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

When the cocktail was placed in front of her, she gazed at the color, then took a tentative sip. She closed her eyes and let the flavor take over. “It’s a very subtle taste, isn’t it,” she said. “Not exactly sweet or tart. A light, simple flavor, but with some body. I had no idea you were so talented.”

“I can’t build a simple shelf. I have no idea how to change an oil filter on a car. I can’t even paste on a postage stamp straight. And I’m always dialing the wrong number. But I have come up with a few original cocktails that people seem to like.”

She rested her glass on a coaster and looked at it for a while. When she tipped the glass, the reflection of the overhead lights shivered slightly.

“I haven’t seen my mother for a long time. There was a blowup about ten years ago, and I’ve barely seen her since. Of course, we did see each other at my father’s funeral.”

The piano trio finished an original blues number and began the intro to “Star-Crossed Lovers.” When I was in the bar, the pianist would often strike up that ballad, knowing it was a favorite of mine. It wasn’t one of Ellington’s best-known tunes, and I had no particular memories associated with it; just happened to hear it once, and it struck some chord within me. From college to those bleak textbook-company years, come evening I’d listen to the Such Sweet Thunder album, the “Star-Crossed Lovers” track over and over. Johnny Hodges had this sensitive and elegant solo on it. Whenever I heard that languid, beautiful melody, those days came back to me. It wasn’t what I’d characterize as a happy part of my life, living as I was, a balled-up mass of unfulfilled desires. I was much younger, much hungrier, much more alone. But I was myself, pared down to the essentials. I could feel each single note of music, each line I read, seep down deep inside me. My nerves were sharp as a blade, my eyes shining with a piercing light. And every time I heard that music, I recalled my eyes then, glaring back at me from a mirror.

“You know,” I said, “once, when I was in the last year of junior high, I did go to see you. I felt so lonely I couldn’t stand it any longer. I tried calling you, but there was no answer. I rode the train over to your place, but someone else’s name was on the mailbox.”

“My father was transferred, and we moved two years after you did. To Fujisawa, near Enoshima. And that’s where we remained until I went to college. I sent you a postcard with our new address on it. You never got it?”

I shook my head. “If I had, I would have written back. Strange, though. Must have been some slipup somewhere along the line.”

“Or maybe we’re just unlucky,” she said. “Lots of slipups, and we end up missing each other. But anyway, I want to hear about you . What kind of life you’ve had.”

“It’ll bore you to tears,” I said.

“I don’t care. I still want to hear it.”

So I gave her a general recap of my life. How I’d had a girlfriend in high school but ended up hurting her badly. I spared her the gory details. I explained how something had happened and I had hurt this girl. And in the process ended up hurting myself. How I went to college in Tokyo and worked at a textbook company. How my twenties were filled with friendless, lonely days. I went out with women but was never happy. How from the time I graduated from high school until I met Yukiko and got married, I never really liked anyone. How I thought of her often then, thought how great it would be if we could see each other, even for an hour, and talk. Shimamoto smiled.

“You thought about me?”

“All the time.”

“I thought about you too,” she said. “Whenever I felt bad. You were the only friend I’ve ever had, Hajime.” Her chin resting in one hand propped up on the bar, she closed her eyes as if all the strength had been drained from her body. She didn’t wear any rings. The down on her arms trembled. At last she slowly opened her eyes and looked at her watch. I looked at it too. It was nearly midnight.

She picked up her handbag and slipped off the stool. “Good night. I’m happy I could see you.”

I saw her to the door. “Shall I call you a cab? It’s raining, so it might be hard to grab one. If you’re thinking of going home by cab, that is.”

Shimamoto shook her head. “It’s all right. Don’t go to any trouble. I can take care of myself.”

“You really weren’t disappointed?” I asked.

“In you?”

“Yes.”

“No, I wasn’t” She smiled. “Rest easy. But that suit—it is an Armani, isn’t it?”

She wasn’t dragging her leg the way she used to. She didn’t move very quickly, and if you looked closely, there was something vaguely artificial about the way she walked. Though overall it looked perfectly natural.

“I had an operation four years ago,” she said almost apologetically. “I wouldn’t say it’s a hundred percent but it’s certainly not as bad as it used to be. It was a big operation, with a lot of scraping of bones, patching them together. But things went well.”

“That’s great. Your leg looks fine now,” I said.

“It is,” she said. “Probably it was a good decision. Though maybe I waited too long.”

I got her coat from the cloakroom and helped her into it Standing next to me, she wasn’t very tall. It seemed strange. When we were twelve, we were about the same height

“Shimamoto-san. Will I see you again?”

“Probably,” she replied. A smile played around her mouth. A smile like a small wisp of smoke drifting quietly skyward on a windless day. “Probably.”

She opened the door and went out. Five minutes later, I went up the stairs to the street. I was worried she’d had trouble flagging down a cab. It was still raining. And Shimamoto was nowhere to be seen. The street was deserted. The headlights of passing cars blurred the wet pavement.

Maybe I had had an illusion, I thought I stood there a long time, gazing at the rainswept streets. Once again I was a twelve-year-old boy staring for hours at the rain. Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling loose, shaking free of the world of reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize.

But this had been no illusion. When I went back into the bar, a glass and an ashtray remained where she had been. A couple of lightly crushed cigarette butts were lined up in the ashtray, a faint trace of lipstick on each. I sat down and closed my eyes. Echoes of music faded away, leaving me alone. In that gentle darkness, the rain continued to fall without a sound.

I didn’t see Shimamoto for a long time after that. Every evening, I sat at the counter of the Robin’s Nest, passing the time. I read books, glancing every once in a while at the front door. But she didn’t show up. I was afraid I’d said something wrong, something I shouldn’t have, that upset her. One by one, I reviewed every word we’d spoken that night. But I couldn’t come up with anything. Maybe Shimamoto was disappointed. A distinct possibility. She was so beautiful, and her leg was all fixed. What in the world would a woman like that find in me?

The year drew to a close, Christmas came and went as did New Year’s. My thirty-seventh birthday rolled around. And January was suddenly over. I gave up waiting for her and only rarely made an appearance at the Robin’s Nest. Being there reminded me of her, causing me to search the faces of the customers in vain. I sat at the bar of my other place, flipping through the pages of books, lost in aimless musings. For the life of me, I couldn’t concentrate.

She’d told me I was the only friend she’d ever had. That made me happy and gave birth to the hope that we might be friends again. I wanted to talk with her about so many things, hear her opinion. If she didn’t want to say a thing about herself, fine by me. Just to be able to see her, to talk with her, that was enough.