Vintage Murakami by Haruki Murakami Read Free Book Online

holds someone’s hand, it’s all she can do to communicate that “this thing is here.”
    She keeps holding my hand for a very long time, until I say, “Thank you,” and slowly, little by little, her fingers unfold.
    “Shizuko never says ‘hurt’ or ‘tired,’ ” Tatsuo tells me driving back later. “She does therapy every day: arm-and-leg training, speech-training, various other programs with specialists—none of it easy, it’s tough going—but when the doctor or nurses ask her if she’s tired, only three times has she ever said ‘Yes.’ Three times.
    “That’s why—as everyone involved agrees—Shizuko has recovered as much as she has. From being unconscious on an artificial respirator to actually talking, it’s like something out of a dream.”
    “What do you want to do when you get well?” I think to ask her.
    “Aeh-ehh
,
”
she says. I don’t understand.
    “ ‘Travel,’ maybe?” suggests Tatsuo after a moment’s thought.
    “
Ehf
[Yes],” concurs Shizuko with a nod.
    “And where do you want to go?” I ask.
    “Ii-yu-nii-an
.
”
This no one understands, but with a bit of trial and error it becomes clear she means “Disneyland.”
    “Ehf,”
says Shizuko with an emphatic nod.
    It’s not easy to associate “travel” with “Disneyland.” Anyone who lives in Tokyo would not generally consider an outing to Tokyo Disneyland “travel.” But in her mind, lacking an awareness of distance, going to Disneyland must be like some great adventure. It’s no different, conceptually, than if we were to set out, say, for Greenland. For a fact, going to Disneyland would be a more difficult undertaking for her in practice than for us to travel to the ends of the earth.
    Tatsuo’s two children—eight and four—remember going to Tokyo Disneyland with their auntie and tell her about it each time they visit the hospital: “It was really fun,” they say. So Disneyland as a place has become fixed in her mind as something like a symbol of freedom and health. Nobody knows if Shizuko can actually remember having been there herself. It may only be a later implanted memory. After all, she doesn’t even remember her own room where she lived for so long.
    Real or imaginary, however, Disneyland is a distinct place in her mind. We can get close to that image, but we can’t see the view she sees.
    “You want to go to Disneyland with the whole family?” I ask her.
    “Ehf,”
says Shizuko perkily.
    “With your brother and sister-in-law and the kids?”
    She nods.
    Tatsuo looks at me and says, “When she can eat and drink normally with her mouth instead of that tube through her nose, then maybe we can all drive together to Disneyland again.” He gives Shizuko’s hand a little squeeze.
    “I hope that’s very very soon,” I tell Shizuko.
    Shizuko gives another nod. Her eyes are turned in my direction, but she’s seeing “something else” beyond me.
    “Well, when you get to Disneyland, what ride will you go on?” Tatsuo prompts.
    “ ‘Roller coaster’?” I interpret.
    “Space Mountain!” Tatsuo chimes in. “Yeah, you always did like that one.”
    That evening when I visited the hospital, I’d wanted somehow to encourage her—but how? I’d thought it was up to me, but it wasn’t that way at all; no need even to think about giving her encouragement. In the end, it was she who gave
me
encouragement.
    In the course of writing this book, I’ve given a lot of serious thought to the Big Question: what does it mean to be alive? If I were in Shizuko’s place, would I have the willpower to live as fully as she? Would I have the courage, or the persistence and determination? Could I hold someone’s hand with such warmth and strength? Would the love of others save me? I don’t know. To be honest, I’m not so sure.
    People the world over turn to religion for salvation. But when religion hurts and maims, where are they to go for salvation? As I talked to Shizuko I tried to look into her eyes now