his fingers through my short hair. 'How could you?'
'Not even in dreams.'
'Or in a metaphor,' Oshima adds. 'Or in an allegory, or an analogy.' He pauses and then says, 'If you don't mind, I'll stay with you here tonight. I can sleep on the chair.'
But I turn him down. I think I'm better off alone for a while, I tell him.
Oshima brushes the strands of hair off his forehead. After hesitating a bit he says, 'I know I'm a hopeless, damaged, homosexual woman, and if that's what's bothering you…'
'No,' I say, 'that's not it at all. I just need some time alone to think. Too many things have happened all at once. That's all.'
Oshima writes down a phone number on a memo pad. 'In the middle of the night, if you feel like talking to anybody, call this number. Don't hesitate, okay? I'm a light sleeper anyway.' I thank him.
That's the night I see a ghost.
Chapter 22
The truck Nakata was riding in arrived in Kobe just after five in the morning. It was light out, but the warehouse was still closed and their freight couldn't be unloaded. They parked the truck in a broad street near the harbor and took a nap. The young driver stretched out on the back seat-his usual spot for napping-and was soon
