Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«Youfeelit, don'tyou?» asked the Sheep Man.

Yes, I nodded.

«Time'srunningout,» warned the Sheep Man. «Themoretimepasses, thecolderitgets. Youbetterbegoing.»

«Wait, one last thing. I guess you've been around all this time, except I haven't seen you. Just your shadow every­where. You're just sort of always there .»

The Sheep Man traced an indefinite shape with his finger. «That'sright. We'rehalfshadow, we'reinbetween.»

«But I still don't understand,» I said. «Here I can see your face and body clearly. I couldn't before, but now I can. Why?»

«Youlostsomuch,» he bleated softly, «thatnowyoucan-seeus.»

«Do you mean . . . ?» And bracing myself, I asked the big question: «Is this the world of the dead?»

«No,» replied the Sheep Man. His shoulders swayed as he took a breath. «Youandus, we'reliving. Breathing. Talking.»

«I don't get it.»

«Dance,» he said. «It'stheonlyway. Wishwecouldex-plainthingsbetter. Butwetoldyouallwecould. Dance. Don't-think. Dance. Danceyourbest, likeyourlifedependedonit. Yougottadance.»

The temperature was falling. I suddenly seemed to remem­ber this chill. A bone-piercing, damp chill. Long ago and far away. But where? My mind was paralyzed. Fixed and rigid.

Fixed and rigid .

«Youbettergo,» urged the Sheep Man. «Stayhere, you'll-freeze. Butifyouneedus, we'rehere. Youknowwheretofind us.»

The Sheep Man escorted me out to the bend in the hall­way, dragging his feet along, shuffle . . . shuffle . . . shuffle . We said good-bye. No handshake, no special salutations. Just good-bye, and then we parted into the darkness. He returned to his tiny room and I continued to the elevator. I pressed the call button. When the elevator arrived, the door opened without a sound. Bright light spilled out over me into the hallway. I got in and collapsed against the wall. The door closed. I did not move.

Well . . . , I thought to myself. Well what? Nothing came after. My mind was a huge vacuum. A vacuum that went on and on endlessly nowhere. Like the Sheep Man said, I was tired and scared. And alone. And lost.

«Yougottadance,» the Sheep Man said.

You gotta dance, echoed my mind.

«Gotta dance,» I repeated out loud.

I pressed the button for the fifteenth floor.

When the elevator got there, «Moon River» greeted me from the ceiling speakers. The real world—where I probably could never be happy, and never get anywhere.

I glanced at my watch. Return time, three-twenty A.M.

Well now, I thought. Well now well now well now well now well now well now . . . , echoed my mind.

Back in my room, I ran a bath. I undressed, then slowly sank in. But strangely, I couldn't get warm. My body was so chilled, sitting in the hot water only made me shiver. I considered staying in the tub until I stopped shiver­ing, but before that happened, the steam made me woozy, so I climbed out. I pressed my forehead against the window to clear my head, then poured myself a brandy which I downed in one gulp before dropping into bed. I wanted to sleep with­out the taint of a thought in my head, but no such luck. I lay in bed, conscious beyond control. Eventually morning came, heavy, overcast. It wasn't snowing, but clouds filled the sky, thick and seamless, turning the whole town gray. All I saw was gray. A sump of a city slushed with sunken souls.

Thinking wasn't what kept me awake. I hadn't been thinking at all. I was too tired to think. Except that one hardened corner of my head insisted on pushing my psyche into high gear. I was on edge, irritable, as if trying to read station signs from a speeding train. A station approaches. The letters blur past. You can almost read something, but you're traveling too fast. You try again, when the next sta­tion careens into view, but you fly by before you can make anything out. And then the next station . . . Backwater flags in the middle of nowhere. The train sounds its whistle. High, shrill, piercing.

This routine went on until nine, when I got out of bed. I shaved, but had to keep telling myself I'm shaving now to get me through. I dressed and brushed my hair and went down to the hotel restaurant. I sat at a table by the window and ordered coffee and toast. It took me an eternity to get through the toast, which tasted like lint and was gray from the sky. The sky foretold the end of the world. I drank my coffee and read and reread and reread the menu. My head was too hard. Nothing would register. The train raced on. The whistle screamed. I felt like a dried lump of toothpaste. All around me, people were devouring their breakfasts, stir­ring their coffee, buttering their toast, forking up their ham and eggs. Plates and cutlery clink-clink-clinking . A regular train yard.

I thought about the Sheep Man. He existed at this very moment. Somewhere, in a small time-space warp of this hotel. Yes, he was here. And he was trying to tell me some­thing. But it was no good. I couldn't read it. I was speeding by too fast for the message to register. My head was too thick to make out the words. I could only read what wasn't moving: (A) Continental Breakfast—Juice (choice of orange, grapefruit, or tomato), Toast or ...

Someone was talking to me. Seeking my response. But who? I looked up. It was the waiter. Immaculate in his white uniform, coffee pot in both hands, like a trophy. «Care for more coffee, sir?» he asked politely. I shook my head. He moved on and I got up to go. Leaving the train yard behind.

Back in my room, I took another bath. No shivers this time. I took a long stretch in the tub, softening my stiff joints. I got my fingers moving freely again. Yes, this was my body all right. Here I am now. Back in a real room, in a real tub. Not aboard some superexpress train. No whistle in my ears. No need to read station signs. No need to think at all.

Out of the bath, I crawled into bed. Ten-thirty. Great, just great. I half considered canning the sleep and going out for a walk, but before I could focus, sleep overtook me. The house-lights went down and suddenly everything went dark. It happened quickly. I can remember the instant I fell asleep. As if a giant, gray gorilla had sneaked into the room and whacked me over the head with a sledgehammer. I was out cold.

My sleep was hard, tight. Too dark to see anything. No background Muzak. No «Moon River» or «Love Is Blue.» A simple no-frills sleep. Someone asks me, «What comes after 16?» I answer, «41.» The gray gorilla steps in and says, «He's out.» That's right, I was asleep. All rolled up in a tight little squirrel ball inside a steel sphere. A solid steel wrecking ball, fast asleep.

Something is calling me.

A steam whistle?

No, something else, the gulls inform me.

Somebody's trying to cut open the steel ball with a blow­torch. That's the sound.

No, not that, chant the gulls. Like a Greek chorus.

It's the phone, I think.

The gulls vanish.

I reach out and grope for the bedside telephone. «Yes?» I hear myself saying. But all I hear is a dial tone. Beeeeeeee eeeeeeee, comes a noise from somewhere else. The doorbell! Somebody's ringing the doorbell! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee .

«The doorbell,» I mumbled.

Gone are the gulls. No one applauds. No «bingo,» no nothing.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee .

I threw on a bathrobe and went to the door. Without ask­ing who it is, I opened up.

My receptionist friend. She slipped inside and shut the door.

The back of my head was numb. Did that ape have to whack me so hard? It feels like there's a dent in my skull.

She noted my bathrobe, and her brows knitted. «Sleeping at three in the afternoon?» she said in disbelief.