Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami Page A

some—emotional issues?”
    “That’s right. You have some problems you’re carrying around, some things that might go much deeper than you realize. But I think they’re the kind of problems you can overcome, if you really make up your mind to do so. Just like you’d set about repairing a defect in a station. To do that, though, you need to collect the necessary data, draw up an accurate blueprint, create a detailed work schedule. Above all, you need to identify your priorities.”
    “And to do that, I need to see those four people again and talk with them. Is that what you’re saying?”
    She nodded. “You need to come face-to-face with thepast, not as some naive, easily wounded boy, but as a grown-up, independent professional. Not to see what you want to see, but what you
must
see. Otherwise you’ll carry around that baggage for the rest of your life. That’s why I want you to tell me the names of your four friends. I’ll start by finding out where they are now.”
    “How will you do that?”
    Sara shook her head in amazement. “You graduated from engineering school, but you don’t use the Internet? Haven’t you ever heard of Google or Facebook?”
    “I use the Internet at work, sure. And I’m familiar with Google and Facebook. But I hardly ever use them. I’m just not interested.”
    “Then leave it to me. That’s what I’m good at,” Sara said.
    After dinner they walked to Shibuya. It was a pleasant evening, near the end of spring, and the large, yellow moon was covered in mist. There was a hint of moisture in the air. The hem of Sara’s dress fluttered prettily next to him in the breeze. As he walked, Tsukuru pictured the body underneath those clothes. He thought about making love to her again, and as he pictured this, he felt his penis start to stiffen. He had no problem with feeling those desires—they were, after all, the naturalurges and cravings of a healthy adult male. But maybe at the core, at the very root—as Sara had suggested—lay something illogical, something twisted. He couldn’t really say. The more he thought about the boundary between the conscious and the unconscious, the less certain he became of his own identity.
    Tsukuru hesitated but then spoke. “There’s something I need to correct about what I told you the other day.”
    As she walked along Sara shot him a look, her curiosity piqued. “What’s that?”
    “I’ve had relationships with several women, but nothing ever really came of any of them, for various reasons. I told you it wasn’t all my fault.”
    “I remember.”
    “During the last ten years, I’ve gone out with three or four women. All of them were fairly long-term, serious relationships. I wasn’t just playing around. And the reason none of them worked out was because of me. Not because there was any problem with any of the women.”
    “And what was the problem?”
    “It was a little different depending on the person,” Tsukuru said. “But one common factor was that I wasn’t seriously attracted to any of them. I mean, I liked them, and enjoyed our time together. I have a lot of good memories. But I never felt—swept away, overpowered by desire for any of them.”
    Sara was silent for a while. “So for ten years,” she finally said, “you had
fairly long-term, serious relationships
with women you weren’t all that attracted to.”
    “That’s about right.”
    “That doesn’t strike me as very rational.”
    “I’d have to agree.”
    “Maybe you didn’t want to get married, or get tied down?”
    Tsukuru shook his head. “No, I don’t think that was it. I’m the sort of person who craves stability.”
    “But still there was something holding you back psychologically?”
    “Maybe so.”
    “You could only have a relationship with women you didn’t have to totally open up to.”
    “I might have been afraid that if I really loved someone and needed her, one day she might suddenly disappear without a word, and I’d be left all