“To the sheep’s thinking, of course it’s good.”
“And to yours?”
“I don’t know,” said the old man. “I really don’t know. Ever since the sheep departed, I can’t tell how much is really me and how much the shadow of the sheep.”
“A while ago, you said something about having a hand to play. What would that be?”
“I have no intention of telling you that.” The Sheep Professor shook his head.
Once again, silence shrouded the room. Outside, a hard rain began to fall. The first rain since we’d arrived in Sapporo.
“One last thing: could you tell us where the place in the photograph is?” I asked.
“The homestead where I lived for nine years. I raised sheep there. Appropriated right after the war by the American Forces, and when they repatriated the place to me I sold it to some rich man as a vacation home with pasture. Ought to still be the same owner.”
“And would he still be raising sheep?”
“I don’t know. But from the photograph it sure looks as if he’s raising sheep. Whatever, it’s a good remove from any settlements. Not another house in sight. The roads are blocked in the winter. I’m sure the owner uses the place only two, maybe three months a year. It’s nice and quiet there.”
“Does anyone look after the place when the owner’s not there?”
“I doubt if anyone stays there over the winter. Other than myself, I can’t imagine any other human staying there the winter through. You can pay the municipal shepherds in the town at the foot of the hills to look after the sheep. The roof of the house is sloped so that the snow naturally slides off onto the ground, and no worry about burglars. Even if somebody did steal something up there, it’d be a pain to get it to town. It’s staggering, the amount of snow that falls there.”
“So is anyone there now?”
“Hmm. Maybe not now. The snow’s going to start soon and bears’ll be roaming around for food before they go into hibernation. You’re not planning to head up there?”
“Probably will have to. We have no other real lead.”
The Sheep Professor sat for a while with his mouth shut. Tomato sauce from the meatballs at the corner of his mouth.
“You should probably know that prior to you one other person came here asking about the homestead. Around February it was. Age and appearance, well, kind of like you. He said he was interested in the photograph in the hotel lobby. I was pretty bored at the time, so I told him this and that. He said he was looking for material for a novel he was writing.”
Out of my pocket I pulled a snapshot of the Rat and me together. It was taken in the summer eight years before, in J’s Bar. I was in profile, smoking a cigarette, the Rat was looking at the camera, signaling thumbs up. Both of us were young and tan.
“This one’s you, eh?” said the Sheep Professor, holding the snapshot under the lamp. “Younger than now.”
“You’re right—taken eight years ago.”
“The other one’s that man. He looked older than in this photo and had a moustache, but it was him.”
“A moustache?”
“A neat little moustache and the rest stubble.”
I tried to picture the Rat with a moustache, but couldn’t quite see it.
The Sheep Professor drew us a detailed map to the homestead. You had to change trains near Asahikawa to a branch line and travel three hours to get to the town at the foot of the hills. From there it was three hours by car to the homestead.
“Thank you kindly for everything,” I said.
“If you really want to know the truth, I think the fewer people that get involved with that sheep the better. I’m a prime example. There’s not a soul the happier for having tangled with it. The values of one lone individual cannot bear up before the presence of that sheep. But well, I guess you’ve got your reasons.”
“That I do.”
“Be careful now,” said the Sheep Professor. “And place the dishes by the door if you would.”
Farewell to the Dolphin Hotel
We took one day to ready for our departure.
We got mountaineering supplies and portable rations at a sporting-goods store, and bought heavy fishermen’s knit sweaters and woolen socks at a department store. At a bookstore, we bought a 1:50,000-scale map of the area we were headed for and a tome on the local history. We also settled on some rugged spiked boots and padded thermal underwear.
“All these layers do absolutely nothing for my line of work,” she said.
“When you’re out in the snow, you won’t have time to think about that,” I said.
“You planning to stay until the heavy snows?”
“Can’t tell. But I do know it’ll already be starting by the end of October. Better to be prepared. No telling what to expect.”
We hauled our purchases back to the hotel and stuffed them into a large backpack, then we gathered together all the extra items we’d brought from Tokyo and left them with the Dolphin Hotel man. As a matter of fact, almost everything she’d brought in her bag was extra. A cosmetics set, five books and six cassettes, one paper bag full of stockings and underwear, T-shirts and shorts, a travel alarm clock, a sketchbook and set of twenty-four colored pencils, stationery and envelopes, bath towel, mini first-aid kit, hair dryer, cotton swabs.
“But why are you bringing your dress and high-heels with us?”
“What am I supposed to do if we go to a party?” she pleaded.
“What makes you think there’s going to be a party?”
There was no reasoning with her. She managed to fit her dress, neatly folded, and high heels into our backpack along with our pared-down effects. For cosmetics, she switched to a travel compact she picked up at a nearby shop.
The hotel owner accepted the luggage graciously. I settled the bill up through the following day and told him we’d be back in a week or two.
“Was my father of any help?” he asked worriedly.
I said that he’d helped enormously.
“I sometimes wish I could go off in search of something,” he declared, “but before getting even that far, I myself wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to search for. Now my father, he’s someone who’s been searching for something all his life. He’s still searching today. Ever since I was a little boy, my father’s told me about the white sheep that came to him in his dreams. So I always thought that’s what life is like. An ongoing search.”
The lobby of the Dolphin Hotel was hushed as ever. An elderly maid was going up and down the stairs with a mop.
“My father’s seventy-three now and still no sheep. I don’t know if the thing even exists. I can’t help thinking that it hasn’t been such a good life for him. I want to see my father happy now more than ever, but he just belittles me and won’t listen to a word I say. That’s because I have no purpose in life.”
“But you have the Dolphin Hotel,” my girlfriend said sweetly.
“Besides, your father’s stepped down from his sheep searching,” I added. “We’ve taken up the rest.”
The hotel owner smiled.
“If that’s so, there’s nothing more for me to say. We two ought to get on very happily.”
“I sure hope so,” I said.
