Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

I was thinking about this passage from a book titled "Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World" by Japanese author Haruki Murakami. I really enjoy his books, although they're pretty bizarre at times and let's just say the content isn't always appropriate. But if the second counselor can quote Michael Jackson lyrics during a talk in church, I can certainly recommend books with sometimes questionable passages, no?

Anyway, this utterly maddening passage is a fairly accurate prototype of the logic process of Japanese people (or perhaps the incomprehensible world of the Missionary Training Center). Given my personality, why I still like all things Japanese and how I survived the MTC are mysteries.

In the book, two people had just escaped an underground lair into a Tokyo subway tunnel when the following transpires:

Stepping out from behind a pillar, we mounted the ladder at the end of the platform, nonchalant and disinterested, as if we did this sort of thing every day. We stepped around the railing. Several people looked our way, visibly alarmed. We were covered with mud, clothes drenched, hair matted, eyes squinting at the ordinary light—I guess we didn’t look like subway employees. Who the hell were we?

Before they’d reached any conclusions, we’d sauntered past and were already at the wicket. That’s when it occurred to me, we didn’t have tickets.

“We’ll say we lost them and pay the fare,” she said.

So that’s what I told the young attendant at the gate.

“Did you look carefully?” he asked. “You have lots of pockets. Could you please check again?”

We stood there dripping and filthy and searched our clothes for tickets that had never been there, while the attendant eyed us incredulously.

No, it seemed we’d really lost them, I said.

“Where did you get on?”

“Shibuya.”

“How much did you pay?”

“A hundred twenty, hundred forty yen, something like that.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I was thinking about other things.”

“Honestly, you got on at Shibuya?”

“The line starts from Shibuya, doesn’t it? How could we cheat on the fare?”

“You could have come through the underpass from the opposite platform. The Ginza Line’s pretty long. For all I know, you could have caught the Tozai Line all the way from Tsudanuma and transferred at Nihonbashi.”

“Tsudanuma?”

“Strictly hypothetical,” said the station attendant.

“So how much is it from Tsudanuma? I’ll pay that. Will that make you happy?”

“Did you come from Tsudanuma?”

“No,” I said. “Never been to Tsudanuma in my life.”

“Then why pay the fare?”

“I’m just doing what you said.”

“I said that was strictly hypothetical.”

By now, the next train had arrived. Twelve passengers got off and passed through the wicket. We watched them. Not one of them had lost a ticket. Whereupon we resumed negotiations with the attendant.

“Okay, tell me from where do I have to pay?” I said.

“From where you got on,” he insisted.

“Shibuya, like I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“But you don’t remember the fare.”

“Who remembers fares? Do you remember how much coffee costs at McDonald’s?”

“I don’t drink McDonald’s coffee,” said the station attendant. “It’s a waste of money.”

“Purely hypothetical,” I said. “But you forget details like that.”

“That may be, but people who say they’ve lost tickets always plead cheaper fares. They all come over to this platform and say they got on in Shibuya.”

“I already said I’d pay whatever fare you want, didn’t I? Just tell me how much.”

“How should I know?”

I threw down a thousand-yen bill and we marched out. The attendant yelled at us, but we pretended not to hear.