Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

When I got back home, there was a message from Yuki, her voice totally disinterested. She said she'd call again around twelve. Then she slammed down the receiver. A com­mon phrasing in her body language.

I dripped some coffee, then sat down with a mug and the latest 87th Precinct adventure, something I've failed to quit for ten years now. Then a little past noon, the phone rang.

«How's it going?» It was Yuki.

«Okay.»

«What are you doing?» she asked.

«Thinking about lunch. Smoked salmon with pedigreed lettuce and razor-sharp slices of onion that have been soaked in ice water, brushed with horseradish and mustard, served on French butter rolls baked in the hot ovens of Kinokuniya. A sandwich made in heaven!»

«It sounds okay.»

«It's not okay. It's nothing less than uplifting. And if you don't believe me, you can ask your local bee. You could also ask your friendly clover. They'll tell you—it really is great.»

«What's this bee and clover stuff? What're you talking about?»

«Figure of speech.»

«You know,» said Yuki, «you ought to try growing up. I'm only thirteen, but even so I sometimes think you're kind of dumb.»

«You mean I should become more conventional? Is that what you're telling me? Is that what growing up means?»

«I want to go for a drive,» she ignored my question. «How about tonight?»

«I think I'm free,» I said.

«Well, then, be here at five in Akasaka. You remember how to get here, don't you?»

«Yeah, but don't tell me you've been alone all this time?»

«Uh-huh. Nothing's happening in Hakone. I mean, the place is on top of a mountain. Who wants to go there to be alone? More fun in town.»

«What about your mother? She hasn't returned?»

«Not that I know of. I can't keep track of her. I'm not her mother, you know. She hasn't called or anything, so maybe she's still in Kathmandu.»

«What about money?»

«I'm okay for money. I've got a cash card that I pinched from her purse. One less card, she'll never notice. I mean, if I

don't look out for myself, I'll die. Mama's such a space

cadet, as you know.»

My turn to ignore her. «You been eating healthy?» «I'm eating. What did you think? I'd die if I didn't.» «That's not what I asked. I said, are you eating healthy ?» Yuki coughed. «Let's see. First there was Kentucky Fried

Chicken, then McDonald's, then Dairy Queen, . . . And what

else?»

«I'll be there at five,» I said. «We'll go somewhere decent to eat. You can't survive on the garbage you've been putting down. An adolescent girl needs nourishment. You're at a very delicate time of life, you know. Bad diet, bad periods.» «You're an idiot,» she muttered.

«Now, if it's not too much to ask, would you give me your phone number?» «Why?»

«Because one-way communication isn't fair. You know my number, I don't know yours. You call me when you feel like it, I can't call you. It's one-sided. Besides, suppose some­thing came up suddenly, I wouldn't be able to reach you.»

She paused, muttered some more, then gave me her num­ber.

«But don't think you can change plans anytime you feel like it,» said Yuki. «Mama's so good at it already, you wouldn't stand a chance.»

«I promise. I won't change plans. Cross my heart and hope to die. You can ask the cabbage moth, you can ask the alfalfa. There's not a human alive who keeps promises better than me. But sometimes the unexpected happens. It's a big, complicated world, you know. And if it happens, don't you think it'd be nice if I could get through to you? Got it?» «Unforeseeable circumstances,» she said. «Out of the clear blue sky.» «Nice if they didn't happen,» said Yuki. «Nice if they didn't,» I echoed. But of course they did.

They showed up a little past three in the afternoon. I was in the shower when the doorbell started ring­ing. By the time I got there, it was on ring number eight. I opened up, and there stood two men.

One in his forties, one in his thirties. The older guy was tall, with a scar on his nose. A little too well-tanned for this time of the year, a deep, tried-and-true bronze of a fisher­man, not the precious color you get from the beach or ski slope. He had stiff hair, obscenely large hands, and a gray overcoat. The younger guy was short with longish hair and narrow, intense eyes. A generation ago he might have been called bookish. The fellow at the literary journal meeting who ran his hands through his hair as he declared, «Mishima's our man.» He had on a dark blue trench coat. Both guys in regulation black shoes, cheap and worn-out. The sort you wouldn't glance at twice if you saw them lying by the side of the road. Nor were the fellas the type you'd go out of your way to make friends with.

Without a word of introduction, Bookish flashed his police ID. Just like in the movies. I'd never actually seen a police ID before, but one look convinced me it was the real thing. It fit with the worn-out shoes. Something in the way he pulled it out of his pocket, he could have been selling his literary journal door-to-door.

«Akasaka precinct,» Bookish announced, and asked if I was who I was.

Uh-huh.

Fisherman stood by silently, both hands in the pockets of his overcoat, nonchalantly propping the door open with his foot. Just like in the movies. Great!

Bookish filed away his ID, then gave me the once-over. Me in bathrobe and wet hair.

«We need you to come down to headquarters for ques­tioning,» said Bookish.

«Questioning? About what?»

«Everything in due time,» he said. «We have formal pro­cedures to follow for this sort of thing, so why don't we get going right away.»

«Huh? Okay, but mind if I get into some clothes?»

«Certainly,» said Bookish flatly, without the slightest change of expression. If Gotanda played a cop, he'd do a better job. That's reality for you.

The fellas waited in the doorway while I got some clothes on and turned off switches. Then I stepped into my blue top-siders, which the two cops stared at as if they were the trendiest thing on the market.

A patrol car was parked near the entrance to my building, a uniformed cop behind the wheel. Fisherman got into the backseat, then me, then Bookish. Again, like in the movies. Bookish pulled the door shut and the car took off.

The streets were congested, but did they turn on the siren? No, they made like we were going for a ride in a taxi. Sans meter. We spent more time stopped in traffic than mov­ing, which gave everybody in all the cars and on the street plenty of opportunity to stare at me. No one uttered a word. Fisherman looked straight ahead, arms folded. Bookish looked out the window, grimacing like he was laboring over a literary exercise. The school of dark-and-stormy meta­phors. Spring as concept raged in upon us, a somber tide of longing . Its advent roused the passions of those nameless multitudes fallen between the cracks of the city, sweeping

them noiselessly toward the quicksands of futility .

I wanted to erase the whole passage from my head. What the hell was «spring as concept»? Just where were these «quicksands of futility»? I was sorry I started the whole dumb train of thought.

Shibuya was full of mindless junior high students dressed like clowns, same as ever. No passions, no quicksand.

At police headquarters, I was taken to an interrogation room upstairs. Barely three meters square with one tiny win­dow. Table, two steel office chairs, two vinyl-covered stools, clock on the wall. That was it. On the table, a telephone, a pen, ashtray, stack of folders. No vase with flowers. The gumshoes entered the room and offered me one of the steel office chairs. Fisherman sat down opposite me, Bookish stood off to the side, notepad open. Lots of silent communi­cation.