Haruki Murakami - Sputnik Sweetheart

Following their usual routine, they each went to their rooms before ten. Miu changed into long-sleeve, white cotton pyjamas and fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. But soon she woke up, as if shaken by the beating of her own heart. She glanced over at the travel alarm clock next to her; it was past 12.30. The room was pitch black, enveloped by total silence. She sensed someone nearby, hiding with bated breath. Miu pulled the covers up to her neck and pricked up her ears. Her heart thumped loudly, drowning out everything else. It wasn’t just a bad dream spilling over into wakefulness—someone was definitely in the room with her. Careful not to make a sound, she reached out and pulled aside the window curtain an inch or two. Pale, watery moonlight stole into the room. Keeping perfectly still, she swept the room with her eyes.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could distinguish an outline of something gradually forming in a corner of the room. In the shadow of the wardrobe beside the door, where the darkness was deepest. Whatever it was, it was low, rolled into a thick ball like some large, long-forgotten postbag. An animal?

A large dog? But the front door was locked, the door to her room shut. A dog wouldn’t be able to get in.

Miu continued to breathe quietly and stared fixedly. Her mouth was dry, and she could catch a faint whiff of the brandy she’d had before going to bed. She reached out and drew the curtain back a little to let more moonlight in. Slowly, like unravelling a tangled thread, she could make out the outline of the black lump on the floor. It looked like a person’s body: hair hanging down in front, two thin legs bent at an acute angle. Someone was sitting on the floor, rolled up, head between legs, scrunched up as if to protect herself from something falling from the sky.

It was Sumire. Wearing her usual blue pyjamas, she crouched like an insect between the door and the wardrobe. Not moving. Not even breathing, as far as Miu could tell.

Miu gave a sigh of relief. But what in the world was Sumire doing here? Miu sat up quietly in bed and switched on the lamp. Yellow light lit up the entire room, but Sumire didn’t budge an inch. She didn’t even seem to realize the light was on.

“What’s the matter?” Miu called out. First in a small voice, then more loudly.

There was no response. Miu’s voice didn’t appear to reach Sumire. Miu got out of bed and walked over to her. The feel of the carpet was rougher than ever against her bare feet.

“Are you sick?” Miu asked, crouching beside Sumire.

Still no answer.

Miu noticed that Sumire was holding something in her mouth. A pink facecloth that was always hanging in the bathroom. Miu tried to pull it out, but Sumire’s mouth was clamped down hard. Her eyes were open, but unseeing. Miu gave up and rested a hand on her shoulder. Sumire’s pyjamas were soaking wet.

“You’d better take your pyjamas off,” Miu said. “You’re sweating so much you’ll catch cold.”

Sumire looked stupefied, not hearing anything, not seeing anything. Miu decided to get Sumire’s pyjamas off; otherwise her body would freeze. It was August, but sometimes nights on the island were chilly. The two of them swam nude every day and were used to seeing each other’s bodies, so Miu thought Sumire wouldn’t mind if she undressed her.

Supporting Sumire’s body, she unbuttoned the pyjamas and, after a time, was able to get the top off. Then the bottoms. Sumire’s body was rigid, but gradually relaxed and ended up limp. Miu took the facecloth out of her mouth. It was soaked from her saliva. There was a perfect set of teethmarks on it. Sumire had no panties on under the pyjamas. Miu grabbed a towel nearby and wiped the sweat from her body. First her back, then under her arms, then her chest. She wiped her belly, then very quickly the area from her waist to her thighs. Sumire was subdued, unresisting. She appeared unconscious, though looking into her eyes Miu could make out a glint of comprehension.

Miu had never touched Sumire’s naked body before. Her skin was taut, smooth like a young child’s. Lifting her up, Miu found that Sumire’s body was heavier than she had imagined, and smelled of sweat. Wiping the sweat from her, Miu felt again her own heart thumping in her chest. Saliva gathered in her mouth, and she had to swallow again and again.

Bathed in moonlight, Sumire’s body glistened like some ancient ceramic. Her breasts were small, but shapely, with wellformed nipples. Her black pubic hair was wet with sweat and glittered like grass in the morning dew. Her limp, naked body was completely different from the one Miu had seen under the blazing sun at the beach. Her body was a mix of still-girlish elements and a budding maturity blindly wrenched open by the painful flow of time.

Miu felt like she was peering into someone’s else’s secrets, something forbidden she shouldn’t be seeing. She avoided looking at her naked skin as she continued to wipe away the sweat from Sumire’s body, all the while replaying in her mind a Bach piece she’d memorized as a child. She wiped Sumire’s sweaty fringe, which was plastered to her forehead. Even the inside of Sumire’s tiny ears were sweaty.

Miu felt Sumire’s arm silently go around her own body. Sumire’s breath grazed her neck.

“All you all right?” she asked.

Sumire didn’t reply. But her arm held on a bit more tightly.

Half carrying her, Miu helped her into her own bed. She lay her down and pulled the covers over her. Sumire lay there, unmoving, and closed her eyes.

Miu watched her for a while, but Sumire didn’t move a muscle. She seemed to have fallen asleep. Miu went to the kitchen and gulped down several glasses of mineral water. She took a few deep breaths and managed to calm down. Her heart had stopped pounding, though her chest ached with the tension of the last few moments. Everything was cloaked in a choking silence. No voices, not even a dog barking. No waves, no sound of the wind. Why, Miu wondered, is everything so deadly still?

Miu went into the bathroom and took Sumire’s sweaty pyjamas, the towel she’d used to wipe her down, and the facecloth with the teethmarks and tossed them into the laundry basket. She washed her face and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Since coming to the island she hadn’t dyed her hair, which was now pure white, like newly fallen snow.

When Miu went back into the room Sumire’s eyes were open. A thin, translucent veil seemed to cover them, but a glimmer of consciousness had returned. She lay there, the covers up to her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she said huskily. “Sometimes I get this way.”

Miu sat down on a corner of the bed, smiled, and reached out to touch Sumire’s still-damp hair. “You should take a good, long shower. You were really sweating.”

“Thanks,” said Sumire. “I just want to lie here.”

Miu nodded and handed Sumire a fresh bath towel, took out a pair of her own clean pyjamas from the chest of drawers and laid them beside Sumire. “You can use these. I don’t imagine you have another pair, do you?”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” asked Sumire.

“All right. Just go to sleep. I’ll sleep in your bed.”

“My bed must be soaked,” Sumire said. “The covers, everything. And I don’t want to be alone. Don’t leave me here. Would you sleep beside me? Just for tonight? I don’t want to have any more nightmares.”

Miu thought about it, then nodded. “But first put on a pair of pyjamas. I don’t think I’d like having somebody naked lying right next to me—especially in such a small bed.”

Sumire got up slowly and pushed back the covers. She stood up, still naked, and tugged on Miu’s pyjamas. She leaned forward and slipped on the bottoms, then the top. It took some time to get the buttons all fastened. Her fingers wouldn’t work right. Miu didn’t help, she just sat there watching. Sumire buttoned up the pyjamas in such a deliberate way it struck Miu as an almost religious ceremony. The moonlight lent a strange hardness to her nipples.