Bridge Burning

by Mark Biswas

a sequel to Barn Burning by Haruki Murakami

When we discussed this story in class, some people thought that the guy killed the girl. This went completely over my head when I read it, but after the second time, I could see how some came to that conclusion. But let’s face it, the guy was high when he was explaining barn burning to the narrator. I think he was messing with him as a way to say, “I’m crazy, so stay away from my girl.” For me, the compelling aspect of the story lies in the gullibility of the main character and how he completely buys into the idea of barn burning, and how he becomes completely obsessed by it. I didn't have a problem with how Murakami ended his story, but in this one, I take that obsession to its logical conclusion.

I watched barns burn for over six months. In my head. I ran the same route every morning, hoping to get a glimpse of fire, the smell of smoke drifting over a farmers’ field. Every day was a disappointment.

My dreams kept me going. Or rather, nightmares, depending on your point of view. They began to feel so real that I thought that maybe it does not matter so much that he hadn’t burned any of the barns. When I imagined it in my head, it felt good. As if I had won the lottery. He would slip into the field at night, under a starless sky, slithering amongst the cornrows like a deft snake.

I admired his work. He would approach the barn reverently, as though it were a chimpanzee that needed to be sacrificed in the name of science. Then he would enter the barn, assemble a pile of dry wood and hay in a very methodical fashion, and let it burn.

While he did this, I did not picture him as a criminal or vandal. I sincerely believed that what he was doing was extremely important. Nobel-prize worthy. At this moment of awe, flames would overwhelm my vision and I would wake up.

This moment was crushing for me, as if my winning lottery ticket turned out to be fraudulent. The real world would take over; I would look at my wife, her mouth hanging open, hair across her face, snoring quietly. If I was lucky, I would be able to quickly fall back asleep. But the dream would always occur again, in always the same sequence of events. Over time I learned to slow down the dream, enough so that it would take two or three hours for him to burn the barn, and I would only wake up three or four times a night. But the realization I would experience over and over again––the fact that the barn did not actually burn––became too much for me to bear. I shouted, threw pillows across the room. Sometimes, I would get lucky and my wife would sleep through it. But usually she did not. She would glare at me, but say nothing, and just go back to sleep.

Then one night, I became so frustrated that I actually pulled the alarm clock out of the wall and hurled it at the window. I do not actually remember doing it, but upon hearing the glass shatter, I immediately regained consciousness, and I could not exactly deny it. As I was picking up the glass shards, my wife said, “You should see a doctor. Have him prescribe you something.”

“All right,” I said. I threw the remaining glass in the trash. “I’ll call a repairman in the morning. And I’ll get a new alarm clock too.”

That’s all we ever said about that incident. I am glad my wife never asked about my nightmares. How would I explain them to her? She would not understand. She would think I was crazy. Maybe she did not want to know.

I did see the doctor as my wife requested. He gave me some sort of purple pill, told me to take two of them every night. I didn’t tell him about the dream, though. He’d probably take away my prescription and told me to see a psychiatrist. I did not want that to happen. Seeing a psychiatrist would be to admit failure. I did not want to grant the burning barns victory.

The pills both worked and failed at the same time. To my wife, they were a resounding success. She said that she had to go to the bathroom once in the night, and she looked over at me and I was out like a baby. If she only knew what was going on in my head. My eyes might have been closed, but in actuality I was wide awake and alert––in my dream. This time, I would only have one dream a night. It was the same dream: he would methodically burn the barn as usual. But when the flames overwhelmed my vision, instead of the dream ending, it would continue. The girl would step out of the flames in a thin red dress, and embrace and kiss him. I would stare at them for the rest of the night, in pure agony. When I woke up, I was exhausted. I’d want to go back to sleep, but I knew that the dream would only happen again. So I reluctantly began my day.

I think my wife knew the pills weren’t quite working. She looked into my bloodshot eyes every morning. But she never said anything, perhaps because she didn’t want to hear my nightmares, or she actually preferred my zombie-like existence if it got her a good night’s sleep.

But after a week I couldn’t take it anymore. When I started to see them kissing amongst the flames during the day, I knew it was time to stop taking the pills. My wife lasted only two nights before she snapped. “You stopped taking your medicine, haven’t you?” she said.

“Yes,” I admitted, not offering an explanation.

