The Kangaroo Communique
By MURAKAMI Haruki
Translated by Alfred Birnbaum

Say hey, how’s tricks?
This morning I paid a call on the kangaroos at the local zoo. Not your biggest zoo, but it’s got the standard animals. Everything from gorilla to elephants. Although if your taste runs to llamas and anteaters, don’t go out of your way. You won’t find any there. No impala or hyena either. Not even a leopard.
Instead, there are four kangaroos.
One, an infant, born just two months ago. And a male and two females. I can’t for the life of me figure out how they get along as a family.
Everytime I set eyes on a kangaroo, it all seems too improbable to me: I mean, what on earth would it feel like to be a kangaroo? For what possible reason do they go hopping around in such an ungodly place as Australia? Just to get killed by some clunky stick of a boomerang?
I can’t figure it out.
Though, really, that’s neither here nor there. No major issue.
Anyway, looking at these kangaroos, I got the urge to send you a letter.
Maybe that strikes you as odd. You ask yourself why should looking at kangaroos make me want to send you a letter? And just what is the connection between these kangaroos and me? Well, you can stop thinking those thoughts right now. Makes no never-mind. Kangaroos are kangaroos, you are you.
In other words, it’s like this.
Thirty-six intricate procedural steps, followed one by one in just the right order, led me from the kangaroos to you—that’s it. To attempt so explain each and every one of these steps would surely try your powers of comprehension, but more than that, I doubt I can even remember them all.
There were thirty-six of them after all!
If just one of these steps had gotten screwed up, I guess I wouldn’t be sending you this letter. Who knows? I might have ended up somewhere in the Antarctic Ocean careening about on the back of a sperm whale. Or maybe I’d have torched the local cigarette stand.
Yet somehow, guided by this seemingly random convergence of thirty-six coincidences, I find myself communicating with you.
Strange isn’t it?

Okay, then, allow me to introduce myself.
I am twenty-six years old and work in the products control section of a department store. The job—as I’m sure you can easily imagine—is terribly boring. First of all, I check the merchandise the purchasing section has decided to stack, make sure there aren’t any problems with the products. This is supposed to prevent collusion between the purchasing section and the suppliers, but actually it’s a pretty loose operation. A few tugs at shoe buckles while chatting, a nibble or two at some sample sweets, that’s about it. So much for "product control."
Then we come to another task, the real heart of our work, which is responding to customer complaints. Say, for instance, two pairs of stockings just purchased developed runs one after another, or the wind-up bear fell off the table and stopped working, or a bathrobe shrank by one-fourth the first time through the machine—those kind of complaints.
Well, let me tell you, the number of complaints—the sheer number—is enough to dampen anyone’s spirits. Enough to keep four staffers racing around like crazy day in and day out. These complaints include both clear-cut cases and totally unreasonable requests. Then there are those we have to puzzle over. For convenience sake, we’ve classified these into three categories: A, B, and C. And in the middle of the office we’ve got three boxes, marked A, B, and C respectively, where we toss the letters. An operation we call “Tri-level Rationality Evaluation.” In-house joke. Forget I mentioned it.
Anyway, to explain these three categories, we have:
(A) Reasonable complaints. Cases where we are obliged to assume responsibility. We visit the customers’ homes bearing boxes of sweets and exchange the merchandise in question.
(B) Borderline cases. When in doubt, we play safe. Even where there is no moral obligation or business precedent or legal liability, we offer some appropriate gesture so as to not compromise the image of the department store and to avoid unnecessary trouble.
(C) Customer negligence. When clearly the customer’s fault, we offer an explanation of the situation and leave it at that.
Now, as to your complaints of a few days back, we gave the matter serious consideration and ultimately arrived at the conclusion that your complaint was of a nature that could only be classified as belonging to category C. The reasons for this were—ready? listen carefully!—we cannot exchange (1) a record once purchased (2) one whole week later (3) without a receipt. Nowhere in the world can you do this.
Do you get whet I’m saying?
End of explanation of situation. Your complaint has been duly processed.

