I slowly climbed up the wooden stairs, turned right, and as the door was half-open I could see a gentle elderly man sitting behind a large desk. No papers there. No files. And no books as well. Just two cups with hot herbal tea in them… the aroma of the brew had reached my nostrils. He has a guest, I thought and wondered if I should turn back and return once he is free. But just as I was about to turn, he looked up and smiled.

‘Come in,’ he said, ‘I was waiting for you.’

That’s strange, I thought, as even I did not know I would be there. I reached forward and first felt the wooden panels of the door and then the intricately carved knocker and handle just to make sure I was not dreaming. But I wasn’t.

‘There is nothing strange in this world,’ said the gentle elderly man, ‘or in any other, if there are any.’ And then after a short pause, went on ‘I am Koyasu. I used to be the head librarian here. Not any longer.’

‘Koyasu?’ I said, ‘This name sounds familiar… wait a moment… are you Koyasu from Haruki Murakami’s book? The city and its uncertain walls – that’s the name of the book.’ That was the book I had been listening to on Audible and was fascinated by the magical realism there. Everything about Watashi, Kimi, the boy with the yellow submarine parka, and, of-course, Koyasu and the others in that saki-brewery-turned-into-a-library in that non-descript small town in the mountains of Fukushima prefecture had a quiet mystery surrounding them that could lure readers into juggling questions in their own mind.

‘Yes, that is true,’ said Koyasu, ‘You seem to be looking for answers. Am I right?’

This was uncanny. Koyasu seemed to be reading my mind. Just as he knew what Watashi was thinking about. But I was glad I was able to see Koyasu as he was dead in the book and was visible only to a select few. I then knew that the teaser that Shinchosa Publishing had released before the publication of this book had the power to pull-in readers. “Must go to the city. No matter what happens. A locked up ‘story’ starts to move quietly as if ‘old dreams’ are woken up and unraveled in a secluded archive…” was the way the teaser went. But why was I here?

‘You know why you are here,’ said Koyasu calmly, ‘And I know why you are here. You know you are a writer, and I know you are looking for new stories. Isn’t this correct?’

There was no disagreement on this but then Koyasu admitted that nearly every interesting story that he could recall had already been included in the book that Murakami wrote. ‘Murakami doesn’t know me,’ he added secretively, ‘And he thinks he has imagined all those stories. But I don’t mind that. Stories need to be read. Or heard. Stories never look for rewards. I guess it ought to be the same with storytellers.’ There is denying that Koyasu knew more about creative impulses and relationships than he appeared to be. He did not appear to be reluctant to share new stories with me and yet, he had not begun one.

‘No, I have no hesitation in sharing stories,’ he said, ‘I know that stories live forever and we do not. Except as characters in those stories. I think we must all share stories and hope one of us writes them down for posterity because unwritten words too fade away.’ He then told me that he was waiting for Watashi just as I was waiting for new stories or where I could find them.

Just then we heard footsteps and soon enough Watashi came in. He saw us and knew intuitively that Koyasu was visible to me as well.

‘Come, sit with us,’ said Koyasu, ‘This man here has come from other world where he has been reading all about us. He wants to know how and where to find new stories. You have been to the land where people lose their shadows. I thought you might know how to get there.’

Watashi said that this was what the boy who wore a yellow submarine parka also thought. ‘But it is a city that I created in my imagination and only that city knew how and when to allow me in,’ said Watashi, and then looking towards me, added, ‘You will know when it is time. Just as the boy knew.’

That was when the new head librarian Watashi said in a hushed tone, ‘It is a land of whispering shadows and the story that I have is one that many find unsettling. The city of uncertain walls is home to a series of underground tunnels, known only to a few. These tunnels are said to be inhabited by shadows that whisper secrets and forgotten memories to those who dare to venture within.’

I stared unblinking at him. Mesmerized. Watashi went, ‘There was a writer, much like yourself, who sought inspiration in these tunnels. As he wandered deeper into the darkness, the shadows began to whisper to him, revealing fragments of stories long lost to time. He became consumed by these whispers, unable to distinguish between his own thoughts and the voices of the shadows. The writer’s obsession with the stories he heard led him to neglect his own life, and he eventually disappeared into the tunnels, never to be seen again. Some say that his spirit now roams the underground passages, forever searching for an ending to the stories he could never complete.’

Watashi’s voice trailed off, and we sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the stories hanging in the air. I felt a surge of inspiration, my mind racing with possibilities for my next novel. The city and its uncertain walls had indeed provided me with a wealth of ideas, each more captivating than the last.

‘Thank you,’ I said, rising from my seat. ‘Your stories have given me much to ponder. I believe I have found what I was looking for.’ As I rose to go, I discovered that the walls, the room, Koyasu, and even Watashi began fading. I stepped forward and looked out of the window to see if that town and the surrounding mountains remained… but I was peering out of the window of my study could see my Maruti Fronx parked in the driveway outside. Did I really enter a story and talk to characters? Or is it just my imagination running wild?
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Arvind Passey
Written on 02 February 2025
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Whispering Shadows... entering 'The city and its uncertain walls' by Haruki Murakami as a new character