Haruki Murakami - Hear the Wind Sing

She sighed and shut her eyes.

“And?”

“I sat you up and carried you out of the bathroom, then took you around to all the customers in the bar and asked them if they knew you. But nobody knew you. Then, J and I treated your wound.”

“My wound?”

“When you passed out, you must’ve hit your head on a corner or something. It wasn’t a major injury or anything.”

She nodded and drew her hand from under her sheet, then lightly touched her fingertip to her forehead.

“So then I consulted with J. What we should do about you. In the end, we decided that I should take you home. I emptied your bag and found a key holder and a postcard addressed to you. I paid your tab with the money in your wallet, and following the address on the postcard, brought you here, opened the door with the key, and laid you out on your bed. That’s it. I put the receipt from the bar in your wallet.”

“Why’d you stay?”

“Hm?”

“Why didn’t you just buzz off after bringing me home?”

“I had a buddy who died from alcohol poisoning. After gulping down whiskey and saying goodbye and leaving, he went home feeling well enough, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas and went to bed. When the morning came, he was cold and dead. It was a spectacular funeral.”

“So you were going to nurse me all night?”

“Really, I was planning to go home at 4am. But I fell asleep. I thought about leaving when I woke up. But I gave up on that.”

“Why?”

“At the very least, I thought I should explain to you what happened.”

“You did all this out of the goodness of your heart?”

Feeling the venom laced in her words, I shrugged my shoulders and let them pass over me. Then I looked at the clouds.

“Did I…did I talk about anything?”

“A little.”

“What did I say?”

“This and that. But I forget. Nothing too terribly important.”

She closed her eyes and a grunt escaped the depths of her throat.

“And the postcard?”

“I put it back in your bag.”

“Did you read it?”

“No way!”

“Why not?”

“There was no reason to.”

I said this in a bored way. Something about her tone was irritating me. Even more than that, she stirred up some kind of familiar sentiment within me. Something old, from a long time ago. If before this hellish encounter we’d have met under different circumstances, we’d probably have had a slightly better time together. That’s how I felt. However, in reality, what those ‘better circumstances’ might have been, I really couldn’t remember.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Breathing a little sigh of relief, I stood up, looked at my digital watch on the desk, put some water in a glass, and came back to bed.

“It’s nine.”

She nodded weakly, then got up, leaned on the wall and drank all the water in one gulp.

“Did I really drink all that much?”

“Absolutely. If it were me, I’d be dead.”

“I feel like I’m dying.”

She took her cigarettes out from under her pillow and lit one, sighing as she exhaled the smoke, then suddenly pitched the match out the window towards the harbor.

“Hand me something to wear.”

“Like what?”

With her cigarette still in her mouth, she closed her eyes yet again. “Anything. I ask you to get me something, don’t ask questions, just do it.”

Facing the bed was a large wardrobe. I opened its door feeling a little confused, but finally chose a sleeveless blue dress and handed it to her. Not bothering to put on underwear, she slipped it completely over her head and pulled it down, zipping up the back all by herself and sighing once again when she finished.

“I have to go.”

“Where?”

“To work.”

She spit those words out, stumbling out of bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I looked on, uninterested, as she washed her face and brushed her hair.

The room was tidy, but even with things being neatly arranged, there was an air of something like resignation, and it was weighing heavily on my spirits.

Her room was just six mats in size, and after taking into account the cheap furniture it was stuffed with, there was barely enough space left over for one person to lie down. She was standing in this space brushing the knots out of her hair.

“What kind of work?”

“That’s none of your business.”

And that’s how it was.

For the time it takes to smoke an entire cigarette, I kept quiet. With her back to me, she was pushing her bangs, which hung down to below her eyes, into position with her fingertip.

“What time is it?” she asked once more.

“It’s been ten minutes.”

“Time to go. You’d better hurry up and get dressed and go home,” she said while spraying perfume under her armpits, “you do have a home, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, pulling my t-shirt over my head. Still sitting on the edge of her bed, I went back to gazing out the window.

“Where is your work?”

“Close to the harbor. Why?”

“I’ll drive you. You won’t be so late.”

Clutching the handle of her brush, she looked at me as if she were about to burst out in tears. This’ll be fun if she cries, I thought to myself. But she didn’t cry.

“Hey, just remember this: I drank too much, and I was drunk. So if anything bad happened, it’s my own fault.”

Saying that, she tapped the handle of the brush in her palm a few times in an almost entirely businesslike manner. I was silent while I waited for her to continue.

“Don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

“Still, a guy who sleeps with a girl who’s passed out…that’s low.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

She was quiet, looking like she was trying to keep her emotions in check.

“Hmm, well then, why was I naked?”

“You took your own clothes off.”

“Yeah right.”

She tossed her brush onto her bed, then carefully stuffed her shoulder bag with her wallet, lipstick, aspirin, and the like.

“Hey, can you prove that you really didn’t do anything?”

“You can check for yourself.”

She definitely seemed to be genuinely pissed off.

“I swear.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You have to believe me,” I said. I started to feel bad after I said it.

She gave up on any further attempt at discussion and kicked me out of her room, locking her own door behind her.

Without exchanging so much as a word, we walked down the avenue running along the river until we came to the parking lot.

While I wiped the dust off the the windshield with a piece of tissue paper,

and after walking a slow, suspicious lap around the car, she fixed her gaze upon a picture of a cow’s face drawn on in white paint. The cow had a huge nose ring, and one white rose in its mouth, smiling. It was a really vulgar smile.

“Did you paint this?”

“Nah, the last owner did.”

“Why’d he paint a cow of all things?”

“Who knows?” I said.

She walked back and stared at the cow again, looking as if she regretted saying too much to me, then kept her mouth shut as she got into the car. It was incredibly hot inside the car, and all the way to the harbor she didn’t say a word, wiping off her dripping sweat with a towel while she chain-smoked. After lighting a cigarette, she’d take three puffs and stare at the lipstick on the filter as if inspecting it, then snuff it out in the car’s ashtray and light another.

“Hey, about last night, all the other stuff aside, what the hell did I say?”

“This and that.”

“Well, just tell me one thing I said. C’mon.”

“You were talking about Kennedy.”

“Kennedy?”

“John F. Kennedy.”