Nonetheless, professional viewpoint aside—and actually I leave it aside a lot—my personal reaction to your plight—having mistakenly bought Mahler, not Brahms—is one of heartfelt sympathy. I kid you not. So it is that I send you, not your run-of-the-mill from letter, but this in some sense more intimate message.

Actually, I started to write you a letter any number of times last week. We regret to inform you that our policy prohibits the exchange of records, although your letter did in some small way move me to personally… blah, blah, blah. A letter like that. Nothing I wrote, however, came out right. And it’s not although I’m no good at writing letters. It’s just that each time I set my mind on writing you, I drew a blank, and the words that did come were consistently off base. Strangest thing.
So I decided not to respond at all. I mean, why send out a botched attempt at a letter? Better to send nothing at all, right? At least that’s what I think: a message imperfectly communicated does about as much good as a screwed-up timetable.
As fate would have it though, this morning, standing before the kangaroo cage, I hit upon the exact permutation of those thirty-six coincidences and came up with this inspiration. To wit, the principle we shall call the Nobility of Imperfection. Now what is this Nobility of Imperfection, you may ask—who wouldn’t ask? Well, simply put, the Nobility of Imperfection might mean nothing so much as the proposition that someone in effect forgive someone else. I forgive the kangaroos, the kangaroos
forgive you, you forgive me—to cite but one example.
Uh huh.
This cycle, however, is not perpetual. At some point the kangaroos might take it into their heads not to forgive you. Please don’t get angry at the kangaroos just because of that, though. It’s not the kangaroos’ fault and it’s not your fault. Nor for that matter is it my fault. The kangaroos have their own pressing circumstances. And I ask you, what kind of person is it who can blame a kangaroo?
So we seize the moment. That’s all we can do. Capture the moment in a snapshot. Front and center, in a row left to right: you, the kangaroos, me.
Enough of trying to write this all down. It’s going nowhere. Say I write the word “coincidence”. What you read in the word “coincidence” could be utterly different—even opposite—from what the very same word means to me. This is unfair, if I may say so. Here I am stripped to my underpants while you’ve only undone three button of your blouse. An unfair turn of events if there ever was one.
Hence I bought myself a cassette tape, having decided to directly record my letter to you.
(Whistling—eight bars of Colonel Bogie’s March)
Testing, can you hear me?
I don’t really know how you will take to receiving this letter—that is, this tape—I really can’t imagine. I suppose you might even get quite upset by it all. Why?… because it’s highly unusual for a product control clerk of a department store to reply to a customer complaint by cassette tape—with a personalized message, too, mind you!—you could even, if you were so inclined, say the whole thing was downright bizarre. And say, were you to get so upset that you sent this tape back to my boss, my standing within the organization would be placed in a terribly delicate balance indeed.
But if that is what you want to do please do so.
If it comes to that, I will not get mad or hold grudge against you.
Clear enough? We are on 100% equal term: I have the right to send you a letter and you have the right to threaten my livelihood.
Isn’t that right?
We’re even-steven. Just remember that.
Come to think of it, I forgot to mention that I’m calling this letter The Kangaroo Communiqué.
I mean, everything needs a name, right?
Suppose, for instance, you keep a diary. Instead of writing this tong, drawn out entry. “Department store product control clerk’s reply re. complaint arrives,” you could simply write “Kangaroo Communiqué arrives” and be done with it. And such a catchy name, too, don’t you think? The Kangaroo Communiqué: makes you think of kangaroos bounding off across the vast plains, pouches stuffed full of mail. Doesn’t it?
Thump, thump, thump (rapping on tabletop).
Now for some knocking.
Knock, knock… Stop me if you’ve heard this.
Don’t open the door if you don’t feel like it. Either way is perfectly fine. If you don’t want to listen any more, please stop the tape and throw it away. I just wanted to sit down a while by your front door talking to myself, that’s all. I have no idea whatsoever if you’re listening or not, but since I don’t know, it’s really all the same whether you do or you don’t, isn’t it? Ha, ha, ha.
Okay, what the hell, let’s give it a go.
Still and all, this imperfection business is pretty tough going. Who’d have thought talking into a microphone without any script or plan would be so hard? It’s like standing in the middle of the desert sprinkling water around with a cup. No visible sign of anything, not one thing to cling to.
That’s why all this time I’ve been talking to the VU meters. You know, the VU meters? Those gizmos with the needles that twitch to the volume. I don’t know what the V or the U stand for, but whatever, they’re the only thing showing any reaction to my ranting.
Hey hey.
All the same, their criteria are really quite simple.
