I sat there for a long time in front of that map, totally speechless.
This was, without a doubt, a map of that town surrounded by the high brick wall.
The perimeter of the town, kidney shaped, with an indentation at the bottom, the beautiful river gently winding its way through the middle of town. The exit for that flow, that eerie pool. The gate, the sole entrance and exit to the town. The Gatekeeper’s cabin inside. The three old stone bridges spanning the river (no one knows how old they were), the dried-up canal, the clock tower with no hands on the clock, and the library with not a single book in it.
It was a simple map, a sketch, really (and reminded me of the woodblock prints in medieval European books). When I studied it carefully I saw it had mistaken some of the details. (The sandbanks in the river, for instance, were depicted as much smaller than they actually were, and fewer in number.) Yet it was, overall, surprisingly accurate. How could that boy draw such an accurate map of the town without ever being there? When I’d tried myself several times to draw my own map and could never pull it off.
What I imagine is that he’d hidden himself at the cemetery (even on times when I hadn’t noticed him there), had heard what I told Mr. Koyasu, and then drew the map based on the information he’d gathered about the walled-in town. Or he had learned to read lips. This was the best explanation I could come up with.
But was that even possible? When I spoke at the grave it was a disjointed monologue, everything out of order, as I called to mind bits and pieces from my memory. It was all so random—I’d jump from one topic to the next, one scene to the next. Had he taken all this fragmentary, contextless information and brought it all together like a jigsaw puzzle to create this map?
If so, his photographic memory extended beyond the visual to encompass a special auditory ability as well. My memory of savant syndrome was that it included people who were able, upon listening, no matter how complex the composition, to reproduce every note accurately, and perform it and transcribe it. Mozart supposedly had this gift.
Certainly I had spoken of the walled-in town at Mr. Koyasu’s grave, but later I couldn’t recall much of what I’d actually said, how I’d described it. I spoke of the town as if retelling a vivid dream I’d had—or rather as if actually experiencing the dream all over again. Just as I recalled it, nearly half consciously.
For instance, had I really mentioned the clock tower with no hands? I must have, since the boy’s map included it. That clock tower was just a scrawled sketch, yet it looked just like the actual tower. And had no hands on the clock. Though there was no guarantee that my memory itself hadn’t changed later on. Isn’t it possible that my memory was subtly reworked to line up with the map the boy drew?
The more I thought about it, the less I understood. What was cause, and what was effect? How much was real, and how much had he simply made up?
I returned the map to the envelope, put it on top of the desk, and linked my fingers behind my head, absentmindedly staring into space. Faint afternoon light shone in through the cloudy horizontal window that just cleared ground level, the air in the room filled with a faint aroma of applewood. The black kettle on top of the blazing stove huffed out a burst of white steam, like a big sleeping cat exhaling from deep in its slumber.
I had the vague sense that something around me was gradually changing. It was as if, unaware, I was slowly being led somewhere by some sort of power. But was this a recent development, or something that had been going on from quite some time ago? I had no clue.
About all I did know was that right now I seemed to be hovering on the boundary between the world over there and the world over here. Just like this subterranean room, though it was neither entirely aboveground nor belowground. The light shining in there was muted and dim. That’s where I was situated, in that twilit world. A line that was neither one nor the other. And I was trying to judge which side I was really on, and on which side the real person, the real me, could be found.
I picked up the envelope again from the desk, took out the map, and studied it. After a while I noticed how that map was making my heart tremble. And I don’t mean metaphorically. It was literally making my heart, quietly yet definitely, physically shiver. Like a gelatinous substance in the midst of an unceasing earthquake.
As I stared at the map, my mind unconsciously returned to the town. I closed my eyes and could hear the murmur of the river, the sad cry of the night birds in the dark. The Gatekeeper’s horn ringing out morning and evening, the streets filled with the dry clip-clop of the unicorns’ hooves against the flagstone paving. The yellow raincoat of the girl walking beside me, rustling with each step. As if rubbing against the edge of the world.
With a small creaking sound, the reality around me was cracking ever so slightly. Assuming that this was, in fact, reality.