Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«So what'd you do last night?» Fisherman finally got going after a lengthy wait. Those were the first words I'd heard out of his mouth.

Last night? What was I doing? I could hardly think last night was any different from any other night. Sad but true. I told them I'd have to think about it.

«Listen,» Fisherman said, coughing, «legal rigmarole takes a long time to spit out. We're asking you a simple question: From last evening until this morning what did you do? Not so hard, is it? No harm in answering, is there?»

«I told you, I have to think about it,» I said.

«You can't remember without thinking? This was yester­day. We're not asking about last August, which maybe you don't remember either,» Fisherman sneered.

Like I told you before, I was about to say, then I reconsid­ered. I doubted they would understand a temporary memory loss. They'd probably think I had some screws loose.

«We'll wait,» said Fisherman. «Take all the time you need.» He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit up with a Bic. «Smoke?»

«No thanks,» I said. According to Brutus magazine, today's new urbanite doesn't smoke. Apparently these two guys didn't know about this, Fisherman with his Seven Stars, Bookish with his plain Hopes, chain-smoking.

«We'll give you five minutes,» said Bookish, very dead­pan. «After that you will tell us something simple, such as, where you were last night and what you were doing there.»

«Don't rush the guy. He's an intellectual,» Fisherman said to Bookish. «According to his file here, this isn't his first time talking to the law. University activist, obstruction of public offices. We have his prints. Files sent to the prosecu­tor's office. He's used to our gentle questioning. Steel-rein­forced will, it says here. He doesn't seem to like the police very well. You know, I bet he knows all about his rights, as provided for in the constitution. You think he'll be calling for his lawyer next?»

«But he came downtown with us of his own volition and we merely asked him a simple question,» Bookish said to Fisherman. «I haven't heard any talk of arrest, have you? I don't think there's any reason for him to call his lawyer, do you? Wouldn't make sense.»

«Well, if you ask me, I think it's more than an open-and-shut case of hating cops. The gentleman has a negative psy­chological reaction to anything that resembles authority. He'd rather suffer than cooperate,» Fisherman went on.

«But if he doesn't answer our questions, what can we do but wait until he answers? As soon as he answers, he can go home. No lawyer's going to come running down here just because we asked him what he was doing last night. Lawyers are busy people. An intellectual understands that.»

«Well, I suppose,» said Fisherman. «If the gentleman can grasp that principle, then we can save each other a lot of time. We're busy, he's busy. No point in wasting valuable time when we could be thinking deep thoughts. It gets tire­some. We don't want to wear ourselves out unnecessarily.»

The duo kept up their comic routine for the allotted five minutes.

«Well, it looks like time's up,» Fisherman smiled. «How about it? Did you remember anything?»

I hadn't. True, I hadn't been trying very hard. Current sit­uation aside, the fact was, I couldn't remember a thing. The block wouldn't budge. «First of all, I'd like to know what's going on,» I spoke up. «Unless you tell me what's going on, I'm not saying a thing. I don't want to say anything that may prove inopportune. Besides, it's common courtesy to explain the circumstances before asking questions. It's a breach of good manners.»

«He doesn't want to say anything that may prove inop­portune, » Bookish mocked me. «Where is our common courtesy ? We don't want to have a—what did he call it?— breach of good manners .»

«I told you the gentleman was an intellectual,» said Fish­erman. «He looks at everything slanted. He hates cops. He subscribes to Asahi Shimbun and reads Sekai .»

«I do not subscribe to newspapers and I do not read Sekai, » I broke in. Had to put my foot down somewhere. «And as long as you don't tell me why I'm here, I'm not going to feel a lot like talking. If you want to keep insulting me, go ahead. I've got as much time to sit around shooting the breeze as you guys do.»

The two detectives looked at each other.

Fisherman: «Are you telling us that if we're polite and explain these circumstances to you, you'll cooperate and give us some answers?»

Me: «Probably.»

Bookish, folding his arms and glancing high up the wall: «The guy's got a sense of humor.»

Fisherman rubbed the horizontal scar on his nose. Proba­bly a knife gash, and fairly deep, judging from how it tugged at the surrounding flesh. «Listen,» he got serious. «We're busy, and this isn't a game. We all want to finish up and go home in time to eat dinner with the family. We don't have anything against you, and we got no axes to grind. So if you'll just tell us what you did last night, there'll be no more demands. If you got a clear conscience, what's the grief in telling us? Or is it you got guilty feelings about something?»

I stared at the ashtray.

Bookish snapped his notepad shut and slipped it into his pocket. For thirty seconds, no one said a word. During which time, Fisherman lit up another Seven Stars.

«Steel-reinforced will,» said Fisherman.

«Want to call the Committee on Human Rights?» asked Bookish.

«Please,» Fisherman and his partner were at it again, «this is not a human rights issue. This is the duty of the citi­zen. It's written, right here in your favorite Statutes of Law, that citizens are obliged to cooperate to the fullest extent with police investigations. So what do you have against us officers of the law? We're good enough to ask for directions when you're lost, we're good enough to call if a robber breaks into your home, but we're not good enough to coop­erate with just a little bit. So let's try this again. Where were you last night and what were you doing?»

«I want to know what's going on,» I repeated.

Bookish blew his nose with a loud honk. Fisherman took a plastic ruler out of the desk drawer and whacked it against the palm of his hand.

«Listen, guy,» pronounced Bookish, tossing a soiled tissue into the trash, «you do realize that your position is becom­ing worse and worse?»

«This is not the sixties, you know. You can't keep carry­ing on with this antiestablishment bullshit,» said Fisherman, disgruntled. «Those days are over. You and me, we're hemmed in up to here in society. There's no such thing as establishment and antiestablishment anymore. That's passe. It's all the same big-time. The system's got everything sewed up. If you don't like it, you can sit tight and wait for an earthquake. You can go dig a hole. But getting sassy with us won't get you or us anywhere. It's a dead grind. You under­stand?»

«Okay, we're beat. And maybe we've not shown you proper respect. If that's the case, I'm sorry. I apologize.»

Bookish's turn again, notepad open again. «We've been working on another job and hardly even slept since yester­day. I haven't seen my kids in five days. And although you have no respect for me, I'm a public servant. I try to keep society safe. So when you refuse to answer a simple ques­tion, you can bet it rubs us the wrong way. And when I say things are looking worse for you, it's because the more tired we get, the worse our temper gets. An easy job ends up being not so easy after all. Of course you got rights, the law's on your side, but sometimes the law takes a long time to kick in and so it gets put in the hands of us poor suckers on duty. You get my drift?»