The Ice Man (1991)
By Haruki Murakami (
) (Japan)
Translated from the Japanese by Philip Gabriel
My husband’s an Ice Man.
The first time I met him was at a
hotel at a ski resort. It’s hard to
imagine a more appropriate place to meet
an Ice Man. He was in the lobby of the
hotel, noisy and crowded with hordes of
young people, seated in a corner as far
as possible from the fireplace, quietly
absorbed in a book. It was nearly noon,
but the clear, cold morning light seemed
to shine on him alone. “That’s an Ice
Man,” one of my friends whispered. At
the time I had no idea what sort of
person an Ice Man was, and my friend
couldn’t help me out. All she knew was
that he was the sort of person who went
by the name of Ice Man. “They must call
him that because he’s made out of ice, ”
she added, a serious look on her face.
Haruki Murakami
As serious as if the topic wasn’t an Ice
born 1949
Man but a ghost, or someone with a
contagious disease.
The Ice Man looked young, though that was offset by the white
strands, like patches of leftover snow, mixed in among his stiff, wiry head
of hair. He was tall, his cheeks were sharply chiseled, like frozen crags,
his fingers covered with frost that looked like it would never, ever melt.
Other than this, he looked perfectly normal. He wasn’t handsome, exactly,
though some would find him quite appealing. There was something about him
that pierced right through you. Especially his eyes, and that silent,
transparent look that gleamed like an icicle on a winter’s morning-- the
sole glint of life in an otherwise provisional body. I stood there for a
while, gazing at the Ice Man from across the lobby. He was absorbed in his
book, never once moving or looking up, as if trying to convince himself
that he was utterly alone.
The next afternoon he was in the same spot, as before, reading his
book. When I went to the dining room for lunch, and when I came back with
my friends from skiing in the evening, he was always there, seated in the
same chair, the same look in his eyes as he scanned the pages of the same
book as before. And the next day was exactly the same. Dawn to dusk found
him seated alone, quietly reading, for all the world like part of the
frozen winter scene outside.
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On the afternoon
of the fourth day, I
made up an excuse and
didn’t join everyone
on the slopes.
Instead, I stayed
behind in the hotel,
wandering around the
lobby. With everyone
out skiing, the lobby
was like an abandoned
city. The air there
was sticky and hot,
filled with a
strangely depressing
odor-- the smell of
snow that had clung
to the soles of
people’s boots and
Hakuba ski resort
had slowly melted in
front of the fireplace. I gazed out the windows, leafed through a
newspaper. Finally I worked up my courage, went over to the Ice Man, and
spoke to him. I’m pretty shy, and hardly ever strike up a conversation with
a stranger, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to talk to him. This was my
last night in the hotel and if I let this chance pass I probably would
never have another.
You’re not skiing? I asked, trying to sound casual. The Ice Man
slowly raised his head, looking like he was carefully listening to the wind
blowing far away. He gazed intently at me and then quietly shook his head.
I don’t ski, he said. I’m fine just reading and looking out at the snow.
His words floated up in the air, a white comic-book bubble of dialogue,
every word visible before me. He gently wiped away some of the frost from
his fingers.
I had no idea what to say next. I blushed and stood there, rooted to
the spot. The Ice Man gazed into my eyes and gave what looked like a faint
smile. Or was it? Had he really smiled? Maybe I was just imagining it.
Would you like to sit down? he said. I know you’re curious about me, so
let’s talk for a while. You want to know what an Ice Man is like, right? He
chuckled. It’s all right, he added. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re
not going to catch a cold just talking to me.
We sat on a sofa in a corner of the lobby, hesitantly talking as we
watched the swirling snow outside. I ordered a cup of hot cocoa, but the
Ice Man didn’t drink anything. He was just as shy as I was. On top of
which, we had little in common to talk about. We talked about the weather
at first, then the hotel. Did you come here alone? I asked him. I did, he
responded. Do you like skiing? he asked. Not particularly, I replied. Some
of my girlfriends dragged me here. I can barely ski. I was dying to find
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out more about what an Ice Man was all about. Was he really made out of
ice? What did he eat? Where did he live in the summer? Did he have a
family? Those sorts of questions. Unfortunately, the Ice Man didn’t talk
about himself at all, and I didn’t dare ask the questions that whirled
around in my head. I figured he didn’t feel like talking about those
things.
Instead he talked about me, who I am. It’s hard to believe, but he
knew everything there was to know about me. Who was in my family, my age,
interests, my health, what school I was attending, my friends. He knew it
all. Even things I’d long forgotten, he knew everything about.
I don’t get it, I blushed. I felt like I had been stripped naked in
front of people. How do you know so much
about me? I asked. Are you a mind
reader?
