Haruki Murakami: Sputnik Sweetheart

Sumire had no idea.

The two of them talked about music. Sumire was a big fan of classical music and ever since she was small liked to paw through her father’s record collection. She and Miu shared similar tastes, it turned out. They both loved piano music and were convinced that Beethoven’s Sonata No. 32 was the absolute pinnacle in the history of music. And that Wilhelm Backhaus’s unparalleled performance of the sonata for Decca set the interpretive standard. What a delightful, vibrant, and joyous thing it was!

Vladimir Horowitz’s mono recordings of Chopin, especially the scherzos, are thrilling, aren’t they? Friedrich Gulda’s performances of Debussy’s preludes are witty and lovely. Gieseking’s Grieg is sweet from start to finish. Sviatoslav Richter’s Prokofiev is worth listening to over and over—his interpretation exactly captures the mercurial shifts of mood. And Wanda Landowska’s Mozart sonatas—so filled with warmth and tenderness it’s hard to understand why they haven’t received more acclaim.

“What do you do?” asked Miu, once their discussion of music had come to an end.

I dropped out of college, Sumire explained, and I’m doing some part-time jobs while I work on my novels. What kind of novels? Miu asked. It’s hard to explain, replied Sumire. Well, said Miu, then what type of novels do you like to read? If I list them all we’ll be here for ever, said Sumire.

Recently I’ve been reading Jack Kerouac. And that’s where the Sputnik part of their conversation came in.

Other than some light fiction she read to pass the time, Miu hardly ever touched novels. “I never can get it out of my mind that’s it’s all made up,” she explained, “so I just can’t feel any empathy for the characters. I’ve always been that way.” That’s why her reading was limited to books that treated reality as reality. Books, for the most part, that helped her in her work. What kind of work do you do? asked Sumire.

“Mostly it has to do with foreign countries,” said Miu.

“Thirteen years ago I took over my father’s trading company, since I was the oldest child. I’d been studying to be a pianist, but my father passed away from cancer, my mother wasn’t strong physically and besides couldn’t speak Japanese very well. My brother was still in high school, so we decided, for the time being, that I’d take care of the company. A number of relatives depended on the company for their livelihood, so I couldn’t very well just let the company go to pot.”

She punctuated all this with a sigh.

“My father’s company originally imported dried goods and medicinal herbs from Korea, but now it deals with a wide variety of things. Even computer parts. I’m still officially listed as the head of the company, but my husband and younger brother have taken over so I don’t have to go to the office very often. Instead I’ve got my own private business.”

“Doing what?”

“Importing wine, mainly. Occasionally I arrange concerts, too. I travel to Europe quite a bit, since this type of business depends on personal connections. Which is why I’m able, all by myself, to compete with some top firms. But all that networking takes a lot of time and energy. That’s only to be expected, I suppose…” She looked up, as if she had just remembered something. “By the way, do you speak English?”

“Speaking English isn’t my strong suit, but I’m okay, I guess. I love to read English, though.”

“Do you know how to use a computer?”

“Not really, but I’ve been using a word processor, and I’m sure I could pick it up.”

“How about driving?”

Sumire shook her head. The year she started college she tried reversing her father’s Volvo estate into the garage and smashed the door on a pillar. Since then she’d barely driven.

“All right—can you explain, in 200 words or less, the difference between a sign and a symbol?”

Sumire lifted the napkin from her lap, lightly dabbed at her mouth, and put it back. What was the woman driving at? “A sign and a symbol?”

“No special significance. It’s just an example.”

Again Sumire shook her head. “I have no idea.”

Miu smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to tell me what sort of practical skills you have. What you’re especially good at. Other than reading a lot of novels and listening to music.”

Sumire quietly laid her knife and fork on her plate, stared at the anonymous space hanging over the table, and pondered the question.

“Instead of things I’m good at, it might be faster to list the things I can’t do. I can’t cook or clean the house. My room’s a mess, and I’m always losing things. I love music, but I can’t sing a note. I’m clumsy and can barely sew a stitch. My sense of direction is the pits, and I can’t tell left from right half the time. When I get angry, I tend to break things. Plates and pencils, alarm clocks. Later on I regret it, but at the time I can’t help myself. I have no money in the bank. I’m bashful for no reason, and I have hardly any friends to speak of.”

Sumire took a quick breath and forged ahead.

“However, I can touch-type really fast. I’m not that athletic, but other than the mumps, I’ve never been sick a day in my life. I’m always punctual, never late for an appointment. I can eat just about anything. I never watch TV. And other than a bit of silly boasting, I hardly ever make excuses. Once a month or so my shoulders get so stiff I can’t sleep, but the rest of the time I sleep like a log. My periods are light. I don’t have a single cavity. And my Spanish is okay.”

Miu looked up. “You speak Spanish?”

When Sumire was in high school, she spent a month in the home of her uncle, a businessman who’d been stationed in Mexico City. Making the most of the opportunity, she’d studied Spanish intensively. She had taken Spanish in college, too.

Miu grasped the stem of her wineglass between two fingers and lightly turned it, as if turning a screw on a machine. “What would you think about working at my place for a while?”

“Working?” Unsure what expression would best fit this situation, Sumire made do with her usual dour look. “I’ve never had a real job in my life, and I’m not even sure how to answer a phone the right way. I try to avoid taking the train before 10 a.m. and, as I’m sure you’ve noticed from talking to me, I don’t speak politely.”

“None of that matters,” said Miu simply. “By the way, are you free tomorrow, around noon?”

Sumire nodded reflexively. She didn’t even have to think about it. Free time, after all, was her main asset.

“Well then, why don’t we have lunch together? I’ll reserve a quiet table at a restaurant nearby,” Miu said. She held out the fresh glass of red wine a waiter had poured for her, studied it carefully, inhaled the aroma, then quietly took the first sip. The whole series of movements had the sort of natural elegance of a short cadenza a pianist has refined over the years.

“We’ll talk over the details then. Today I’d rather just enjoy myself. You know, I’m not sure where it’s from, but this Bordeaux isn’t half bad.”

Sumire relaxed her dour look and asked Miu straight out:

“But you just met me, and you hardly know a thing about me.”

“That’s true. Maybe I don’t,” Miu admitted.

“So why do you think I might be of help to you?”

Miu swirled the wine in her glass. “I always judge people by their faces,” she said. “Meaning that I like your face, the way you look.”

Sumire felt the air around her suddenly grow thin. Her nipples tightened under her dress. Mechanically she reached for a glass of water and gulped it down. A hawk-faced waiter quickly sidled in behind her and filled her empty glass with ice water. In Sumire’s confused mind, the clatter of the ice cubes sounded just like the groans of a robber hiding out in a cave.