Haruki Murakami - South of the Border, West of the Sun

Shimamoto sipped her cocktail. “You know, Hajime, I wasn’t at all sure at first whether I should come here. I agonized over it for nearly a month. I found out about your bar in some magazine I was leafing through. I thought it must be a mistake. You of all people running a bar! But there was your name, and your photograph. Good old Hajime from the old neighborhood. I was happy I could see you again, even if it was in a photograph. But I wasn’t sure if meeting you in person was a good idea. Maybe it was better for both of us if we didn’t. Maybe it was enough knowing you were happy and doing well.”

I listened to her in silence.

“But since I knew where you were, it seemed like a waste not to at least come see you once, so here I am. I sat down over there and watched you. If he doesn’t notice me, I thought, maybe I’ll just leave without saying anything. But I couldn’t stand it. It brought back so many memories, and I had to say hello.”

“Why?” I asked. “I mean, why did you think it was better not to meet me?”

Tracing the rim of her cocktail glass with her finger, she was lost in thought “I thought if I met you you’d want to know all about me. Whether I was married, where I lived, what I’d been up to, those kinds of things. Am I right?”

“Well, I’m sure those would come up.”

“Of course.”

“But you’d rather not talk about those?”

She smiled perplexedly and nodded. She had a million different variations on a smile. “That’s right. I don’t want to talk about those things. Please don’t ask me why. I just don’t want to talk about myself. I know it’s unnatural, that it’s like I’m putting on airs, trying to be a mysterious lady of the night or something. That’s why I thought maybe I shouldn’t see you. I didn’t want you to think I was some strange, conceited woman. That’s one reason I didn’t want to come here.”

“And the other?”

“I didn’t want to be disappointed.”

I looked at the glass in her hand. I looked at her straight shoulder-length hair and at her nicely formed thin lips. And at her endlessly deep dark eyes. A small line just above her eyelids caused her to look thoughtful. That line made me imagine a far-off horizon.

“I used to like you very much, so I didn’t want to meet you just to be disappointed.”

“Have I disappointed you?”

She shook her head slightly. “I was watching you from over there. At first you looked like somebody else. You were so much bigger with a suit on. But when I looked closer, I could make out the Hajime I used to know. Do you realize that your movements have hardly changed since you were twelve?”

“I didn’t know that.” I tried to smile but couldn.’t

“The way you move your hands, your eyes, the way you’re always tapping something with your fingertips, the way you knit your eyebrows like you’re displeased about something—these haven’t changed a bit. Underneath the Armani suit it’s the same old Hajime.”

“Not Armani,” I corrected her. “The shirt and tie are, but the suit’s not.”

She smiled at me.

“Shimamoto-san,” I began. “You know, I wanted to see you for the longest time. To talk with you. I had so many things I wanted to tell you.”

“I wanted to see you too,” she said. “But you never came. You realize that, don’t you? After you went off to junior high in another town, I waited for you. Why didn’t you come? I was really sad. I thought you’d made new friends in your new place and had forgotten all about me.”

Shimamoto crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. She had clear lacquer on her nails. They were like some exquisitely made handicraft, shiny but understated.

“I was afraid, that’s why,” I said.

“Afraid?” she asked. “Afraid of what? Of me?”

“No. Not of you. I was afraid of rejection. I was still a child. I couldn’t imagine that you were actually waiting for me. I was terrified you would reject me. That I would come to your house to see you and you couldn’t be bothered. So I stopped coming. If I was going to get hurt, I thought it would be better to go on living with the happy memories of when we were together.”

She tilted her head slightly and rolled a cashew nut in her hand. “Things don’t work out easily, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“But we were meant to be friends for a much longer time. I went all the way through junior high, high school, even college, without making a friend. I was always alone. I imagined how wonderful it would be to have you by my side. If you couldn’t actually be there, at least we could write to each other. Things would have been a lot different. I could have stood up to life better.” She was silent for a time. “I don’t know why, exactly, but after I entered junior high, school life went downhill. And that made me close in on myself even more. A vicious circle, you could call it.”

I nodded.

“Up to elementary school I did fine, but after that it was awful. It was like I was stuck inside a well.”

I knew the feeling. That was just how I felt about the eight years of my life between college and marrying Yukiko. One thing goes wrong, then the whole house of cards collapses. And there’s no way you can extricate yourself. Until someone comes along to drag you out.

“I had this bad leg and couldn’t do what other people do. I just read books and kept to myself. And I stand out. My looks, I mean. So most people ended up thinking I’m a twisted, arrogant woman. And maybe that’s who I became.”

“Well, you are a knockout,” I said. She put another cigarette between her lips. I struck a match and lit it.

“You really think I’m pretty?” she asked.

“Yes. But you must hear that all the time.”

Shimamoto smiled. “Not really. Actually, I’m not that wild about my face. So I’m very happy you said that. Unfortunately, other women don’t like me much. Many’s the time I thought this: I don’t want people to say I’m pretty. I just want to be an ordinary girl and make friends like everyone else.”

She reached out a hand and lightly brushed mine on the counter. “But I’m happy that you’re enjoying life.”

I was silent.

“You are happy, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. At least I’m not unhappy, and I’m not lonely.” A moment later, I added, “But sometimes the thought strikes me that the happiest time of my life was when we were together in your living room, listening to music.”

“You know, I still have those records. Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, Rossini, the Peer Gynt Suite, and all the others. Every single one. A keepsake from my father when he died. I take good care of them, so even now they don’t have a single scratch. And you remember how carefully I took care of records.”

“So your father died.”

“Five years ago, cancer of the colon. A horrible way to go. And he’d always been so healthy.”

I’d met her father a few times. He always struck me as being tough as the oak tree that grew in their garden.

“Is your mother well?” I asked.

“Hmm. I guess so.”

Her tone of voice bothered me. “You don’t get along with her, then?”

Shimamoto finished her daiquiri, put the glass on the counter, and called the bartender over. “Do you have any special house cocktail you’d recommend?”

“We have several original cocktails,” I said. “The most popular one’s Robin’s Nest, after the bar. A little thing I whipped up myself. You use rum and vodka as a base. It’s easy going down, but it packs a wallop.”

“Sounds good for wooing women.”

“Well, I thought that was the whole point of cocktails.”

She smiled. “Okay, I’ll try one.”