V and U, well, they’re like a vaudeville duo. There’s no V without U and no U without V—a nice little set up. As far as they’re concerned it really doesn’t matter what I babble on about. The only thing they’re interested in is how much my voice makes the air vibrate. To them, the air vibrates therefore I am.
Pretty swift, don’t you think?
Watching them, I get to thinking it doesn’t matter what I say so long as I keep talking.
Whoah!
Come to think of it, not too long ago I saw a movie. It was about a comedian who just couldn’t make anyone laugh no matter what jokes he told. Got the picture? Not one soul would laugh.
Well, talking into this microphone, I’m reminded of that movie over and over again.
It’s all very odd.
Lines spoken by one person will have you dying with laughter, but the very same lines spoken by another won’t seem funny in the least. Curious, don’t you think? And the more I think about it, that difference just seems to be one of these things you’re born with. See, it’s like the curvature of the semicircular canals of your cars having the edge over somebody else’s, or... you know.
Sometimes I find myself thinking, if only I had such gifts, how happy I’d be. I’m always doubling over laughing to myself when something funny strikes me, but try to tell someone else and it falls flat, a dud. It makes me feel like the Egyptian Sandman. Even more, it’s...
You know about the Egyptian Sandman?
Hmm, well you see, the Egyptian Sandman was Prince of Egypt by birth. A long time ago, back in the days of pyramids and sphinxes and all that. But because he was so ugly—I mean truly ugly—the King had him sent off into the deepest jungle to get rid of him. Well, it so happens that the kid ends up getting raised by wolves, or monkeys maybe. One of those stories, you know. And somehow or other he becomes a Sandman. Now this sandman, everything he touches turns to sand. Breezes turn into sandstorm, babbling brooks turn to sand drifts, grassy plains turn to desert. So goes the tale of the Sandman. Ever hear it before? Probably not, eh? That’s because I just made it up. Ha, ha, ha.
Anyway, talking to you like this, I get the feeling I’ve become the Egyptian Sandman myself. And what I touch. It’s sand, sand, sand…
...Once again. I see I’m talking about myself too much. But all things considered, it’s unavoidable. I mean, I don’t even know one solitary thing about you. I’ve got your address and your name, and that’s it. Your age, income bracket, the shape of your nose, whether you’re slender or overweight, married or not—what do I know? Not that any of that really matters. It’s almost better this way. If at all possible I prefer to keep things simple, very simple, on the metaphysical level if you will.
To wit, here I have your letter.
This is all I need.
Just as the zoologist collects shit samples in the jungle from which to deduce the elephant’s dietary habits and patterns of activity and weight and sex life, so your one latter gives me enough to go on. I can actually sense what makes up your person. Of course, minus your looks, the kind of perfume you wear, details like that. Nonetheless—your very essence.
Your letter was honestly quite fascinating. Your choice of words, the handwriting, punctuation, spacing between lines, rhetoric, everything was perfect. Superlative, it was not. But perfect, yes.
Every month I read over five hundred letters, and frankly yours was the first letter that ever moved me. I secretly took your letter home with me and read it over and over again. Then I analyzed your letter thoroughly. Being such a short letter, it was no trouble at all.
Many things came to light through my analysis. First of all, the number of punctuation marks is overwhelming. 6.36 commas for every period. On the high side, don’t you think? And that’s not all: the way you punctuate is markedly irregular.
Listen, please don’t think I’m putting down your writing. I’m simply moved by it.
Enthralled.
And it’s not just the commas either. Every part of your letter—down to each ink smear—everything set me off, everything shook me.
Why?
Well the long and the short of it is, there’s no you in the whole piece of writing. Oh, there’s a story to it alright. A girl—a woman—makes a mistake buying a record. She had the feeling the record had the wrong tunes, but still she went ahead and bought it, and it’s exactly one week before she realizes. The sales girl won’t exchange it. So she writes a letter of complaint. That’s the story.
I had to reread your letter three times before I grasped the story. The reason was, your letter was completely different from all the other letters of complaint that come our way. To put it bluntly, there wasn’t even any complaint in your letter. Let alone any emotion. The only thing that was there—was the story.
Really and truly, you had me wondering. Was the letter in fact intended as a complaint or a confession or a proclamation, or was it perhaps meant to put forth some thesis? I had no idea. Your letter reminded me of a news photo from the scene of a massacre. With no commentary, no article, no nothing—just a photo. A shot of dead bodies littered along some roadside in some country somewhere.
Bang bang bang... there’s your massacre.
No wait, we carn simplify things a little. Simplify them a lot.
That is to say, your letter excites me sexually.
There you have it.

