"It was her first time in Tokyo, and she was able to see her boyfriend. Between recording sessions they were able to love each other, as before. My mother said she thought they'd had a sexual relationship since they were around fourteen. Both were rather precocious, and like many precocious young people they found it hard to grow up. It was as if they were eternally fourteen or fifteen. They clung to each other and could again feel the intensity of their love. Neither one of them had ever been attracted to anyone else. Even while they were apart, no one else could ever come between them. Sorry-am I boring you with this fairy tale romance?"

I shake my head. "I have a feeling you're about to come to a turning point."

"You're right," Oshima says. "That's how stories happen-with a turning point, an unexpected twist. There's only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story. Anyway, the record went on sale and was a huge hit. It kept on selling-a million copies, two million, I'm not sure of the exact figure. At any rate it was a record-breaking number at the time. Her photo was on the record jacket, a picture of her seated at a grand piano in the studio, smiling at the camera.

"She hadn't prepared any other songs, so the B side of the single was an instrumental version of the same song. With a piano and an orchestra, she of course playing the piano. A beautiful performance. It was around 1970. The song was on all the radio stations at the time, my mother said. This was before I was born, so I don't know for sure. This was her one and only song as a professional singer. She didn't put out an LP or a follow-up single."

"I wonder if I've heard that song."

"Do you listen to the radio much?"

I shake my head. I hardly ever listen to the radio.

"You probably haven't heard it, then. Unless it's on some oldies station, chances are you haven't. But it's a wonderful song. I have it on a CD and listen to it every once in a while. When Miss Saeki's not around, of course. She hates any mention of the song. She doesn't like anyone bringing up the past."

"What's the name of the song?"

"'Kafka on the Shore.'" Oshima says.

"'Kafka on the Shore'?"

"That's correct, Kafka Tamura. The same name as you. A strange coincidence, don't you think?"

"But Kafka isn't my real name. Tamura is, though."

"But you chose it yourself, right?"

I nod. I'd decided a long time ago that this was the right name for the new me.

"That's the point, I'd say," Oshima says.

Miss Saeki's boyfriend died when he was twenty, Oshima goes on. Right when "Kafka on the Shore" was a hit. His college was on strike during the period of student unrest and shut down. He went to bring supplies to a friend of his who was manning the barricades, just before ten one night. The students occupying the building mistook him for a leader of an opposing faction-he did resemble him a lot-and grabbed him, tied him to a chair, and interrogated him as a spy. He tried to explain that they'd made a mistake, but every time he did they smashed him with a steel pipe or baton. When he fell to the floor they'd kick him with their boots. By dawn he was dead. His skull was caved in, his ribs broken, his lungs ruptured. They tossed his corpse out on the street like a dead dog. Two days later the college asked the national guard to come in, and within a couple of hours the student revolt was put down and several of them were arrested and charged with murder. The students confessed what they'd done and were put on trial, but since it wasn't premeditated two of them were convicted of involuntary manslaughter and given short prison sentences. His death was totally pointless.

Miss Saeki never sang again. She locked herself in her room and wouldn't talk to anybody, even on the phone. She didn't go to his funeral, and dropped out of college. After a few months, people suddenly realized she was no longer in town. Nobody knows where she went or what she did. Her parents refused to discuss it. Maybe even they didn't know where she'd been. She vanished into thin air. Even her best friend, Oshima's mother, didn't have a clue. Rumors flew that she'd been committed to a mental hospital after a failed suicide attempt in the deep forests surrounding Mount Fuji. Others said a friend of a friend had spotted her on the streets of Tokyo. According to this person she was working in Tokyo as a writer or something. Other rumors had it she was married and had a child. All of these, though, were groundless, with nothing to back them up. Twenty years passed.

No matter where she was or what she was doing all this time, Miss Saeki didn't hurt for money. Her royalties for "Kafka on the Shore" were deposited in a bank account, and even after taxes still amounted to a substantial sum. She got royalties every time the song was played on the radio or included in an oldies compilation. So it was simple for her to live far away, out of the limelight. Besides, her family was rich and she was their only daughter.

Suddenly, twenty-five years later, Miss Saeki reappeared in Takamatsu. The ostensible reason was her mother's funeral. (Her father had died five years before, but she hadn't come to the funeral.) She held a small service for her mother and then, after things had quieted down, sold the house she'd been born and raised in. She moved into an apartment she'd purchased in a quiet part of the city and seemed to settle down again. After a time she had some talks with the Komura family. (The head of the family, after the death of the eldest son, was his younger brother, three years younger. It was just the two of them, and no one knows what they talked about, exactly.) The upshot was Miss Saeki became head of the Komura Library.

Even now she's slim and beautiful and has the same neat, smart look you see on the record jacket of "Kafka on the Shore." But there's one thing missing: that lovely, innocent smile. She still smiles from time to time, definitely a charming smile, but it's always limited somehow, a smile that never goes beyond the moment. A high, invisible wall surrounds her, holding people at arm's length. Every morning she drives her gray Volkswagen Golf to the library, and drives it back home in the evening.

Back in her hometown, she had very little to do with former friends and relatives. If they happen to meet she makes polite conversation, but this seldom goes beyond a few standard topics. If the past happens to come up-especially if it involves her-she makes a quick, smooth segue to another topic. She's always polite and kind, but her words lack the kind of curiosity and excitement you'd normally expect. Her true feelings-assuming such things exist-remain hidden away. Except for when a practical sort of decision has to be made, she never gives her personal opinion about anything. She seldom talks about herself, instead letting others talk, nodding warmly as she listens. But most people start to feel vaguely uneasy when talking with her, as if they suspect they're wasting her time, trampling on her private, graceful, dignified world. And that impression is, for the most part, correct.

So even after settling back into her hometown, she remained a cipher. A stylish woman wrapped in refined mystery. Something about her made it hard to approach her. Even her nominal employers, the Komura family, kept their distance.

Eventually Oshima became her assistant and started to work in the library. At the time Oshima wasn't working or going to school, just staying at home reading and listening to music. Except for a few people he exchanged e-mails with, he hardly had any friends. Because of his hemophilia, he spent a lot of time going to see a specialist at the hospital, riding around town in his Mazda Miata, and except for his regular appointments at the University Hospital in Hiroshima and the occasional stay at the cabin in the Kochi mountains, he never left town. Not to imply that he was unhappy with this life. One day Oshima's mother happened to introduce him to Miss Saeki, who took an instant liking to him. The feeling was mutual, and the notion of working in a library intrigued him. Oshima soon became the only person Miss Saeki normally dealt with or spoke to.