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

Yukiko was silent. She bit her lip and stared hard at her plate. Realizing that I’d begun to raise my voice, I lowered it.

“You can blithely say that in half a month the money we invest will double. Eight million yen will turn into sixteen million. But something’s very wrong with that kind of thinking. I’ve found myself sucked into that mind-set and it makes me feel empty.”

Yukiko looked at me from across the table. As I resumed eating, I could feel something inside me shaking. Was it irritation or anger? I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, I was helpless before it.

“I’m sorry. I should have minded my own business,” Yukiko said quietly, after a long silence.

“It’s okay. I’m not blaming you. I’m not blaming anybody.”

“I’ll call right now and have them sell every single share. Just stop being angry with me.”

“I’m not angry.”

Silent, I continued to eat.

“Isn’t there something you want to tell me?” Yukiko asked, looking straight at me. “If something is bothering you, tell me. Even if it’s something that’s hard to talk about. If there’s anything I can do, just name it. I’m only an ordinary person, and I know I’m completely naive about everything—including running a business. But I can’t stand to see you unhappy. I don’t want to see that pained look on your face. What is it you hate about our life? Tell me.”

I shook my head. “I have no complaints. I like my job, and I love you. All I’m saying is that sometimes I can’t keep up with your father’s way of doing things. Don’t get me wrong, I like him. I know he’s trying to help us out and I appreciate it. So I’m not angry. I just can’t understand who I am anymore. I can’t tell right from wrong. So I’m confused. But not angry.”

“You certainly look angry.”

I sighed.

“And you sigh all the time,” she said. “Anyhow, something’s definitely bothering you. Your mind’s a million miles away.”

“I don’t know.”

Yukiko kept her eyes on me. “There’s something on your mind,” she said. “But I have no idea what that is. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

I was struck by a violent desire to confess everything. What a relief that would be! No more hiding, no more need to playact or to lie. Yukiko, see, there’s another woman I love, someone I just can’t forget. I’ve held back, trying to keep our world from crumbling, but I can’t hold back anymore. The next time she shows up, I don’t care what happens: I’m going to make love to her. I’ve thought of her while I’ve masturbated. I’ve thought of her while I’ve made love to you, Yukiko … But I didn’t say anything. Confession would serve no purpose. It would only make us miserable.

After lunch, I returned to my office to continue work. But my mind, indeed, was a million miles away. I felt lousy, preaching to Yukiko like that What I said was all right. But the person who said it was all wrong. I’d lied to Yukiko, sneaking around behind her back. I was the last person who should take the moral high ground. Yukiko was trying very hard to think about me. That was quite clear, and consistent with the kind of person she was. But what about my life? Was there any consistency, any conviction to speak of? I felt deflated, utterly lacking the will to move.

I put my feet up on my desk and, pencil in hand, gazed listlessly out the window. From my office you could see a park. The weather was nice, and there were a number of parents with their children. The children played in the sandbox or slid down the slides, while their mothers kept an eye on them and chatted with other mothers. Seeing these little children at play reminded me of my own daughters. I wanted to see them, to once again walk down the street holding the two of them in my arms. I wanted to feel the warmth of their bodies. But thoughts of them led inexorably to memories of Shimamoto. Vivid memories of her slightly parted lips. Thoughts of my daughters were crowded out by the image of Shimamoto. I could think of nothing else.

I left my office and took a walk down the main street in Aoyama. I went in the coffee shop where Shimamoto and I used to rendezvous, and had some coffee. I read a book and, when I tired of reading, thought again of her. I recalled fragments of our conversations, how she’d take a Salem out of her bag and light it, how she’d casually brush back a lock of hair, how she tilted her head slightly as she smiled. Soon I grew tired of sitting there alone and set out for a walk toward Shibuya. I used to like to walk the city streets, gazing at the buildings and shops, watching all the people. I liked the feeling of moving through the city on my own two feet. Now, though, the city was depressing and empty. Buildings were falling apart, all the trees had lost their color, and every passerby was devoid of feelings, and of dreams.

Looking for an unpopular movie, I entered the theater and watched the screen intently. When the movie was over, I walked out into the evening city streets, went into a restaurant I happened to pass, and had a simple meal. Shibuya was packed with office workers on their way home. Like a speeded-up film, trains pulled into the station and swallowed up one crowd after another. It was right around here, I suddenly recalled, that I’d caught sight of Shimamoto, some ten years before, in her red overcoat and sunglasses. It might have been a million years ago.

Everything came back to me. The end-of-year crowds, the way she walked, each corner we turned, the cloudy sky, the department store bag she carried, the coffee cup she didn’t touch, the Christmas carols. Once again a pang of regret swept over me for not having called out to her. I had nothing to tie me down then, nothing to lose. I could have held her close, and the two of us could have walked off together. No matter what situation she was stuck in, we could have found a way out. But I’d lost that chance forever. A mysterious middle-aged guy grabbed me by the elbow, and Shimamoto slipped into a taxi and disappeared.

I took a crowded evening train back. The weather had taken a turn for the worse while I was watching the movie, and the sky was covered with heavy, wet-looking clouds. It looked like it was going to rain at any minute. I had no umbrella with me and was dressed in the yacht parka, blue jeans, and sneakers I’d set out in that morning when I went to the pool. I should have gone home to change into my usual suit But I didn’t feel like it. No matter, I’d decided. I could skip the necktie for once—no harm done.

By seven it was raining. A gentle rain, the kind of autumn drizzle that looked like it would last. As I usually did, I stopped by the remodeled bar first to check out how business was. The place had ended up pretty much as I had envisioned it. The bar was a much more relaxed, efficient place to work. The lighting was more subdued, and the music enhanced this mood. I had designed a small separate kitchen, hired a professional chef, and made up a new menu of simple yet elegant dishes. The kind of dishes that had no extra ingredients or flourishes but which an amateur could never master. They were intended, after all, as snacks to accompany drinks, so they had to be easy to eat. Every month, we changed the menu completely. It had been no easy task to find the kind of chef I had in mind. I finally did locate one, though it cost me, much more than I’d bargained for. But he earned his pay, and I was satisfied. My customers seemed pleased too.

Around nine, I borrowed an umbrella from the bar and headed over to the Robin’s Nest. And at nine-thirty, Shimamoto showed up. Strangely enough, she always appeared on quiet rainy evenings.

She wore a white dress and an oversize navy-blue jacket. A small fish-shaped silver brooch graced the collar of her jacket. The dress was simple in design, with no decorations of any kind, yet on her, you’d swear it was the world’s most expensive dress. She was more tanned than the last time I’d seen her.