No, the Ice Man said, I
can’t read minds. I just know these
things. Like I’m looking deep into a
clear block of ice. When I gaze at
you like this, I can see everything
about you.
Can you see my future? I asked.
No, not the future, he replied
blankly, slowly shaking his head. I’m
not interested in the future. I have
no concept of the future. Ice
contains no future, just the past,
sealed away. As if they’re alive,
everything in the world is sealed up
inside, clear and distinct. Ice can preserve
all kinds of things that way-- cleanly,
clearly. That’s the essence of ice, the role it plays.
I’m glad, I replied, and smiled. I was relieved-- there was no way I
wanted to hear about my future.
We got together a few times after we returned to Tokyo, eventually
dating every weekend. We didn’t go on typical dates, to see movies, or
spend time in coffee shops. We didn’t even go out to eat. The Ice Man
hardly ever ate. Instead we’d spend time on a park bench, side by side,
talking. We discussed all kinds of subjects, yet not once did the Ice Man
talk about himself. Why is this? I asked one day. Why don’t you ever talk
about yourself? I want to know more about you-- where you were born, what
kind of parents you had, how you came to be an Ice Man. The Ice Man gazed
at me for a while, then slowly shook his head. I don’t know the answer to
those things, he responded quietly and decisively, exhaling his hard white
breath. I have no past. I know the past of everything else, and preserve
it. But I have no past myself. I have no idea where I was born. I don’t
3
know what my parents
looked like, or whether I
even had any. I don’t know
how old I am, or if I even
have an age.
The Ice Man was as
isolated and alone as an
iceberg floating in the
darkness.
I fell deeply in
love with him, and he came
to love me, the present
me, apart from any past or
future. And I came to love
the Ice Man for who he is
now, apart from any past
or future. It was a
wonderful thing. We began to talk about getting married. I had just turned
twenty, and the Ice Man was the first person I’d ever truly loved. What
loving him really meant was, at the time, beyond me. But that would have
been true even if it hadn’t been the Ice Man I was in love with then.
My mother and older sister were totally opposed to our marriage.
You’re too young to get married, they argued. You don’t know the man’s
background-- even where or when he was born. How are we supposed to explain
that to our relatives? And listen, they went on, he’s an Ice Man, so what
happens if he melts? You don’t seem to understand this, but when you get
married you take on certain responsibilities. How can an Ice Man possibly
fulfill his duties as a husband?
Their fears were groundless, however. The Ice Man wasn’t really made
out of ice. He was just as cold as ice. So even if it got hot, he wasn’t
about to melt. He was cold, all right, but this wasn’t the kind of cold
that was going to rob someone else of his body heat.
So we got married. No one celebrated our wedding. No one-- not my
friends, or relatives, or my family-- was happy about us getting married.
We didn’t even have a wedding ceremony. The Ice Man didn’t have a family
register, so even a civil ceremony was out. The two of us simply decided
that we were married. We bought a small cake and ate it, just the two of
us. That was our ceremony. We rented a small apartment, and the Ice Man
took a job at a refrigerated meat warehouse. The cold never bothered him,
of course, and he never got tired, no matter how hard he worked. He never
even ate very much. So his boss really liked him, and paid him more than
any of his fellow employees. We lived a quiet life, just the two of us, not
bothered by anyone else, not troubling anybody.
When we made love, I always pictured a solitary, silent clump of ice
off somewhere. Hard ice, as hard as it could possibly be, the largest chunk
of ice in the entire world. It was somewhere far away, though the Ice Man
must know where that chunk of ice is. What he did was convey a memory of
4
that ice. The first few
times we made love, I was
confused, but soon I grew
used to it. I grew to
love it when he took me in
his arms. As always, he
never said a word about
himself, not even why he
became an Ice Man, and I
never asked him. The two
of us simply held each
other in the darkness,
sharing that enormous ice,
inside of which the
world’s past, millions of
years’ worth, was
preserved.
Our married life was fine. We loved each other, and everyone left us
alone. People found it hard at first to get used to the Ice Man, but after
a while they started to talk with him. An Ice Man’s not so different from
anybody else, they concluded. But deep down, I knew they didn’t accept him,
and they didn’t accept me for having married him. We’re different people
from them, they concluded, and the gulf separating them and us will never
be filled.
We tried but failed to have a baby, perhaps because of a genetic
difference between humans and Ice Men that made having children difficult.
Without a baby to keep me busy, I found I had a lot of spare time on my
hands. I’d straighten up the house in the morning, but after that had
nothing to keep me busy. I didn’t have any friends to talk to or go out
with, and I didn’t know anybody in the neighborhood. My mother and sister
were still angry with me over marrying an Ice Man, and refused to get in
touch. I was the family black sheep they were embarrassed about. There was
no one to talk to, even over the phone. While the Ice Man was working in
the warehouse, I stayed alone at home, reading or listening to music. I was
a bit of a homebody anyway, and didn’t mind being by myself all that much.