“You’ve never liked taking medicine. I don’t understand it. You’re like a child. You remember that trip to Okinawa? You refused to take your seasickness medicine. I told you you’d get sick, but you said, ‘Oh no, there’s no need to worry, I don’t get carsick so why is the sea any different?’ And then you threw up all over my brand-new dress.”

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” I said. “But I can’t take the medicine. I’ll sleep on the couch if you want. But I can’t take the medicine again.”

She nodded slowly. Then she said, “Maybe you should see…” But she stopped herself. Say it, I thought. I should see a psychiatrist. I’m nuts. I have crazy nightmares about vandalizing. I belong in the looney bin. Just say it.

But she left it at that, and that’s all that we discussed the issue for quite some time. I slept on the couch. I still dreamed, and those moments of realization that I would have every night still tortured me. It was the price I paid for being in absolute bliss during the course of the dream, believing with one hundred percent certainty that the barn was being burned in reality. My biggest fear was actually quite silly—I was scared that I’d hurdle something in a moment of anger and break the TV. So I would surround myself with a large amount of pillows which would not break anything if I threw them, and moved the lamp a safe distance away. I had to do these things every night, after my wife had gone to bed. She would not understand.

I lived this way for several months. And then, one day, quite unexpectedly, turned out to be the best day of my life. I was doing my morning jog as usual, in a bitter cold and freezing rain. The wind was pretty crazy too, so that it hit my face at a steep angle. My wife said that I was crazy to go, but I told her I hadn’t missed a run in six months and I wasn’t about to stop now.

Thank god I didn’t. Because one of the barns was burning. It was one of the twins. The fire burned in a beautiful swirling motion above the roof, like a swish of whipped cream, and the piercing grey smoke merged with the thunderhead above in an overwhelming synergy of man and nature. As if by my thought, the rain stopped, and a ray of sun shone brilliantly down upon the fiery wisp. I took out my digital camera that I had bought just for the purpose, and took a picture. Several, actually. Ten, twenty. Okay, I won’t lie. Around a hundred. I had to document each stage of the fire.

“A barn burned! A barn burned!” I shouted, sprinting down the deserted lane. I felt superhuman, as if I could take on anything, go anywhere.

Maybe I will go anywhere, I thought. I went to the nearest travel agency and booked my tickets. I went straight home, bursting through the door, and announced that I was cured.

In retrospect this probably was not the wisest thing to do. I was animated, running around the house and telling her what a wonderful time we were going to have in Okinawa, celebrating my recovery.

“Oh,” was all my wife could say. Understandable: She probably thought I was getting depressed, and the only reason I was acting this way because I ate six doughnuts in a row in a pitiful attempt to make myself feel better. Well, I’d show her tonight.

On the way to Okinawa, I took the seasickness medicine without a complaint. I didn’t even mind. We stood against the ferry’s railing, looking down at the pacific. My wife said, “You look like you just won the lottery with that grin on your face,” she said,”

“You don’t know what an accurate comparison that is,” I said. “You should take my picture.” I handed her the digital camera.

I still felt I’d eaten half a dozen doughnuts, because I flung myself half over the railing as if I were about to fall in (and as if I was ten years old). “Okay, take my picture now!” I said, giving my best lottery-winning grin.

Unfortunately my position required my wife to lean over the railing with the camera. At this inopportune moment, a rather large wave struck the boat. My wife uttered a small scream, the tiny metal frame too slick for her to handle.

At this moment, I wasn’t thinking that the sudden lurch might tip us over the edge and into the frigid waters below. I was thinking that the only copies of the burning barn picture were on that camera. In my excitement I never transferred them to the computer. That sight that had saved my life would remain nothing but a memory. I shouted out as the camera fell––

And stopped. She had worn the strap around her wrist. “Whew,” she said as the ferry settled and became calm. “Almost lost the camera! Want to try the picture again?”

“No!” I shouted, louder and more forceful than I intended. “Just give me the damn camera.” She offered it and I snatched it out of her hand, put it in its case, and stuffed it deep within my backpack.

We didn’t take another picture the entire trip.

The camera made it back safely, much to my relief. I printed out several copies of the best picture for myself; I put it on my cell phone, on my computer, and even a small miniature version for my wallet.

I was doing this last task when my wife came into my office. “I’ve heard the printer going all day. The pictures must’ve come out nice.”

