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Haruki Murakami

Updated Monday, March 11, 2024-01:16

It was you who told me about that city.

That summer afternoon we went up the course of the river wrapped in the sweet aroma of the plants, we were avoiding timid dams and stopping from time to time to contemplate the little silver fish that were swimming in the backwaters, until we finally took off our shoes and let the crystal clear The stream of water lapped at our ankles and our feet sank into the fine sand of the bottom as if into the soft clouds of a dream.

I was seventeen and you were barely sixteen.

You walked slightly ahead, after carelessly putting your red sandals in the yellow bag that hung from your shoulder, and attentive to each step you took on the sandbanks, offering your wet calves to the aquatic grasses, which clung to them with vigorous green brush strokes;

I followed you, holding some worn white sneakers in my hands.

The walk must have tired you, because you decided to sit distracted and confident among the profuse summer vegetation, and then you looked up to contemplate the sky.

Two birds crossed it, fast as arrows, tearing it with a screech.

There we were surprised by the mute, bluish gloom of the sunset, and when I sat next to you, I felt something strange, as if thousands of invisible threads firmly tied my heart to your body.

So my heart trembled every time you blinked or at the slight tremor of your lips.

Both your name and mine had vanished into the air and the only thing that existed in that summer evening, me seventeen, you sixteen, were our thoughts, which vibrated resplendently on the vegetation on the riverbank.

Little by little the stars began to appear, twinkling in the already dark celestial vault, but the stars had also lost their name.

You by my side, I by yours, we had sat on the tapestry of grass that grew next to a river, in a nameless world.

"The city is surrounded by a high wall," you said, and those words resonated as if you had extracted them from the deepest fold of your silence, as if you had dived to snatch them, like pearls, from the bed of the sea.

It cannot be said that it is a very extensive city, but it is not so small as to encompass it with a glance.

It was the second time you had told me about that place, although it was then that, for the first time, I saw the wall rise, powerful and high, along the perimeter of the city.

As you described that place, new locations were added: a beautiful river crossed by three stone bridges (one to the east, one to the west and the so-called old bridge), a library in the center and a watchtower.

Also an abandoned foundry and austere community housing for workers scattered throughout the suburbs.

And so, under the pale light of the summer evenings, together the two of us contemplated the city, sometimes distant and diffuse, from the top of a hill whose distance forced us to squint our eyes to distinguish it;

and other times clear, so close that it seemed like we just had to reach out our hand to touch it.

-My

authentic

self lives there- you stated one day-, surrounded by the high wall, within the boundaries of the city.

-So, who is the girl next to me right now? - I asked you.

I assumed it was a relevant question, based on what you had just stated- Isn't she the real deal?

-It is not.

The one here, at your side, is a mere provisional substitute, a replacement, a transitory shadow.

I thought about what you had just said.

A temporary shadow?

I decided not to comment on it, at least for now.

Instead, I asked:

-And what does your

authentic

self do in the city?

"He works in the library," you answered in a candid voice.

The work day begins at five in the afternoon and ends at approximately ten at night.

-Why approximately?

-There, all times are

approximate

.

So much so that the clock on the tower in the center square has no hands.

I imagined the large clock face without the two hands, and then I asked:

-Is the library open to all residents of the city?

-No, entry is not allowed to anyone.

Only those with special qualifications are authorized access.

For example, you.

You have that qualification.

-And what type of qualification is it, if you can know?

You just smiled without answering my question.

"And if I went to the city," I continued, "could I see you?"

Could I see the real you?

-If you could find the city... And if...

You shut up.

And you blushed slightly.

I captured, however, the meaning of the words that had not materialized on your lips.

If you really look for me, if you really want to find my authentic self with all your strength...

At that moment you didn't dare tell me.

I put my arm around your shoulders.

You were wearing a pale green sundress.

You rested one of your cheeks on my shoulder.

The one he had wrapped around his shoulders, under the backdrop of the summer twilight, was not you, not really you, as you had claimed, but a substitute, a shadow that replaced your true self.

Your true self, as you had also assured, was within the limits of the city surrounded by the high wall, with its high hills and the beautiful islet whose leafy willows adorn the riverbed, and the peaceful unicorns with their solitary horn crowning them. forehead.

And the citizens, in their old communal housing buildings, with their simple lives, but without hardships or hardships.

The unicorns feed peacefully on the leaves and fruits of the trees that grow within the perimeter of the city, but when the long winter arrives, with its heavy snowfall, many perish, victims of cold and hunger.

I wanted to enter that city, I longed to be able to meet your

true

self there.

"Entering the city is not easy," you said.

And getting out of it, even less so.

-But what do you have to do to enter?

-Just wish it.

The problem is that wanting something, from the heart, is not that simple.

Getting it takes time.

And during that time you have to let go of many things.

Important things for you.

Don't give up, under any circumstances.

The city will always be waiting for you.

Will not go away.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to meet your authentic self in the city, and in my mind there were vast groves of leafy and beautiful apple trees, three stone bridges over the riverbed, and the song of a nightingale hidden among the trees.

I imagined the old little library where you worked..., where your authentic self worked.

-You will always have a position available there- you continued.

-A position available?

-Yes, the only position available in the city.

You will occupy it when you go.

-What type of position are you referring to?

"Dream reader," you said, lowering your voice as if you had just revealed a great secret.

I can not avoid laughing.

"But I'm not even able to remember my own dreams!" I exclaimed.

How can I become a dream reader?

-It is not about reading your own dreams, but those from the library, the old dreams deposited there.

It is not a task within everyone's reach.

-But is it within my reach?

You nodded your head.

-Yes, you are qualified for it.

You would need, however, the help of my

authentic self, present there

, by your side every night.

-So the dream reader position would consist of reading old dreams stored in the library, is that what it's about?

And you would always be by my side to help me.

Your

authentic

self- I simply repeated what you had already said.

Your bare shoulders, covered by my arm, trembled imperceptibly.

Suddenly, they stood still, rigid.

-That's how it is.

However, there is one thing I want you to keep in mind.

Even if we meet in the city, I won't recognize you.

-Because?

-You do not get it?

Yes, I did understand it.

The reason she wasn't going to recognize me was because the person she was hugging at that moment was nothing more than a shadow that replaced the real one.

This,

the real one

, was in the city, that city as enigmatic as it was distant, surrounded by a high wall.

However, the softness and warmth of those shoulders could not be, for me, more authentic and true.

You couldn't take away the idea that those shoulders, your shoulders, belonged only to you, to your authentic self.

The city and its uncertain walls

Haruki Murakami

Translation by Juan Francisco González Sánchez.

Tusquets.

576 pages.

€22.90 Ebook: €11.99


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