Still, I was young, and couldn’t put up with such a monotonous routine for
long. Boredom didn’t bother me as much as the sheer repetitiveness of each
day. I started to see myself as nothing more than a repetitive shadow
within that daily routine.
So, one day I suggested to my husband that we take a trip somewhere
to break up the routine. A trip? the Ice Man asked, his eyes narrowing. Why
would you want to go on a trip? You’re not happy the way we are, just the
two of us?
No, that’s not it, I replied. I’m perfectly happy. We get along fine.
It’s just that I’m bored. I’d like to go someplace far away, see things
I’ve never seen before, experience something new. Do you know what I mean?
And besides, we never went on a honeymoon. We have enough saved up, plus
5
you have plenty of vacation time. It would be nice to take a leisurely
vacation for once.
The Ice Man let out a deep, nearly freezing sigh, which crystallized
audibly in the air, then brought his long, frost covered fingers together
on his lap. Well, he said, if you really want to go on a trip that much, I
don’t see why not. I don’t think traveling is all that great, but I’ll do
whatever it takes to make you happy, go wherever you want. I’ve worked hard
at the warehouse and should be able to take some time off. It shouldn’t be
a problem. But where would you like to go?
How about the South Pole? I said. I picked the South Pole because I
was sure the Ice Man would be interested in going there. And, truth be
told, I’d always wanted to go see it. To see the aurora1, and the penguins.
I had this wonderful mental picture of myself in a hooded parka underneath
the aurora, playing with the penguins.
The Ice
Man looked deep
into my eyes,
unblinking. His
look was like a
sharply pointed
icicle piercing
deep into my
brain. He was
silent for a
while,
thinking, then
with a twinkle
in his voice he
said, All
right. If you’d
really like to
go to the South
Pole then let’s
do it. You’re
sure that’s
aurora australis and penguins
where you want
to go?
I nodded.
I can take a long vacation in a couple of weeks, he said. You should
be able to get everything ready for the trip in the meantime. That’s all
right with you?
I couldn’t respond. His icicle stare had frozen my brain and I
couldn’t think.
1
the aurora australis (or the southern lights) is a natural light display in the sky in the
high latitude regions caused by the collision of energetic charged particles with atoms in
the high altitude atmosphere
6
As the days passed, though, I started to regret bringing up the idea
to my husband of a trip to the South Pole. I’m not sure why. It’s like ever
since I mentioned the name “South Pole” he changed. His eyes grew more
piercing and icicle-like than ever, his breath whiter, his fingers covered
with an increasing amount of frost. He was quieter than before, and more
stubborn. And he was no longer eating, which had me worried. Five days
before we were set to depart I decided I had to say something. Let’s not go
to the South Pole after all, I said to him. It’s too cold, and might not be
good for us. It’d be better to go to some ordinary place-- Europe or Spain
or somewhere. We could drink some wine, eat some paella2, watch a bullfight
or two. But my husband ignored me. He had this faraway look for a while,
then turned to me and looked deep into my eyes. His stare went so deep I
felt like my body was about to vanish right then and there. No, my husband
the Ice Man said flatly, Spain doesn’t interest me. I’m sorry, but it’s
just too hot and dusty. And the food’s too spicy. And I already bought our
tickets to the South Pole, and a fur coat and fur-lined boots for you. We
can’t let those go to waste. We can’t just back out now.
To tell you
the truth, I was
frightened. If we
went to the South
Pole, I felt sure
something terrible
was going to happen
to us. I had the
same awful dream
night after night.
I’m walking
somewhere when I
fall into a deep
hole. Nobody finds
me and I freeze
solid. I’m frozen
inside the ice,
gazing up at the sky. I’m conscious but can’t even move a finger. It’s such
a weird feeling. With each passing moment I’m becoming part of the past.
There is no future for me, just the past steadily accumulating. Everybody
is watching this happening to me. They’re watching the past, watching as I
slip further and further away.
Then I wake up and find the Ice Man sleeping beside me. He makes no
sound as he sleeps, like something frozen and dead. I love him, though. I
start to cry, my tears wetting his cheeks. He awakens and holds me close. I
had an awful dream, I tell him. In the darkness he slowly shakes his head.
2
a Spanish dish of rice, saffron, chicken, seafood, etc., cooked and served in a large
shallow pan
7
It was only a dream, he says. Dreams come from the past, not from the
future. Dreams shouldn’t control you-- you should control them.
You’re right, I say-- but I’m not at all certain.
