Haruki Murakami - Sputnik Sweetheart

“When I entered college, though, I made a friend, the one I told you about. And my way of thinking started to change. I came to understand that thinking just by myself for so long was holding me back, keeping me to a single viewpoint. And I started to feel that being all alone is a terribly lonely thing.

“Being all alone is like the feeling you get when you stand at the mouth of a large river on a rainy evening and watch the water flow into the sea. Have you ever done that? Stand at the mouth of a large river and watch the water flow into the sea?”

Carrot didn’t reply.

“I have,” I said.

Eyes wide open, Carrot looked in my face.

“I can’t really say why it’s such a lonely feeling to watch all the river water mix together with the sea water. But it really is. You should try it sometime.”

I picked up my jacket and the bill and slowly stood up. I rested a hand on Carrot’s shoulder, and he got up, too. And we left the coffee shop.

It took about 30 minutes to walk to his house. We walked together, and I didn’t say a word.

Near his house was a small river, with a concrete bridge over it. A bland little thing, really, less a river than a drainage ditch that had been widened. When there was still farmland around here it must have been used for irrigation. Now, though, the water was cloudy, with a slight odour of detergent. Summer grasses sprouted in the riverbed, a discarded comic book lay open in the water. Carrot came to a halt in the middle of the bridge, leaned over the railing, and gazed down. I stood beside him and looked down, too. We stood like that for a long time. He probably didn’t want to go back home. I could understand that.

Carrot stuck a hand inside his trouser pocket, pulled out a key, and held it towards me. Just an ordinary key, with a large red tag on it. The tag said STORAGE 3 on it. The key for the storeroom that the security guard, Nakamura, was looking for.

Carrot must have been left alone in the room for a moment, found it in the drawer, and slipped it into his pocket. This boy’s mind was a bigger enigma than I’d imagined. He was an altogether strange child.

I took the key and held it in my palm and could feel the weight of countless people that had seeped into it. It struck me as terribly wretched, dirty, small-minded. Flustered for a moment, I ended up dropping the key into the river. It made a tiny splash. The river wasn’t very deep, but the water was cloudy, and the key disappeared from sight. Side by side on the bridge, Carrot and I gazed at the water for a time. Somehow it made me feel cheerful, my body lighter.

“It’s too late to take it back,” I said, more to myself than to him. “I’m sure they have a spare somewhere. It’s their precious storeroom, after all.”

I held my hand out, and Carrot softly took it in his. I could feel his slim, small fingers in mine. A feeling that I’d experienced somewhere—where could it have been?—a long long time ago. I held his hand and we headed for his home.

His mother was waiting for us when we got there. She’d changed into a smart little white, sleeveless blouse and a pleated skirt. Her eyes were red and swollen. She must have cried alone the whole time after she got home. Her husband ran an estate agent’s in the city and on Sundays was either at work or out playing golf. She had Carrot go to his room on the first floor and took me not to the living room, but to the kitchen, where we sat down at the table. Maybe it was easier for her to talk there. The kitchen had a huge avocado-green fridge, an island in the middle, and a sunny window facing east.

“He looks a little better than he did before,” she said weakly.

“When I first saw him at that security office, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve never seen him look that way. Like he was off in another world.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Just give it time and he’ll get back to normal. For the time being it’d be better if you don’t say anything to him. Just leave him alone.”

“What did you two do after I left?”

“We talked,” I said.

“About what?”

“Not much. Basically I did all the talking. Nothing special, really.”

“Would you like something cold to drink?” I shook my head.

“I have no idea how to talk to him any more,” she said. “And that feeling just grows stronger.”

“There’s no need to force yourself to talk to him. Children are in their own world. When he wants to talk, he will.”

“But he barely talks at all.”

We were careful not to let our bodies touch as we faced each other across the kitchen table. Our conversation was strained, the kind you might expect of a teacher and a mother discussing a problem child. As she spoke she played with her hands, twisting her fingers, stretching them out, grasping her hands. I thought about the things those hands had done to me in bed. I won’t report what’s happened to the school, I told her. I’ll have a good talk with him, and if there’s any problem, I’ll take care of it. So don’t worry about it. He’s a smart boy, a good boy; give it time and he’ll settle down. This is just a phase he’s going through. The most important thing is for you to be calm about it. I slowly, calmly repeated all this over and over, letting it sink in. It seemed to make her feel better.

She said she’d drive me back to my apartment in Kunitachi.

“Do you think my son senses what’s going on?” she asked me when we were stopped at a traffic light. What she meant, of course, was what was going on between her and me.

I shook my head. “Why do you say that?”

“While I was alone at home, waiting for you to come back, the thought just struck me. I have nothing to go by, it’s just a feeling. He’s very intuitive, and I’m sure he’s picked up on how my husband and I don’t get along well.”

I was silent. She didn’t say any more.

She parked her car in the car park just beyond the intersection where my apartment building stood. She pulled on the handbrake and turned off the engine. It sputtered out, and with the sound from the air-conditioning off, an uncomfortable silence fell over the car. I knew she wanted me to take her in my arms right then and there. I thought of her pliant body beneath her blouse, and my mouth became dry.

“I think it’d be better for us not to meet any more,” I came right out and said.

She didn’t say anything. Hands on the steering wheel, she stared in the direction of the oil gauge. Almost all expression had faded from her face.

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” I said. “I don’t think it’s right that I’m part of the problem. I can’t be part of the solution if I’m part of the problem. It’s better for everyone that way.”

“Everyone?”

“Especially for your son.”

“For you, too?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“What about me? Does that include me?”

Yes, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t get the word out. She took off her dark green Raybans, then slipped them on again.

“It’s not easy for me to say this,” she said, “but if I can’t see you any more it will be very hard on me.”

“It will be hard on me, too. I wish we could continue the way we are. But it’s not right.”

She took a deep breath and let it out.

“What is right? Would you tell me? I don’t really know what’s right. I know what’s wrong. But what is right?”

I didn’t have a good answer.

She looked like she was about to weep. Or cry out. But somehow she held herself in check. She just gripped the steering wheel tightly, the backs of her hands turning slightly red.