This was the kind of story TV news shows lapped up, and crews rushed to the scene. Reporters crowded around the shopping district and sent out their reports on this curious event across the nation. The reporters scooped up fish with their shovels to illustrate what had happened. They also interviewed a housewife who had been struck on the head by one of the falling mackerel, the dorsal fin cutting her cheek. "I'm just glad it wasn't a tuna," she said, pressing a handkerchief to her cheek. That made sense, but still viewers chuckled. One of the more adventuresome reporters grilled some of the fish on the spot. "Delicious," he told viewers proudly. "Very fresh, with just the right amount of fat. Too bad I don't have any grated radish and hot rice to round out the meal."

The policeman was baffled. The strange old codger-what was his name again?-had predicted all these fish raining down from the sky. Sardines and mackerel, just like he'd said… But I just laughed it off, the policeman thought, and didn't even get his name and address. Should he tell his boss about it? He supposed so, but then again what good would it do now? Nobody really got hurt, and there wasn't any proof that a crime was involved. Just a sudden squall of fish, raining from the sky.

But who's to say my boss would even believe me? he asked himself. Say I told him the whole story-that the day before this happened a weird old guy stopped by the police box and predicted there'd be a shower of fish. He'd think I've completely lost it. And the story would make the rounds of the precinct, getting fishier with each retelling, and end up as a running joke with him as the butt of it.

One more thing, the policeman thought. That old man had come to report that he'd murdered somebody. To give himself up, in other words. And I never took him seriously. Didn't even note it in the logbook. This was definitely against regulations, and I could be brought up on charges. But the old man's story was so preposterous. No policeman would ever take it seriously. It's a madhouse working the police box sometimes, with paperwork up to here. The world's filled with people with a screw loose, and, as if by agreement, at one time or another they all seem to find their way into police boxes to blab out some nonsense. If you bother yourself with every one of these nutcases, you'll go nuts yourself!

But that prediction about fish raining from the sky, a lunatic statement if there ever was one, actually did happen, so maybe-just maybe-that story he told about knifing somebody to death-Johnnie Walker, as he put it-might actually be true. Assuming it was, this was a major problem, for he'd turned away someone confessing to murder and didn't even write up a report on it.

Finally a garbage truck came and cleaned up all the mounds of fish. The young policeman directed traffic, blocking off the entrance to the shopping district so cars couldn't come in. Fish scales were stuck to the street in front of the shops and wouldn't come off no matter how much they were hosed down. The street remained wet for some time, causing a couple of housewives on bicycles to slip and fall. The place reeked of fish for days afterward, getting the neighborhood cats all worked up. The policeman was kept busy with the cleanup and didn't have time to think any more about the strange old man.

The day after it rained fish, though, the policeman gulped in shock when the body of a man, stabbed to death, was discovered nearby. The dead man was a famous sculptor, and his body was discovered by the cleaning woman who came every other day. The body was naked, lying in a pool of blood. Estimated time of death was in the evening two days previous, the murder weapon a steak knife from the kitchen. To his dismay, the young policeman finally believed what the old man had told him. My God, he thought, what a complete mess I've gotten myself into! I should have called up the precinct and taken the old man in. He confessed to murder, so I should've handed him over to the higher-ups and let them decide if he's crazy or not. But I shirked my duty. Now that it's come to this, the young policeman decided, the best thing to do is to just clam up and pretend it never happened.

But by this time, Nakata was no longer in town.

Chapter 19

It's Monday and the library's closed. The library is quiet enough most of the time, but on a day like this when it's closed it's like the land that time forgot. Or more like a place that's holding its breath, hoping time won't stumble upon it.

Down the corridor from the reading room, past a STAFF ONLY sign, there's a sink area where you can make coffee or tea, and there's a microwave oven, too. Just past this is the door to the guest room, which includes a barebones bathroom and closet. Next to the single bed is a nightstand outfitted with a reading lamp and alarm clock. There's also a little writing desk with a lamp on it. Plus an old-fashioned set of chairs, covered in white cloth, for receiving guests, and a chest for clothes. On top of a small, bachelor-size refrigerator are some dishes and a small shelf for stowing them away. If you feel like making a simple meal, the sink area's right outside. The bathroom's outfitted with a shower, soap and shampoo, a hair dryer, and towels. Everything you need for a comfortable short stay. Through a west-facing window you can see the trees in the garden. It's getting close to evening, and the sinking sun glints past the cedar branches.

"I've stayed here a couple of times when it was too much trouble to go home," Oshima says. "But nobody else uses the room. As far as I know, Miss Saeki never uses it. It's not going to put anybody out, your staying here, is what I'm trying to say."

I set my backpack on the floor and look around my new lodgings.

"There's a clean set of sheets, and enough in the fridge to tide you over. Milk, some fruit, vegetables, butter, ham, cheese… Not enough for a decent meal, but enough for a sandwich or salad at least. If you want something more, I suggest takeout, or going out to eat. For laundry you'll have to make do with rinsing things out in the bathroom, I'm afraid. Let's see, have I forgotten anything?"

"Where does Miss Saeki usually work?"

Oshima points to the ceiling. "You remember that room on the second floor you saw on the tour? She's always there, writing. If I have to go out for a while she sometimes comes downstairs and takes over at the counter. But unless she's got something to do on the first floor, that's where you'll find her."

I nod.

"I'll be here tomorrow before ten to run through what your job involves. Until then, just relax and take it easy."

"Thanks for everything," I tell him.

"My pleasure," he replies.

After he leaves I unload my backpack. Arrange my meager assortment of clothes in the dresser, hang up my shirts and jacket, line up my notebook and pens on the desk, put my toiletries in the bathroom, and finally stow the pack itself in the closet.

The room doesn't have any decorations at all, except for a small oil painting, a realistic portrait of a young boy by the shore. Not bad, I decide-maybe done by somebody famous? The boy looks about twelve or so, and he's wearing a white sunhat and sitting on a small deck chair. His elbow's on one of the arms of the chair, his chin resting in his hand. He looks a little sad, but kind of pleased, too. A black German shepherd sits next to the boy, like he's guarding him. In the background is the sea and a couple of other people, but they're too far away to make out their faces. A small island's visible, and a few fist-shaped clouds float over the water. Most definitely a summer scene. I sit down at the desk and gaze at the painting for a while. I start to feel like I can hear the crash of waves, the salty smell of the sea.