So we ended up taking a plane to the South Pole. I couldn’t find a
reason to call off our trip. The pilots and stewardesses in our plane
barely said a word the whole way. I was hoping to enjoy the scenery as we
flew, but the clouds were so thick I couldn’t see a thing. Before long, the
windows were covered with a thick film of ice. All this time, my husband
just quietly read a book. I felt none of the usual excitement and happiness
you feel as you set out on a trip, merely the feeling that we were
fulfilling what we’d set out to do.
As we walked down the ramp and first set foot at the South Pole, I
could feel my husband’s whole body tremble. It all happened in the blink of
an eye, in half an instant, and his expression didn’t change a jot, so no
one else noticed. But I didn’t miss it. Something inside him sent a quiet
yet intense jolt through him. I stared at his face. He stood there, looked
up at the sky, then at his hands, and then let out a deep breath. He looked
over at me and smiled. So this is where you wanted to come? he asked.
That’s right, I replied.
I knew the
South Pole was going
to be a lonely
place, but it turned
out to be lonelier
than anything I
could have imagined.
Hardly anyone lived
there. There was
just one small
featureless town3,
with one equally
featureless hotel.
The South Pole isn’t
much of a tourist
destination. There
weren’t even any
penguins, not to
mention any aurora.
Occasionally I’d stop passersby and ask where the penguins were, but they’d
merely shake their head. They couldn’t understand my words, so I’d end up
sketching a penguin on a piece of paper to show them, but all I got was the
same response-- a silent shake of the head. I felt so alone. Step outside
the town and all you saw was ice. No trees, no flowers, rivers, or ponds.
Ice and nothing but-- a frozen wasteland as far as the eye could see.
3
the details about the lonely Antarctic town are fantasy on Murakami’s part; there are no
permanent human residents on the continent (merely scientific outposts)
8
My husband, on the other hand, with his white breath, frosty fingers,
and faraway look in his icicle eyes, strode tirelessly here and there. It
wasn’t long before he learned the language and spoke with the locals in
hard, icy tones. They talked for hours, intense looks on their faces, but I
didn’t have a clue what they could be talking about. My husband was
entranced by the whole place. Something about it appealed to him. It upset
me at first, and I felt like I was left behind, betrayed and abandoned.
Finally, though, in the midst of this silent, icy world, all strength
drained out of me, ebbing away bit by bit. Even, in the end, the strength
to feel upset by my situation. My emotional compass had vanished. I lost
all sense of direction, of time, of the sense of who I was. I don’t know
when it began, or when it ended, but before I knew it I was locked away,
alone and numb in
the endless winter
of that world of
ice. Even after I’d
lost almost all
sensation, I still
knew this: The
husband here at the
South Pole is not
the husband I used
to know. I couldn’t
say how he’d
changed, exactly,
for he still was
always thoughtful,
always had kind
words for me. And I
knew he sincerely
meant the things he
said. But I also knew that the Ice Man before me now was not the Ice Man
I’d first met at the ski resort. But who was I going to complain to? All
the South Pole people liked him a lot, and they couldn’t understand a word
I said. With white breath and frosty faces they talked, joked around, and
sang songs in that distinctively spirited language of theirs. I stayed shut
up in my hotel room gazing out at the gray skies that wouldn’t clear for
months, struggling to learn the complicated grammar of the South Pole
language, something I knew I’d never master.
There weren’t any more airplanes at the airport. After the plane that
carried us here departed no more landed. By this time the runway was buried
beneath a hard sheet of ice. Just like my heart.
Winter’s come, my husband said. A long, long winter. No planes will
come, no ships either. Everything’s frozen solid, he said. All we can do is
wait for spring.
It was three months after we’d come to the South Pole that I realized
I was pregnant. And I knew one thing: that the baby I was going to give
9
birth to would be a tiny
Ice Man. My womb had
frozen over, a thin sheet
of ice mixed in with my
amniotic fluid. I could
feel that chill deep
inside my belly. And I
knew this, too: my child
would have the same icicle
eyes as his father, the
same frost-covered
fingers. And I knew one
more thing: our new little
family would never step
outside the South Pole
again. The outrageous
weight of the eternal past
had grabbed us and wasn’t
about to let go. We’d
never be able to shake
free.
My heart is just
about gone now. The warmth
I used to have has
retreated somewhere far
away. Sometimes I even
forget that warmth ever
existed. I’m still able to
cry, though. I’m
completely alone, in the
coldest, loneliest place
in the world. When I cry,
my husband kisses my
cheeks, turning my tears
to ice. He peels off those frozen tears and puts them on his tongue. You
know I love you, he says. And I know it’s true. The Ice Man does love me.
But the wind blows his frozen words further and further into the past. And
I cry some more, icy tears welling up endlessly in our frozen little home
in the far-off South Pole.
10