Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

I placed both hands on the desk and closed my eyes, thinking of the snow falling in Sapporo. The Dolphin Hotel and my receptionist friend with glasses. How was she getting along? Standing behind the counter, flashing that profes­sional smile of hers? I wanted to call her up this very second. Tell her some stupid joke. But I didn't even know her name. I didn't even know her name .

She sure was cute. Especially when she was working hard. Imbued with that indefinable hotel spirit. She loved her work. Not me. I never once enjoyed mine. I do good work, but I have never loved my work. Away from her work, she was vulnerable, uncertain, fragile. I could have slept with her if I'd felt like it. But I didn't.

I want to talk to her again.

Before someone killed her too.

Before she disappeared.

The two detectives came back into the room to find me still lost in the mildew. They both stood. «You can go home now,» Fisherman told me, expres­sionless. «Thanks for your cooperation.»

«No more questions. You're done,» Bookish added his comments.

«Circumstances have changed,» Fisherman said. «We can't keep you here any longer. You're free to go. Thank you again.»

I got up from my chair and pulled on my jacket, which reeked of cigarette smoke. I didn't have a clue what had hap­pened, but I was happy to get the hell out of there. Bookish accompanied me to the entrance.

«Listen, we knew you were clean last night,» he said. «We got the results from the coroner and the lab. You were clean. Absolutely clean. But you're hiding something. You're biting your tongue. You're not so hard to read. That's why we figured we'd hold you, until you spit it out. You know who that woman is. You just don't want to tell us. For some reason. You know, that's not playing ball. We're not going to forget that.»

«Forgive me, but I don't know what you're talking about,» I said.

«We might call you in again,» he said, digging into his cuticle with a matchstick. «And if we do, you can be sure we'll work you over good. We'll be so on top of things that lawyer of yours won't be able to do a damn thing.»

«Lawyer?» I asked, all innocence.

But by then he'd disappeared into the building. I grabbed a taxi back home.

I ran a bath and took a nice, long soak. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, shaved. I couldn't get rid of the smoke on me. What a hole that place was!

Refreshed, I boiled some cauliflower, which I ate along with a beer. I put on Arthur Prysock backed by the Count Basie Orchestra. An unabashedly gorgeous record. Bought sixteen years before. Once upon a time.

After that I slept. Just enough sleep to say I'd been some­where and back, maybe thirty minutes. When I woke up, it was one in the afternoon. Still time in the day. I packed my gear, threw it into the Subaru, and drove to the Sendagaya Pool. After an hour's swim I was almost feeling human again. And I was hungry.

I called Yuki. When I reported that I'd been released, she gave me a cool that's nice . As for food, she'd eaten only two cream puffs all day, sticking to her junk-ridden regimen. If I came over now, though, she'd be ready and waiting, and probably pleased.

I tooled the Subaru through the outer gardens of Meiji Shrine, down the tree-lined avenue before the art museum, and turned at Aoyama-Itchome for Nogi Shrine. Every day was getting more and more like spring. During the two days I'd spent inside the Akasaka police station, the breeze had become more placid, the leaves greener, the sunlight fuller and softer. Even the noises of the city sounded as pleasant as Art Farmer's fliigelhorn. All was right with the world and I was hungry. The pressure lodged behind my temples had magically vanished.

Yuki was wearing a David Bowie sweatshirt under a brown leather jacket. Her canvas shoulder bag was a patchwork of Stray Cats and Steely Dan and Culture Club but­tons. Strange combination, but who was I to say?

«Have fun with the cops?» asked Yuki.

«Just awful,» I said. «Ranks up there with Boy George's singing.»

«Oh,» she remarked, unimpressed with my cleverness.

«Remind me to buy you an Elvis button for your collec­tion,» I said, pointing at her bag.

«What a nerd,» she said. Such a rich vocabulary.

We went to a restaurant where we each had a roast beef sandwich on whole wheat and a salad. I made her drink a glass of wholesome milk too. I skipped the milk for myself, got coffee instead. The meat was tender and alive with horseradish. Very satisfying. This was a meal.

«Well then, where to from here?» I asked Yuki.

«Tsujido,» she said without hesitation.

«Okay by me,» I said. «To Tsujido we shall go. But what's there to see in Tsujido?»

«Papa lives there,» said Yuki. «He says he wants to meet you.»

«Me?»

«Yeah, you. Don't worry, he's not such a bad guy.»

I sipped my second cup of coffee. «You know, I never said he was a bad guy. Anyway, why would he want to meet me? You told him about me?»

«Sure. I phoned him and told him how you'd helped me get back from Hokkaido and how you got picked up by the cops and might never come out. So Papa had one of his lawyer friends make inquiries about you. He's got all kinds Of connections. He's real practical that way.»

«I see,» I said. «So that's what it was.»

«He can be handy sometimes.»

«I'll say.»

«Papa said that the police had no right to hold you there like that. If you didn't want to stay there, you were free to go. Legally, that is.»

«I knew that myself,» I said.

«Why didn't you just go home then? Just up and say, I'm going. Sayonara .»

«That's a difficult question,» I said after some moments' thought. «Maybe I was punishing myself.»

«Not normal,» she said, propping up her chin.

It was late in the afternoon and the roads to Tsujido were empty. Yuki had brought a bagful of tapes with her. A com­plete travel selection, from Bob Marley's «Exodus» to Styx's «Mister Roboto.» Some were interesting, some not. Which was pretty much all you could say about the scenery on the way. It all sped past. Yuki sank into her seat silently listening to the music. She tried on the pair of sunglasses I'd left on the dashboard, and at one point she lit up a Virginia Slim. I concentrated on driving. Methodically shifting gears, eyes fixed on the road ahead, carefully checking each traffic sign.

I was jealous of Yuki. Here she was, thirteen years old, and everything, including misery, looked, if not wonderful, at least new. Music and places and people. So different from me. True, I'd been in her place before, but the world was a simpler place then. You got what you worked for, words meant something, things had beauty. But I wasn't happy. I was an impossible kid at an impossible age. I wanted to be alone, felt good being alone, but never had the chance. I was locked in these two frames, home and school. I had this crush on a girl, which I didn't know what to do about. I didn't know what love meant. I was awkward and intro­verted. I wanted to rebel against my teachers and parents, but I didn't know how. Whatever I did, I bungled. I was the exact opposite of Gotanda.

Even so, there were times that I saw freshness and beauty. I could smell the air, and I really loved rock 'n' roll. Tears were warm, and girls were beautiful, like dreams. I liked movie theaters, the darkness and intimacy, and I liked the deep, sad summer nights.

«Hey,» I said to Yuki. «Could you tell about that man in the sheepskin? Where did you meet him? And how did you know I'd met him too?»

She looked at me, placing the sunglasses back on the dashboard, then shrugged. «Okay, but first, will you answer something for me?»