Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«A machine can feel good?»

«You didn't know that? Don't ask me how, though. Machines can get happy, but they can get angry too. I have no logical explanation for it. I just know from experience.»

«You mean, machines are like humans?»

I shook my head. «No, not like humans. With machines, the feeling is, well, more finite. It doesn't go any further. With humans, it's different. The feeling is always changing. Like if you love somebody, the love is always shifting or wavering. It's always questioning or inflating or disappear­ing or denying or hurting. And the thing is, you can't do anything about it, you can't control it. With my Subaru, it's not so complicated.»

Yuki gave that some thought. «But that didn't get through to your wife? Didn't she know how you felt?» she asked.

«I guess not,» I said. «Or maybe she had a different per­spective on the matter. So in the end, she split. Probably going to live with another man was easier than adjusting her perspective.»

«So you didn't get along like with your Subaru?»

«You said it.» Of all the things to be talking about to a thirteen-year-old.

«And what about me?» Yuki suddenly asked.

«What about you? I hardly know you.»

I could feel her staring at me again. Much more of this and pretty soon she'd bore a hole in my left cheek. I gave in. «Okay, of all the women I've gone out with, you're probably the cutest,» I said, eyes glued on the road. «No, not proba­bly. Without question, absolutely, the cutest. If I were fifteen, I'd fall in love with you just like that. But I'm thirty-four, and I don't fall in love so easily. I don't want to get hurt any­more. So it's safer with the Subaru. All right?»

Yuki gave me a blank look. «Pretty weird,» was all she could say.

Which made me feel like the dregs of humanity. The girl probably didn't mean anything by it, but she packed a punch.

At eleven-fifteen we were back in Akasaka.

Yuki kept her part of the bargain and told me how to get to the apartment. It was a smallish redbrick condo on a quiet back street near Nogi Shrine. I pulled up to the build­ing and killed the engine.

«About the money and all,» she said before opening the door, «the plane and the dinner and everything—»

«The plane fare can wait until your mother gets back. The rest is on me. Don't worry about it. I don't go dutch on dates.»

Yuki shrugged and said nothing, then got out and dropped her wad of gum into a convenient potted plant.

Thank you very much . You're quite welcome . I bandied with myself. Then I took a business card out of my wallet. «Give this to your mother when she returns. And in the meanwhile, if you need anything, you can call me at this number. Let me know if I can help out.»

She snapped up the card, glared at it a second, then buried it in her coat pocket.

I pulled her overweight suitcases out of the car, and we took the elevator to the fourth floor. Yuki unlocked the door, |nd I brought the suitcases in. It was a dinette-kitchen-bed­room-bath studio. Practically brand-new, spick-and-span as a showroom, complete with neatly arrayed furniture and appliances, all tasteful and expensive and without sign of use. The apartment had the unlived-in charm of a glossy magazine spread. Very chic, very unreal.

«Mama hardly ever uses this place,» Yuki declared, as she watched me scan the place. «She has a studio nearby, and she usually stays there when she's in Tokyo. She sleeps there, and she eats there. She only comes here between jobs.»

«I see,» I said. Busy woman.

Yuki hung up her fur coat and turned on the heater. Then she brought out a pack of Virginia Slims and lit up with a cool flick of the wrist. I couldn't say I thought much of a thirteen-year-old smoking. Yet there was something posi­tively attractive about that pencil-thin filter poised on her sharp knife-cut lips, her long lashes luxuriating on the updraft. Picture perfect. I held my peace. If I were fifteen years old, I really would have fallen for her. As fatefully as the snow on the roof comes tumbling down in spring. I would have lost my head and been terribly unhappy. It took me back years. Made me feel helpless, a teenage boy pining away again for a girl who could almost have been Yuki.

«Want some coffee?»

I shook my head. «Thanks, but it's late. I'm heading home.»

Yuki deposited her cigarette in an ashtray and showed me to the door.

«Mind the cigarette and heater before you turn in.»

«Yes, Dad,» she replied.

Back in my own apartment at last, I collapsed on the sofa with a beer. I glanced through my mail. Nothing but busi­ness and bills. File under: later. I was dead, didn't want to do anything. Still, I was on edge, too pumped up with adren­aline to sleep. What a day!

How long had I stayed in Sapporo? The images jumbled together in my head, crowding into my sleep time. The sky had been a seamless gray. Implicating events and dates. Date with receptionist with glasses. Call to ex-partner for back­ground on Dolphin Hotel. Talk with Sheep Man. Movie showing Gotanda and Kiki. Beach Boys, thirteen-year-old girl, and me. Tokyo. So how many days altogether?

You tell me.

Tomorrow, I told myself. It can wait .

I went into the kitchen and poured myself a whiskey. Straight, neat, and otherwise unadulterated. Plus some crackers. A bit damp, like my head, but they'd have to do. I put on an old favorite of the Modernaires singing Tommy Dorsey numbers. Nice and low. A bit out-of-date, like my head. A bit scratchy, but not enough to bother anyone. A perfection of sorts. That didn't go anywhere. Like my head.

What was that all about ? Kiki repeated in my brain.

The camera pans around. Gotanda's able fingers sail gen­tly down her back. Seeking for that long-lost sea passage.

What was going on here? I was thoroughly confused. Gone was my self-confidence. Love and used Subarus were two different things. Weren't they? I was jealous of Gotan­da's fingers. Had Yuki put out her cigarette? Had she turned off the heater? Yes, Dad . You said it. No confidence at all. Was I doomed to rot, muttering away to myself like this in this elephants' graveyard of advanced capitalist society?

Leave it to tomorrow . Everything.

I brushed my teeth, changed into my pajamas, then pol­ished off the last of the whiskey in my glass. The moment I got into bed, the phone rang. At first I just stared at the thing ringing there in the middle of the room, and finally I picked it up.

«I turned off the heater,» Yuki began. «Put out my cigarette. Everything's okay. Sleep easier now?»

«Yes, thank you,» I replied.

«Nighty-night then,» she said.

«Good night,» I said.

«Hey,» Yuki started, then paused, «you saw that guy in the sheepskin up at the Sapporo hotel, didn't you?»

I sat down on the bed, holding the telephone to my chest as if keeping a cracked ostrich egg warm.

«You can't fool me. I know you saw him. I knew that right away.»

«You saw the Sheep Man?» I blurted out.

«Mmm,» Yuki skirted the question, then clicked her tongue. «But we can talk about that later. Next time, huh? We'll have a long talk. I'm beat right now.»

And she hung up, just like that. Click .

I had a pain in my temples. I went to the kitchen and poured myself another whiskey. I was trembling all over. A roller coaster was rumbling under me. It's all connected, the Sheep Man had said.

Connected .

All sorts of strange connections were starting to come together.

I leaned up against the sink in the kitchen and downed the whiskey. What should I do? How could Yuki have known about the Sheep Man? Should I ring her back? But I really was exhausted. It'd been one long day. Maybe I should wait for her to call. Did I know her phone number?