Let us now address the topic of sex.
Thud, thud, thud.
More knocking.
You know, if this doesn’t interest you, you can stop the tape. I’m just talking to myself, blabbering away to the VU meters. Blah, blah, blah.
Okay?

Picture this; short forearms with five fingers, but singularly huge hind legs with four toes, the fourth of which is immensely overdeveloped, while the second and third are extra tiny and fused together… that’s a description of the feet of a kangaroo. Ha ha ha.
Uh, moving on the topic of sex.
Ever since I took your letter home with me, all I can seem to think about is sleeping with you. That I’ll climb into bed to find you next to me, wake up in the morning and there you’d be. As I open my eyes you’ll already be getting out of bed, and I’ll hear you zipping up your dress. There I’d be—and you know how delicate a zipper on a dress can be—well, I’d just shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep. I wouldn’t even set eye on you.
Once you cut across the room and disappear into the washroom, only then would I open my eyes. Then I’d get a bite to eat and head out to work.
In the pitch black of night—I’ll install special blinds on my windows to make the place extra pitch black—of course I wouldn’t see your face. I’d know nothing, not your age or weight. So I wouldn’t lay a hand on you either.
But, well, that’s fine.
If you realty want to know, it makes no difference whatsoever if I have sex with you or not.
…No. I take that back.
Let me think that one over.

Okay, let’s put it this way. I would like to sleep with you. But it’s alright if I don’t sleep with you. What I’m saying is I’d like to be as fair as possible. I don’t want to force anything on anybody, any more than I’d want anything forced on me. It’s enough that I feel your presence or see your commas swirling around me.
You see, it’s like this.
Sometimes when I think about entities—like in “separate entities”—it gets mighty grim. I start thinking, and I nearly go to pieces.
…For instance, say you’re riding on the subway. And there are dozens of people in the car. Mere “passengers” you’d have to call them, as a rule. “Passengers” being conveyed from Aoyama 1-chome to Akasakamitsuke. Sometimes, though, it’ll strike you, that each and every one of those passengers is a distinct individual entity. Like, what does this one do? Or why on earth do you suppose that one’s riding the Ginza Line? Or whatever. By then it’s too late. You let it get to you and you’re a goner.
Looks like that businessman’s hairline is receding, or the girl over there’s got such hairy legs I bet she shaves at least once a week, or why is that young guy sitting across the aisle wearing that awful color tie? Little things like that. Until finally you’ve got the shakes and you want to jump out of the car then and there. Why just the other day—I know you’re going to laugh, but—I was on the verge of pressing the emergency brake button by the door.
I admit it. But that doesn’t mean you should go thinking I’m hypersensitive or on edge all the time. I’m really a regular sort of guy, your everyday ordinary work-a-day type, gainfully employed in the product control section of a department store. And I’ve got nothing against the subway.
Nor do I have any problem sexually. There’s a woman I’m seeing—I guess you could call her my girlfriend—been sleeping with her twice a week for maybe a year now. And she and I, we’re both pretty satisfied. Only I try not to take her too seriously. I have no intention of marrying her. If I thought about getting married, I’m sure I’d begin taking her seriously, and I’d lose all confidence that I could carry on from that point. I mean that’s how it is. You live with a girl and these things start to get to you—her teeth aren’t exactly straight, the shape of her fingernails—how can you expect to go on like that?