An awkward pause. “Oh, yes. Quite nice indeed. But the printer is no good. I’m actually thinking of going to the print shop today. You know, you can have them print your pictures in a bound book for not much money. Very professional looking.”

“Okay,” my wife said without interest, and left. I realized that I would have to live up to my word. Unfortunately, all the pictures were taken before the incident, and so the books consist of water, water, and more water. Oh, and Okinakwa as a little dot. 35,000 yen. Oh well, I chose a slick looking marine theme, so maybe my wife wouldn’t realize the fact that buying a book was rather pointless. She probably wouldn’t care either way.

I was about to leave and pay for my book (it would take up to two weeks for it to arrive, so thankfully I wouldn’t have to show it to my wife quite yet) when I noticed on the wall behind the cashier was an advertisement: an offer to enlarge any photo to poster-size, suitable framing.

I pictured the burning barn on the wall facing the bed, the flames reaching out, covering me like a blanket as I slept.

“Sir?” the cashier said. “Can I help you?”

I told her that I wanted that poster. Now.

“I’m sorry sir, but that will take five to six business days.”

I sighed. “Very well.”

The next few nights I did not get much rest. But it was the normal, sane kind of sleeplessness: the kind of tossing and turning due to a mind full of thoughts. No nightmares. I was a child awaiting Christmas Day.

When the framed picture did arrive, I spent over an hour positioning it just right. Luckily my wife was out shopping, so I had some peace. Propped up on my side of the bed, my eyes were drawn directly into the flames. Perfect.

When she came home with her shopping bags, I told her to look in the bedroom.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “You should really become a photographer.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely pleased.

But then she frowned. “But don’t you think it’s a bit…spooky for the bedroom?”

I pretended to laugh. “Spooky? How so? It’s not like our house is going to burn down at night while we are asleep just because we have a picture of a burning barn over our heads. Nobody would want to commit arson on some random house and risk killing someone.”

“Who said the barn burning was due to arson?”

The question came unexpectedly. I stared, stupefied, at my wife. “Why do you think that?” was all I could say.

“Because of the other barn,” she said, pointing. “They’re not two hundred meters apart. You might as well torch both of them together. More likely it was an accident.”

What she said was so absurd—and yet there was an uncanny logic to it. Was I so blinded, so intent on seeing what I wanted to see, that I totally disregarded the most simple, most obvious explanation?

I had to find out.

“I must go,” was all I told my wife, and left before she had a chance to respond. I went to the library, and found local newspapers for that date I would never forget. I perused the police blotter desperately, like mother looking for news of her son missing in action. My hands were shaking and drenched in sweat.

Nothing.

I thought, maybe the farm isn’t in the city vicinity. I looked at a few other papers.

Still nothing.

I tried desperately to placate myself. Perhaps the farmer hadn’t bothered to inform the police. Yes, that was it. What was the point of reporting to the police of an old barn that you didn’t even use, anyway? It was an eyesore, after all.

But I had to know for sure. I visited the farm. Walking up the drive, I noticed several trucks parked out front carrying stacks of timber, which obscured my view of the farmhouse. Walking up to it, I found it to look just as decrepit as the barns. Men in workclothes were removing paint from the withered wood, leaving flecks of white on the dirt.

A man stood on the porch surveying the work being done. His eyes were sunk into his skull giving him somewhat of a ghoulish appearance. “Hey there,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Your barn,” I spat out. “Did you catch who did it?”

“‘Catch who did it?’ Oh, you must have seen the flames a few weeks ago. Nope, you see I’ve recently bought this place and I am building a new barn in the old one’s place. It was too far gone, you see.” He stopped and looked at me. “What’s the matter? You like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I must admit I am not sure what happened then. I must have gotten out of there, fast. The next thing I knew, I was running down the lane.

And straight into the guy. He was wearing a black cashmere coat and muffler, just like last time I saw him back at the café.

“Hey!” I shouted, quite unnecessarily as we had practically run into each other. “Did you burn down that barn?”

“Heyyy,” he said rather cooly. “Funny running into you here, in the middle of nowhere.”

“There are barns here,” I said. “It is not the middle of nowhere.”

“Ahh, yes, barns,” he said, as though he’d forgotten the word. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I no longer burn barns.”

