Haruki Murakami - Sputnik Sweetheart

“When I was younger all kinds of people talked to me,” she said. “Told me all sorts of things. Fascinating stories, beautiful, strange stories. But past a certain point nobody talked to me any more. No one. Not my husband, my child, my friends…

no one. Like there was nothing left in the world to talk about. Sometimes I feel like my body’s turning invisible, like you can see right through me.”

She raised her hands from the steering wheel and held them out in front of her.

“Not that you would understand what I’m trying to say.”

I searched for the right words, but nothing came.

“Thank you very much for everything today,” she said, pulling herself together. Her voice was nearly her usual, calm tone. “I don’t think I could have handled it alone. It’s very hard on me. Having you there helped a lot. I’m grateful. I know you’re going to be a wonderful teacher. You almost are.”

Was this meant to be sarcastic? Probably. No—definitely.

“Not yet,” I said. She smiled, ever so slightly. And our conversation came to an end.

I opened the car door and stepped outside. The summer Sunday afternoon sunlight had weakened considerably. I found it hard to breathe and my legs felt strange as I stood there. The Celica’s engine roared to life, and she drove out of my life for ever. She rolled down her window and gave a small wave, and I lifted my hand in response.

Back in the apartment I took off my sweaty shirt and tossed it in the washing machine, took a shower, and washed my hair. I went to the kitchen, finished preparing the meal I’d left half done, and ate. Afterwards, I sank back in my sofa and read a book I’d just started. But I couldn’t finish five pages. Giving up, I closed the book and thought for a while about Sumire. And the storeroom key I’d tossed in the filthy river. And my girlfriend’s hands gripping the steering wheel. It had been a long day, and it was finally over, leaving behind just random memories. I’d taken a good long shower, but my body was still steeped in the stink of tobacco. And my hand still retained a sharp sensation—as if I’d crushed the life out of something. Did I do what was right?

I didn’t think so. I’d only done what was necessary for me. There’s a big difference. Everyone? she’d asked me. Does that include me?

Truthfully, at that time I wasn’t thinking about everyone. I was thinking only about Sumire. Not all of them there, or all of us here.

Only of Sumire, who wasn’t anywhere.

I hadn’t heard a word from Miu since the day we’d said goodbye at the harbour. This struck me as odd, since she promised to get in touch regardless of whether there was any news about Sumire. I couldn’t believe she’d forgotten me; she wasn’t the type to make promises she didn’t intend to keep. Something must have happened to keep her from contacting me. I considered calling her, but I didn’t even know her real name, or the name of her company or where it was. As far as Miu was concerned, Sumire hadn’t left behind any solid leads. Sumire’s phone still had the same message on it, but it was soon disconnected. I thought about calling her family. I didn’t know the number, though it wouldn’t have been hard to find her father’s dental clinic in the Yokohama Yellow Pages. But somehow I couldn’t take that step. Instead, I went to the library and looked through the August newspapers. There was a tiny article about her, about a 22-year-old Japanese girl travelling in Greece who disappeared.

The local authorities are investigating, searching for her. But so far no clues. That was it. Nothing I didn’t already know. Quite a few people travelling abroad disappeared, it seemed. And she was merely one of them.

I gave up trying to follow the news. Whatever the reasons for her disappearance, however the investigation was proceeding, one thing was certain: if Sumire were to come back, she’d get in touch. That was all that mattered.

September came and went, autumn was over before I knew it, and winter set in. 7 November was Sumire’s 23rd birthday, and 9 December was my 25th. The New Year came and the school year ended. Carrot didn’t cause any more problems and went into fifth grade, into a new class. After that day I never really talked to him about the shoplifting. Every time I saw him, I realized it wasn’t necessary.

Since he had a new teacher now, there were fewer times I’d come across my former girlfriend. Everything was over and done with. Sometimes, though, a nostalgic memory of the warmth of her skin would come to me, and I’d be on the verge of picking up the phone. What brought me to a halt was the feeling of that supermarket storeroom key in my hand. Of that summer afternoon. And of Carrot’s little hand in mine.

Every time I met Carrot at school, I couldn’t help thinking that he was one strange child. I had no inkling of what thoughts were brewing behind that thin, calm face. But something was definitely going on under that placid exterior. And if push came to shove, he had the wherewithal to take action. I could sense something deep about him. I believed that telling him the feelings I held inside was the right thing to do. For him, and for me. Probably more for my sake. It’s a little strange to say this, but he understood me then and accepted me. And even forgave me. To some extent, at least.

What kind of days—the seemingly endless days of youth—would children like Carrot go through as they grew into adulthood? It wouldn’t be easy for them. Hard times would outnumber the easy. From my own experience, I could predict the shape their pain would take. Would he fall in love with somebody? And would that other person love him back? Not that my thinking about it mattered. Once he graduated from elementary school, he’d be gone, and I’d see him no more. And I had my own problems to think about.

I went to a record shop, bought a copy of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing Mozart’s lieder, and listened to it again and again. I loved the beautiful stillness of the songs. If I closed my eyes, the music always took me back to that night on the Greek island.

Aside from some very vivid memories, including the one of the overwhelming desire I felt the day I helped her move, all Sumire left behind were several long letters and the floppy disk. I read the letters and the two documents so many times I nearly had them memorized. Every time I read them, I felt like Sumire and I were together again, our hearts one. This warmed my heart more than anything else could. Like you’re on a train at night travelling across some vast plain, and you catch a glimpse of a tiny light in the window of a farmhouse. In an instant it’s sucked back into the darkness behind and vanishes. But if you close your eyes, that point of light stays with you, just barely, for a few moments.

I wake up in the middle of the night and get out of bed (I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway), lie down on my sofa, and relive memories of that small Greek island as I listen to Schwarzkopf. I recollect each and every event, quietly turning the pages of my memory. The lovely deserted beach, the outdoor cafe at the harbour. The waiter’s sweat-stained shirt. Miu’s graceful profile and the sparkle of the Mediterranean from the veranda. The poor hero standing in the town square who’d been impaled. And the Greek music I heard from the mountaintop that night. I vividly relive the magical moonlight, the wondrous echo of the music. The sensation of estrangement I experienced when I was awakened by the music. That formless, midnight pain, like my body, too, was silently, cruelly, being impaled