Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

Nothing had changed. It was Sunday morning. Every­thing bathed in peaceful Sunday light. Window blinds drawn. A woman's bare back. A man's caressing fingers. Le Corbusier print on wall. Bottle of Cutty Sark on table at side of bed. Two glasses, ashtray, pack of Seven Stars. Stereo equipment. Flower vase. Daisies. Peeled-off clothes on floor. Bookshelf. The camera pans. It's Kiki. I shut my eyes invol­untarily. Then I open them. Gotanda is embracing her. Gen­tly, softly. «No way,» I say. Out loud. A young kid four seats away shoots me a look. The girl lead comes into frame. Hair in a ponytail. Yachting windbreaker and jeans. Red Adidases. She's holding a container of cookies. She walks right in, then dashes out. Gotanda is dumbfounded. He sits up in bed, squinting into the light, following the girl with his eyes. Kiki rests a hand on his shoulder, her words drenched with world-weariness. «What was that all about?»

After I left the theater, I walked around the streets of Shibuya.

I walked, through the swarming crowds of school kids, as Gotanda's slender, well-mannered fingers played over her back in my mind. I walked to Harajuku. Then to Sendagaya past the stadium, across Aoyama Boulevard toward the cemetery and over to the Nezu Museum. I passed Cafe Figaro and then Kinokuniya and then the Jintan Building back toward Shibuya Station. A bit of a hike. It was getting late. From the top of the hill, I could see the neon signs com­ing on as the dark-suited masses of salarymen crossed the intersection like instinct-blinded salmon. When I got back to my apartment, the red message lamp on my answering machine was blinking. I switched on the room lights, took off my coat, and pulled a beer out of the fridge. I sat down on my bed, took a sip, and pushed PLAY.

«Well, been a long time.» It was Gotanda.

Well, been a long time.» Gotanda's voice came through bright and clear. Not too fast, not too slow. Not too loud, not too soft. Not tense, not inordinately relaxed. A perfect voice. I knew it was Gotanda in a second. It's not the sort of voice you forget once you've heard it. Any more than his smiling face, his sparkling white teeth, his finely sculpted nose. Actually, I'd never paid any attention to Gotanda's voice before, couldn't really recall it either, but obviously it'd stuck subconsciously to the inside of my skull, and it came back to me immediately, as vivid as the tolling of a bell on a still night. Amazing.

«I'm going to be at home tonight, so call. I don't go to bed until morning anyway,» he said, then enunciated his telephone number, twice. «Be talking to you.»

From the exchange, his place couldn't have been so far from here. I wrote the number down, then carefully dialed. At the sixth ring, an answering machine kicked on. A woman's voice saying, «I'm out right now, but if you'd care to leave a message.» I left my name and the time and said that I'd be in all evening. Complicated world we live in. I hung up and was in the kitchen when the phone rang.

It was Yuki. What was I up to? My response: Chewing on a stalk of celery and having a beer. Hers: Yuck. Mine: It's not so bad. She wasn't old enough to know things could be a lot worse.

«So where are you calling from?» I asked.

«Akasaka,» she said. «How about going for a drive?»

«Sorry, I can't today,» I said. «I'm waiting for an impor­tant business call. How about another time? But first I got a question. When we talked yesterday, you said you'd seen a man in a sheep suit? Can you tell me more about that? I need to know.»

«How about another time?» she said, then slammed the phone down.

I munched on the celery and thought about what to have for dinner. Spaghetti.

First slice two cloves of garlic and brown in olive oil . Tilt the frying pan on its side just so, to pool the oil, and cook over a low flame . Toss in dried red peppers, fry together but remove before oil gets too spicy . Touch-and-go . Then cut thin slices of ham into strips and saute until crisp . Last, add to al dente spaghetti, toss, sprinkle with chopped parsley . Serve with salad of fresh mozzarella and tomatoes .

Okay, let's do it.

The water for the spaghetti was just about to boil when the telephone rang. I turned off the gas and went to pick up the phone.

It was Gotanda. «He-ey, long time. Takes me back. How're you doing?»

«All right, I guess.»

«So what's up? My manager said you had something urgent. Hope we don't have to dissect a frog again,» he laughed.

«No, nothing like that. I know this call is out of the blue, but I just needed to ask you something. Sorry, I know you're busy. Anyway, this may sound kind of strange, but—»

«Listen, are you busy right now?» Gotanda interrupted.

«No, not at all. I had some time on my hands, so I was about to fix dinner.»

«Perfect. How about a meal? I was just thinking about looking for a dinner partner. You know how it is. Nothing tastes good when you eat alone.»

«Sure, but I didn't mean to ... I mean, I called so sud­denly and—»

«No problem. We all get hungry whether we like it or not, and a man's got to eat. I'm not forcing myself to eat on your account. So let's go have a good meal somewhere and talk about old times. Haven't seen you in ages. I really want to see you. I hope I'm not imposing. Or am I?»

«C'mon, I'm the one who wanted to talk to you.»

«Well, then, I'll swing by and pick you up. Where are

you?»

I told him where my apartment building was.

«Not so far from here. Maybe twenty minutes. So get yourself ready to go. I don't know about you, but I'm starving.»

I'd hop to it, I said, and hung up. Old times?

What old times could Gotanda possibly have to talk about? We weren't especially close back then. He was the bright boy of the class, I was a nobody. It was some kind of miracle that he even remembered who I was.

I shaved and put on the classiest items in my wardrobe: an orange striped shirt and Calvin Klein tweed jacket, an Armani knit tie (a birthday present from a former girlfriend), just-washed jeans, and brand-new Yamaha tennis shoes. Not that he'd ever think this was classy. I'd never eaten with a movie star before. What was one supposed to wear anyway?

Twenty minutes later on the dot, my doorbell rang. It was Gotanda's chauffeur, who politely informed me that Gotanda was downstairs. In a metallic silver Mercedes the size and shape of a motorboat. The glass was also silvered so you couldn't see in. The chauffeur opened the door with a smart, professional snap of the wrist and I got in. And there was Gotanda.

«Who-oa, been a while, eh?» he flashed me his smile. He didn't shake my hand, and I guess I was glad.

«Yeah, it has, hasn't it?» I said.

He wore a dark blue windbreaker over a V-neck sweater and faded cream corduroy slacks. Old Asics jogging shoes. Impeccable. Perfectly ordinary clothes, but the way he wore them was perfect. He gave my outfit a once-over and offered, « Tres chic .»

«Thanks,» I said.

«Just like a movie star.» No irony, just kidding. We both laughed. Which let us relax.

I sized up the interior of the car.

«Not bad, eh?» he said. «The agency lets me use it when­ever I want. Complete with driver. This way there're no acci­dents, no drunken driving. Safety first. They're happy, I'm happy.»

«Makes sense,» I said.

«But if it were up to me, I would never drive this baby. I don't like cars this big.»

«Porsche?»

«Maserati.»

«I like cars even smaller,» I said.

«Civic?»

«Subaru.»

«Subaru,» he repeated, nodding. «You know, the first car I ever bought was a Subaru. With the money I made on my first picture, I bought a used Subaru. Boy, I loved that car. I used to drive it to the studio when I had my second support­ing role. And someone got on my case right away. Kid, if you want to be a star, you can't drive a Subaru . What a busi­ness. So I traded it in. But it was a great car. Dependable. Cheap. Really terrific.»