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

She turned to look at me.

“Hajime, I didn’t do this just so we’d miss the plane,” she said in a small voice.

Startled, I gazed at her. “Of course you didn’t! You don’t need to say that. You were feeling sick. It can’t be helped.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I’ve ruined your plans.”

I stroked her hair, leaned over and kissed her cheek. I was dying to hold her whole body close to me and feel its warmth. But I couldn’t. All I could do was kiss her cheek. It was warm, soft, and wet. “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” I said. “Everything will work out fine.”

By the time we reached the airport and returned the car, it was way past boarding time. Fortunately, though, our plane was delayed. It was still on the runway; the passengers were waiting in the terminal. We both breathed a sigh of relief. They’re servicing the engine, the person at the counter told us. We don’t know how long it will take, he said; we don’t have any more information. It had started to snow when we reached the airport; now it was really coming down. With all the snow, the flight might very well be canceled.

“What’ll you do if you can’t get back to Tokyo today?” Shimamoto asked me.

“Not to worry. The plane will take off,” I said. Not that I had any proof. The idea that it might very well not take off had me depressed. I’d have to come up with a great excuse. Why the heck was I all the way over in Ishikawa? Enough, I said to myself; let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. What I had to worry about now was Shimamoto.

“What about you?” I asked. “What’ll you do if we can’t get back to Tokyo today?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. “The problem is you. You’ll be in hot water.”

“Maybe. But never fear—they haven’t said the flight’s canceled yet.”

“I knew something like this would happen,” she said as if to herself. “Whenever I’m around, nothing good ever happens. You can count on it. If I’m involved, then things go bad. Things are going smoothly, then I step in and wham! they fall apart.”

I sat on the bench in the airport lounge, thinking about the telephone call I’d have to make to Yukiko if the flight was indeed canceled. I mulled over possible excuses, but everything I came up with sounded lame. I’d gone out saying I was spending Sunday with the guys from the swimming club, then ended up being snowed in in Ishikawa. No way I could explain that. “When I left the house I was suddenly overcome by this strong desire to visit the Japan Sea, so I went to Haneda Airport,” I could tell her. Give me a break. If that’s the best I could manage, I might as well clam up. Or better yet maybe I could try the truth. Before long, I realized with a start that I was actually hoping we would be snowed in and the flight canceled. Subconsciously, I was hoping my wife would find out about my coming here with Shimamoto. I wanted to put an end to excuses, to lies. More than anything, I wanted to remain right where I was, with Shimamoto beside me, and let things take their course.

The airplane finally took off, an hour and a half late. Inside the cabin, Shimamoto leaned against me and slept. Maybe she just had her eyes closed. I put my arm around her shoulder and held her close. Sometimes it seemed she was crying. She was silent the whole time; the first words we spoke were just before the plane landed.

“Shimamoto-san, are you sure you’re all right?”

Nestled next to me, she nodded. “I’m fine. As long as I take the medicine. So don’t worry.” She leaned her head back against my shoulder. “But don’t ask me anything, okay? Why that happened.”

“Understood. No questions,” I said.

“Thank you very much for today,” she said.

“What part of today?”

“For taking me to the river. For giving me water from your mouth. For putting up with me.”

I looked at her. Her lips were right in front of me. The lips I had kissed as I gave her water. And once more those lips seemed to be seeking me. Slightly parted, with her beautiful white teeth barely visible. I could still feel her soft tongue, which I’d touched slightly as I gave her water. I found it hard to breathe, and I couldn’t think. My body burned. She wants me, I thought. And I want her. But somehow I held myself in check. I had to stop right where I was. One more step, and there would be no turning back.

I called home from Haneda Airport. It was already half-past eight. Sorry I’m so late, I told my wife. I couldn’t get in touch with you. I’ll be back in an hour.

“I waited for a long time. I went ahead and ate dinner. I made stew,” she said.

I gave Shimamoto a ride in my BMW, which I’d parked at the airport. “Where should I take you?” I asked.

“You can let me off in Aoyama. I can get back from there by myself,” she said.

“Will you be all right?”

She smiled broadly and nodded.

We rode in silence till I got off the highway at Gaien. I’d put a tape of a Handel organ concerto on, real low. Shimamoto held both hands neatly in her lap and looked out the window. It was Sunday evening, and the cars around us were filled with families returning from a day out. I shifted gears briskly.

“Hajime,” Shimamoto said as we approached Aoyama Boulevard. “I was thinking back then how nice it would be if the plane didn’t take off.”

I was thinking exactly the same thing, I wanted to tell her. But I said nothing. My mouth was dry, and words couldn’t come. I merely nodded and reached out for her hand. At the corner of Aoyama 1-chome, she told me to stop the car, and I let her out.

“May I come to see you again?” she asked me softly as she opened the door. “You can still stand being around me?”

“I’ll be waiting,” I said.

Shimamoto nodded.

As I drove away, I thought this: If I never see her again, I will go insane. Once she was out of the car and gone, my world was suddenly hollow and meaningless.

Four days after Shimamoto and I returned from Ishikawa, I got an unexpected call from my father-in-law. He said he had a favor to ask and invited me to lunch the next day. I agreed, frankly surprised. Usually his busy schedule allowed only for business lunches.

Six months before, his company had moved from Yoyogi to a new seven-story building in Yotsuya. His offices occupied the top two floors, and he rented out the lower five to other companies, restaurants, and shops. It was the first time I’d been there. Everything glittered, brand spanking new. The lobby had a marble floor, a cathedral ceiling, flowers piled high in a huge ceramic vase. When I got off the elevator at the sixth floor, I was met by a young receptionist with hair so gorgeous she looked like she belonged in a shampoo commercial. She called my father-in-law to tell him I had arrived. Her phone was this dark-gray high-tech number that reminded me of a spatula with a calculator attached. She beamed at me and said, “Please go on in. The president is expecting you.” A gorgeous smile, though not in the same class as Shimamoto’s.

The presidential office was on the top floor, and a large picture window gave a view of the city. Not the most heartwarming scene, but the room was bright and spacious. An impressionist painting hung on the wall. A picture of a lighthouse and a boat. Looked like a Seurat, very possibly an original.

“Business is booming, I take it?” I said.

“It’s not bad,” he replied. He walked to the window and pointed outside. “Not bad at all. And it’s going to get even better. This is the time to make some money. For people in my line of work, a chance like this doesn’t come along but once every twenty or thirty years. If you don’t make money now, you never will. Do you know why?”