Haruki Murakami - Pinball, 1973

When the taxi crossed Waseda Boulevard, the driver asked if he should go on further. To Meijiro Boulevard, said the instructor. And the taxi continued a while, then turned onto Meijiro Boulevard.

"Is it pretty far still?" I asked.

"Yes, pretty far," he said. He searched out a second cigarette. For the time being, I watched the passing storefronts.

"I had a hell of a time finding it," he said. "First, I went right through my list of insiders. Twenty of them, twenty fanatics. And not just in Tokyo, but nationwide. But I came up with exactly zero. Nobody knew any more than I did. Next, I tried some companies who deal in used machines. Not too many of them. But it was a lot of work going over the lists of all the machines they've handled. The numbers are overwhelming."

I nodded, as I watched him light his cigarette.

"Thank goodness I had an idea of a time frame. Around February 1971, that is. So I had them look it up. Gilbert & Sands, 'Spaceship,' Serial No. 16509. There it was: February 3, 1971, Waste Treatment."

"'Waste Treatment'?"

"Scrap. Like in Goldfinger , you know, the way they crush things down to a compact block to be recycled or dumped in the harbor?"

"But you said…"

"Hold on and just listen. I gave up, thanked the dealer, and headed home. But, you know, something bothered me deep down. Call it a hunch. No, not even that. The next day, I went back to the dealer. Then I went to the metal scrapyard. I watched them working for maybe thirty minutes, then went into the office and presented my card. A university lecturer's calling card carries some weight for people who don't have any idea what it really means."

He spoke a tiny bit faster than he had the time before. And for some reason, I felt a little ill at ease.

"Then I told them I was writing a book, and I needed to know about the scrap business.

"The guy was very cooperative, but he didn't know a thing about any February 1971 pinball machine. Naturally not. That was two and a half years ago, after all, and besides, they don't check each thing out one by one. It's just haul 'em in, and-crunch-it's-all-over. So I just asked one more thing. Suppose there was, say, a washing machine or a bike chassis that I wanted. Would you let it go if the price were right?' Sure thing, he told me. And I asked, has it ever happened?"

The autumn dusk drew to a swift close, and darkness began to overtake the road. The taxi was heading into the outlying suburbs.

"If I wanted particulars, I should go ask the supervisor upstairs. So of course, I went upstairs and asked Like, had anyone taken any pinball machines off their hands around 1971? Yes, he said. And when I asked what sort of person that might have been, he gave me a telephone number. It seems they'd been requested to give a call any time a pinball machine came in. It was some kind of lead. So I asked him, about how many pinball machines had this person taken off their hands?

"Well now, he said, there were ones the client'd take on sight, and others not. Couldn't really say, this guy. But when I asked him for just a rough estimate, he told me not less than fifty machines."

"Fifty machines?" I exploded.

"That's the person we are going to visit," he said.

Everything was immersed in darkness. Not just a monotone black, but smeared on butter-thick in paints of all colors.

I kept my face glued to the taxi window looking at that darkness. It looked strangely flat, like the cut surface of some unreal material sliced off with a razor-sharp blade. A queer kind of perspective prevailed in that darkness. A gigantic night bird had spread its wings to sweep right past my eyes. The further we went, the more spread out were the patches of dwellings, until finally we found ourselves amidst fields and woods that resounded with hosts of chirping insects. The low-lying clouds were as still as rocks, and out in the darkness everything hung its head in silence. Only the sound of the insects that swarmed over the ground could be heard.

Not another word passed between the Spanish lecturer and myself, and we took turns smoking cigarettes. Even the taxi driver had a smoke while he squinted at the oncoming headlights. Unconsciously, I tapped my fingers on my lap. The taxi kept up its momentum, on and on, so long that from time to time I just wanted to push open the door and escape.

Switch-panels, sandboxes, golf courses, reservoirs, darned sweaters, and now pinball: how far did I have to take things? At this rate, I was going to wind up holding a hand of odd cards that would never add up. More than anything, I just wanted to go home. Take a quick bath, have a beer, and sink into my warm bed with my cigarettes and Kant.

Why did I have to be racing on and on through the dark? Fifty pinball machines was too ridiculous. Must be dreaming. And a pretty farfetched dream at that.

Yet the three-flipper "Spaceship" still called to me.

* * *

The Spanish lecturer told the driver to stop in the middle of an open space five hundred yards off the road. The lot was flat, spread out like a sand-bank with knobs of soft grass. I got out of the car, stretched, and took a deep breath. By the smell, there were chicken farms nearby. Not a houselight as far as you could see. The lights of the road hovered a ways off. The sound of countless insects hemmed us in. I felt as if I were going to be dragged off by my feet somewhere.

We kept quiet until our eyes grew accustomed to the dark.

"Is this still Tokyo?" I asked.

"Of course. Where did you think we were?"

"At the edge of the world."

The Spanish lecturer nodded with an anything-you-say sort of expression, but didn't speak. We smoked our cigarettes, taking in the smell of the grass and chicken shit. Our smoke drifted low across the ground like fox fire.

"Over there you'll find a chicken-wire fence." He pointed into the darkness, arm held straight out target-practice style. I strained my eyes for a sign of the wire fence.

"You walk straight along the fence for three hundred yards until you come to a warehouse."

"A warehouse?"

He nodded without looking in my direction. "A big warehouse, you can't miss it. It used to be the cold storage for a chicken farm. But it's no longer used. The chicken farm went under."

"But it still smells like chickens," I said.

"Oh, the smell? It's soaked into the ground. It's even worse on a rainy day. You'd expect to hear wings flapping."

I couldn't make out anything at the end of the fence. Only a consuming darkness. Even the sound of the insects was starting to get to me.

"The doors to the warehouse should be open. The owner will have left them ajar. Inside you'll find the machine you're after."

"You've been inside?"

"Only once I asked to look inside," he said, puffing away at his cigarette. A point of glowing orange bobbed in the dark. "The light switch is just inside the doors on your right as you enter. Watch out for the steps."

"You're not coming with me?"

"Please go alone. It was part of the agreement."

"Agreement?"

He tossed his cigarette down on the grass and carefully stamped it out. "That's right. You were invited to take as long as you like. Only you should please turn our the lights when you leave."

The air was gradually turning chill. The cool of the grass was coming up all around us.

"Did you meet the owner?"

"I did."

"What sort of character is he?"

The instructor shrugged, took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose. "No outstanding characteristics to speak of. At least nothing striking."

"And the reason for collecting fifty pinball machines?"

"Well, it takes all kinds. What more can I say?"

There had to be more to it than that. Nonetheless, I thanked him and set out to walk alone along the fence of the chicken farm. There had to be more to it. There's a slight difference between collecting fifty wine labels and collecting fifty pinball machines.