“No? When did you stop?”

“Quite a while back. You see, it started to get boring. One barn looks like another, and each experience ran into the next. It was no longer exciting.”

“So what do you do now?” I asked. “Do you burn anything at all?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I burn bridges.”

“Bridges!” I said, incredulous. “But—that’s not as safe burning barns. People could get hurt. Cars could––”

He grabbed my arm rather forcefully. “You misunderstand! I would never burn a road bridge. In fact, doing so would require explosives, not mere fire. That is not my field.”

“But what other bridges are there?” I said.

“Walking bridges, of course. On nature trails.”

“Nature trails?” I said. “Surely that’s not nearly as exciting as burning barns.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “The flame is not nearly as large, not nearly as graceful. But it’s…different, a flame over a moving stream of water. It’s poetic in its own way.”

“Poetic? I said. “You’re not making any sense.”

He sighed and stretched his hands, and blew air into my face. “Let me put it this way. When somebody finds a burned bridge, they will have two choices. They can either brave the elements, get a bit wet, struggle across. Or they can admit defeat and turn back. But those who brave on, they will remember doing so. They will remember being closer to nature than the bridge could have afforded them. In a way, they will thank me. And they will wonder what their lives would have been like if the bridge had not been burned, if they had simply walked across. Or if they had simply gone back.”

“Are you kidding me?” I said, incredulous. “Nobody will wade across. They will say, ‘I wonder what asshole did that?’ and get back into their cars.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe I just have more faith in humanity than you do,” he said. “But I really must be going. I am scouting for some good bridges now, as a matter of fact.”

“Let me come with you,” I begged.

“No.” He was forceful.

“At least tell me what bridge you will burn.”

“I do not know myself. But I do suspect it will be near your house. Goodbye.”

I’m afraid I do not know what happened here either. All I remember is that he disappeared quickly, almost impossibly slow. I kept looking over my shoulder, but he was never there.

The next few days I puzzled over what he had told me. I suspected that he was lying. I think he still burned barns. He knew that he’d taken the girl away from me. He knew I did not like him. Therefore, if he burned a barn, I would have a motive to report the incident to the police. He might get caught. By deceiving me, he would lure me away from his intended target. I would not let that happen. I would keep watching the barns.

But I could not deny that he might be telling the truth, as unlikely as it seemed. What bothered me more than the lack of size of such a bridge was the fact that these bridges, unlike the barns, were wanted. They were used. If the guy went through with it, it would not be too long before he moved on to occupied buildings. The thought terrified me.

I went to the bookstore and bought several trail guides for the area. I studied them, but they did not mention any bridges, just the overlooks and the flora and fauna. I would have to walk each one. There were five trail systems near my house. Unfortunately, one was over five miles in length: it was an old farm that the owners sold to the city for use as nature trails. One I had been to before, and the only bridge was a log over a stream.

That left four trails. I spent an entire afternoon walking each one. The first trail was in more of a park, close to tennis courts, a baseball field, and a playground. It seemed somewhat of a risky site. Plus, the bridge wasn’t terribly large. The next trail was a concrete slab, unsuitable for burning. It would make for a spectacular explosion, but he said he did not do that sort of thing. For some reason, I believed him on this.

The two remaining trails had bridges that I knew I would begin visiting everyday. The first was over a large gully—not much water, but the bridge would produce a spectacular flame. The second was smaller, but the creek it covered moved swiftly. It would certainly make one “closer to nature,” or whatever he was going on about.

My daily routine became like this: In the morning, I would visit the Barns; I would come home for lunch; and in the afternoons I would visit the bridges. In the evenings, I would visit the library, perusing local newspaper police blotter––I couldn’t run the risk that he had lied to me as to the location of the crime. After all, I think he was correct—I did have a grudge against him.

This routine lasted only two months before my wife announced that she was forcing me out. To my surprise, I did not care. It was not unexpected––I left early and came back late, exhausted. Perhaps she thought I was having an affair. I wouldn’t blame her. I was relieved, in a way. Now I would be free to conduct my investigations without interference.

Today I live in a ratty old apartment with peeling wallpaper and creaky wooden floors. It smells like rotting fish sometimes, but I don’t mind. I just use it to sleep, really. I can’t afford to live there, because someday, somewhere, a barn or bridge will burn. I am waiting.