Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

I cocked my head to the side and kept silent.

«Your business card is the central piece of evidence in this case,» said Fisherman leadingly, rapping his pen on the desk.

«A business card is just a piece of paper with a name printed on it,» I said. «It's not evidence. It doesn't prove any­thing.»

«Not yet it doesn't.» He kept rapping on the desk. «The Criminal ID boys are going over the room for traces. There's an autopsy going on right now. By tomorrow we'll know a lot more. So you know what? You're going to wait with us. Meanwhile, be a good idea if you start remembering more details. It might take all night. Take your time, you'll be sur­prised at what you can remember. Why don't we start from the beginning? What did you do when you woke up in the morning?»

I looked at the clock on the wall. Ten past five. I suddenly remembered my date with Yuki.

«I need to call somebody first, okay?» I said to Fisherman. «I was supposed to meet someone at five. It was important.»

«A girl?» questioned Fisherman.

«Right.»

He held out the phone to me.

«You're going to tell me that something came up and you can't come,» Yuki said immediately, beating me to the punch.

«Something unforeseen. Really,» I explained. «I'm sorry, it's not my fault. I've been hauled down to the Akasaka police station for questioning. It'll take too long to tell you about it now, but it looks like they're going to hold onto me for a while.»

«Police? What'd you do?»

«I didn't do anything. There was a murder, and the cops wanted to talk to me. That's all.»

«What a drag,» Yuki remarked, unmoved.

«I'll say.»

«You didn't kill anyone, did you?»

«Of course I didn't kill anyone. I'm a bungler, not a mur­derer. They're just asking about, you know, circumstances. But I'm sorry I'm going to let you down. I'll make it up to you.»

«What a drag,» said Yuki, then slammed down the receiver in her inimitable fashion.

I passed the phone back to Fisherman. They had been straining to listen in, but didn't seem to come away with much. If they knew it was a thirteen-year-old girl, you can be sure their opinion of me wouldn't have shot up.

They had me go over the fine points of my movements all day yesterday. They wrote everything I said down. Where I'd gone, what I ate. I gave them the full rundown on the konnyaku yam stew I'd eaten for dinner. I explained how I shaved the bonito flakes. They didn't think I was being humorous at all. They just wrote everything down. The pages were mounting fast.

At half past six they sent out for food—salty, greasy, tasteless, terrible—which we all ate with relish. Then we had some lukewarm tea, while they smoked. Then we got back to questions and answers.

At what time had I changed into pajamas? From what page to what page of The Trial had I read? I tried to tell them what the story was about, but they didn't show much interest.

At eight o'clock I had to take a leak. Which they let me do alone, happily. I breathed deeply. Not the ideal place to breathe deeply, but at least I could breathe. Poor Mei.

When I got back, Bookish wanted to know about my soli­tary telephone caller that evening. Who was he? What did he want? What was my relationship with him? Why didn't I call him back? Why was I taking a break from work? Didn't I need to work for a living? Did I declare my taxes?

My question, which I didn't ask, was: Did they actually think all this was helpful? Maybe they had read Kafka. Were they trying to wear me down so that I'd let the truth escape? Well, they'd succeeded. I was so exhausted, so depressed, I was answering everything they asked with a straight face. I was under the mistaken impression that I'd get out of here quicker that way.

By eleven, they hadn't stopped. And they showed no sign of stopping. They'd been able to take turns, leave the room and take a nap while the other kept at me. I hadn't had that luxury. Instead, they offered me coffee. Instant coffee, with sugar and white powder mixed in.

At eleven-thirty I made my declaration: I was tired and wasn't going to answer any more questions.

«Aww, c'mon, pul-eeze ,» Bookish said lamely, drumming his fingers on the table. «Listen, we're going as fast as we can, but this investigation is very important. We have a dead lady on our hands, so I'm afraid you're going to have to stick it out.»

«I find it hard to believe these questions have any importance at all,» I said.

«Petty details serve their purpose. You'd be surprised how many cases are solved by petty details. What looks like petty isn't always petty, especially when it comes to homicide. Murder isn't petty. Sorry, but why don't you just hang around a while. To be perfectly frank, if we felt like it, we could designate you a prime witness and you'd be stuck here as long as we liked. But that would take a lot of paperwork. Bogs everything down. That's why we're being nice, asking you to go through this with us nice and easy. If you cooper­ate, we won't have to get rough.»

«If you're sleepy, there's a bunk downstairs,» Fisherman said. «Catch a few hours of shut-eye, you might remember something.»

Okay, a few hours sleep would be nice. Anywhere was better than this smoke-filled hole.

Fisherman walked me down a dark corridor, down an even darker stairwell, to another corridor. This was not bod­ing well. Indeed, the bunk room was a holding tank.

«Nice place, but can I get something with a better view?»

«All due apologies. It's our only model,» said Fisherman without expression.

«No way. I'm going home. I'll be back tomorrow.»

«Don't worry, we're not locking you in,» said Fisherman. «A cell is just a room if you don't lock the door.»

I was too tired to argue. I gave up. I stumbled in and fell onto the hard cot. Damp mattress, cheap blanket, smell of piss. Love it.

«It won't be locked,» Fisherman repeated as he shut the door with a cold, solid thunk .

I sighed and pulled the blanket over me. Someone some­where was snoring loudly. It seemed to come from far off, but it could've been in the next cell. Very disturbing.

But Mei, Mei! You were on my mind last night. I don't know if you were alive at the time, but you were on my mind. I was slowly taking off your clothes, and then we were making love. It was our little class reunion. I was so relaxed, I thought someone had loosened the main screw of this world. But now, Mei, there's nothing I can do for you. Not a damned thing. I'm sorry. We lead such tenuous lives. I don't want Gotanda to get caught up in a scandal. I don't want to ruin his image. He wouldn't get work after that. Trashy work in a trashy world of trashy images. But he trusted me, as a friend. So it's a matter of honor. But Mei, my little Goat Girl Mei, we did have a good time together. It was so won­derful. Like a fairy tale. It's no comfort to you, Mei, but I'll never forget you. Shoveling snow until dawn. Holding you tight in that world of images, making love on deductible expenses. Winnie the Pooh and Mei the Goat Girl. Stran­gling is a horrible way to die. And you didn't want to die, I know. But there's nothing I can do for you now. I don't know what's right or wrong. I'm doing all I can. This is how I live. It's the system. I bite my lip and do what I got to. Good night, Mei, my little Goat Girl. At least you'll never have to wake again. Never have to die again.

Good night, I voiced the words.

Good night, echoed my mind.

Cuck-koo, sang Mei.

The next day wasn't much different than the previous. In the morning the three of us reassembled in the interrogation room over a silent breakfast of coffee and bread. Then Bookish loaned me an electric razor, which was not exactly sharp. Since I hadn't planned ahead and brought my toothbrush, I gargled as best I could.