Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

The waiter came before long and placed glasses of sparkling water in front of the woman and me. She crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray.

Why don't you ask me something else? she said. While I was thinking about something else to ask, she took a sip of her sparkling water. Was that young man in the office in Akasaka your son? I asked. Of course, she answered without hesitation. Is he unable to speak? The woman nodded. He never spoke much to begin with, but all of a sudden, at the age of six, he stopped speaking entirely. He stopped using his voice in any way. Was there some kind of reason for that? She ignored this question. I tried to think of another. If he doesn't talk, how does he manage to take care of business? She wrinkled her brow just the slightest bit. She had not ignored my question, but she obviously had no intention of answering it. I'll bet you picked out everything he was wearing, from head to foot. The way you did with me. I do not like it when people wear the wrong thing. That is all. It is something I simply cannot- cannot- abide. I at least want the people around me to dress as well as possible. I want everything about them to look right, whether or not it can actually be seen.

I guess you don't like my appendix, then, I said, trying to make a joke.

Do you have some problem with the shape of your appendix? she asked, looking straight at me with an utterly serious expression. I regretted the joke.

Nothing at the moment, I said. I didn't really mean anything by it. It was just a kind of for instance.

She kept her questioning stare fixed on me a while longer-she was probably thinking about my appendix.

So anyhow, I want the people around me to look right, even if I have to pay for it myself. That is all there is to it. So don't let it worry you. I am doing this entirely for myself. I feel a personal, almost physical, revulsion for messy clothing.

The way a musician cant stand hearing music played off key? Something like that. So do you buy clothing this way for all the people around you? I guess I do. Not that I have so many people around me, to begin with. I mean, I may not like what they wear, but I cant exactly buy clothing for all the people in the world now, can I?

Everything has its limits, I said. Exactly.

Soon our salads came to the table, and we ate them. As the woman had specified, each salad had no more than a few drops of dressing-so few you could have counted them on one hand.

Do you have anything else you want to ask me? she asked.

Id like to know your name, I said. I mean, it would be helpful if you had a name or something I could use.

She said nothing for a few moments, as she crunched on a radish. Then she formed a deep wrinkle between her eyebrows, as if she had just found something bitter in her mouth by mistake. Why would you have to use my name? You wont be writing me any letters, I'm sure. Names are, if anything, irrelevant.

But what if I have to call you from behind, for example? Id need your name for that.

She laid her fork in her plate and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. I see what you mean, she said. That never crossed my mind. You're right, though. You might very well need my name in a situation like that.

She sat there thinking for a long time. While she was thinking, I ate my salad.

Lets see, now: you need a suitable name you can use for things like calling me from behind, correct?

That's pretty much it. So it doesn't have to be my real name, correct? I nodded. A name, a name ... what kind of name would be best? Something simple, something easy to call out, I would think. If possible, something concrete, something real, some thing you can really touch and see. That way, it would be easy to remember.

For example? For example, I call my cat Mackerel. In fact, I just named him yesterday. Mackerel, she said aloud, as if to confirm the sound of the word. Then she stared at the salt and pepper shakers on the table for a while, raised her face to me, and said, Nutmeg. Nutmeg?

It just popped into my head. You can call me that, if you don't mind. No, I don't mind at all. So what should I call your son? Cinnamon. Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, I said, with a hint of melody. Nutmeg Akasaka and Cinnamon Akasaka. Not bad, don't you think? Nutmeg Akasaka and Cinnamon Akasaka: Wouldn't May Kasahara have been shocked if she knew that I had made the acquaintance of such people! For heavens sake, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, why cant you ever get involved with people who are a little more normal? Indeed, why not, May Kasahara? It was a question I could never have answered.

Come to think of it, I said, last year I met two women named Malta Kano and Creta Kano. As a result of which, all kinds of things happened to me. Neither of them is around anymore, though.

Nutmeg gave a little nod but offered no opinion in response.

They just disappeared somewhere, I added feebly. Like the dew on a summer morning. Or like a star at daybreak.

She brought a forkful of something that looked like chicory to her mouth. Then, as if suddenly recalling a promise made long before, she shot her hand out and took a drink of water.

Don't you want to know about that money? The money you got the day before yesterday? Am I wrong?

No, you are not wrong. I would very much like to know about that. I don't mind telling you, but it could be a very long story.

One that would end by dessert?

Probably not, said Nutmeg Akasaka.

SETAGAYA, TOKYO: THE MYSTERY OF THE HANGING HOUSE Who Bought Jinxed Land After Family Suicide?

Whats Going On in Posh Neighborhood?

[From The ---- Weekly, October 7] Locals call this plot in----2-chome, Setagaya, the hanging house. Located in a quiet residential neighborhood, this 3,500-square-foot piece of prime real estate with fine southern exposure is a virtually ideal location for a home, but those in the know agree on one thing: they wouldn't take it if you gave it to them. And the reason for this is simple: every known owner of this property, without exception, has met with a terrible fate. Our investigations have revealed that, since the start of the Showa Period, in 1926, no fewer than seven owner occupants of this property have ended their lives in suicide, the majority by hanging or asphyxiation.

[Details on suicides omitted here] Bogus Firm Buys Jinxed Land The most recent in what can hardly be considered a coincidental string of tragedies is the murder-suicide of the family of Kojiro Miyawaki [photo], owner of the long-established Rooftop Grill restaurant chain, headquartered in the Ginza. Miyawaki sold all his restaurants and declared bankruptcy two years ago in the face of massive debt, but thereafter he was pursued by several nonbank lenders with ties to organized crime. Finally, in January of this year, Miyawaki used his belt to strangle his fourteen-year-old daughter, Yukie, in her sleep at an inn in Takamatsu City, after which he and his wife, Natsuko, hanged themselves with ropes they had brought with them for that purpose. The Miyawaki's eldest daughter, a college student at the time, is still missing.

When he bought the property in April 1972, Miyawaki knew of the ominous rumors surrounding the place, but he laughed them off, declaring, Those were just coincidences.

After purchasing the land, he had the long-vacant house demolished and the lot graded. To be on the safe side, he called in a Shinto priest to exorcise any evil spirits that might still be lurking there, and only then did he have his new, two-story home built. Things went well after that. The family led a tranquil life. Neighbors agree that the Miyawaki home appeared to be harmonious, the daughters bright and happy. But after ten years, the family fortunes took that sudden, disastrous turn.