Let me say a little more about myself.
No knocking this time.
If you’ve listened this far, you might as well hear me out.
Just a second. I need a smoke.
Rattle, rattle.
…Up to now I’ve hardly said a word about myself. Like, there’s really not that much to say. And even if I did, probably nobody would find it terribly interesting.
So why am I telling you all this?
I think I already told you, it’s because now my sights are set on the Nobility of Imperfection.
And what touched off this Nobility of Imperfection idea?
Your letter and four kangaroos.
Yes, kangaroos.
Kangaroos are such fascinating creatures, I can look at them for hours on end. What can kangaroos possibly have to think about? The whole lot of them, jumping around in their cage all day long, digging holes now and again. And then what do they do with these holes? Nothing. They dig them and that’s it. Ha ha ha.
Kangaroos only give birth to one baby at a time. So as soon as one baby is born, the female gets pregnant again. Otherwise the kangaroo population would never sustain itself. This means the female kangaroo spends her entire life either pregnant or nursing babies. If she’s not pregnant, she’s nursing babies, if she’s not nursing babies, she’s pregnant. You could say she exists just to ensure the continuance of the species. The kangaroo species wouldn’t survive if there weren’t any kangaroos, and if their purpose wasn’t to go on existing, kangaroos wouldn’t be around in the first place.
Funny about that.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Excuse me.
To talk about myself, then.
Actually, I’m extremely dissatisfied with being who I am. It’s nothing to do with my looks or abilities or status or any of that. It simply has to do with being me. The situation strikes me as grossly unfair.
Still, that doesn’t mean you should write me off as someone with a lot of gripes. I have not one complaint about the place where I work or my salary. The work is undeniably boring, but then most jobs are boring. Money it not a major issue here.
Shall I put it on the line?
I want to be able to be in two places at once. That is my one and only wish. Other than that, there’s not a thing I desire.
Yet being who and what I am, my singularity hampers this desire of mine. An unhappy lot, don’t you think? My wish, if anything, is rather unassuming. I don’t want to be ruler of the world, nor do I want to be an artist of genius. I merely want to exist in two places simultaneously. Got it’ Not three, not four, only two. I want to be roller skating while I’m listening to an orchestra at a concert hall. I want to be a MacDonald’s Quarter-Pounder and still be a clerk in the product control section of the department store. I want to sleep with you and be sleeping with my girlfriend all the while. I went to lead a general existence and yet be a distinct, separate entity.
Allow me one more cigarette.
Whoah.
Getting a little tired.
I’m not used to this, speaking so frankly about myself.
There’s just one thing I’d like to get clear, though. Which is that do not lust after you sexually as a woman. Like I told you, I am angry at the fact that I am only myself and nothing else. This being a solitary entity is dreadfully depressing. Hence I do not seek to sleep with you, a solitary individual.
If, however, you were to divide in two, and I split into two as well, and we four all shared the same bed together, wouldn’t that be something! Don’t you think?
Please send no reply. If you decide you want to write sue a letter, please send it ease of the company in the form of a complaint. If not a complaint, then whatever you come up with.
That’s about it.

I listened to the tape this far on playback just now. To be honest, I’m very dissatisfied with it. I feel like an aquarium trainer who’s let a seal die out of negligence. It made me worry whether I should even send you this tape or not, blowing this thing all out of proportion even by my standards.
And now that I’ve decided to send it, I’m still worried.
But what the hell, I’m striving for imperfection. So I’ve got to live happily by my choice. It was you and the four kangaroos who got me into this imperfection after all.
Signing off.