Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

She scooped up sand and sifted it through her fingers.

«Is there really a Sheep Man?» she asked.

«Yes, there really is,» I said. «There's a place in that hotel where he lives. A whole other hotel in that hotel. You can't see it most of the time. But it's there. That's where the Sheep Man lives, and all sorts of things connect to me through there. The Sheep Man is kind of like my caretaker, kind of like a switchboard operator. If he weren't around, I wouldn't be able to connect anymore.»

«Huh? Connect?»

«Yeah, when I'm in search of something, when I want to connect, he's the one who does it.»

«I don't get it.»

I scooped up some sand and let it run through my fingers too.

«I still don't really understand it myself. But that's how the Sheep Man explained it to me.»

«You mean, the Sheep Man's been there from way back?»

«Uh-huh, for ages. Since I was a kid. But I didn't realize he had the form of the Sheep Man until not so long ago.

Why is he around? I don't know. Maybe I needed him. Maybe because as you get older, things fall apart, so some­thing needs to help hold things together. Put the brakes a lit­tle on entropy, you know. But how do I know? The more I think about it, the stranger it seems. Stupid even.»

«You ever tell anybody else about it?»

«No. If I did, who would believe me? Who would under­stand what the hell I was talking about? And anyway, I can't explain it very well. You're the first person I've told.»

«I've never talked to anybody about this thing I have either. Mama and Papa know about it a little, but we never discussed it or anything. After what happened in school, I just clamped up about it.»

«Well, I guess I'm glad we had this talk,» I said.

«Welcome to the Spook Club,» said Yuki.

«I haven't gone to school since last summer vacation,» Yuki told me as we strolled back to the car. «It's not because I don't like to study. I just hate the place. I can't stand it. It makes me sick, physically sick. I was puking every day and every time I puked, they'd gang up on me some more. Even the teachers were picking on me.»

«Why would anyone want to pick on someone as pretty as you?»

«Kids just like to pick on other kids. And if your parents are famous, it can be even worse. Sometimes they treat you special, but with me, they treat me like trash. Anyway, I have trouble getting along with people to begin with. I'm always tense because I might have to close myself up any moment, you know. So I developed this nervous twitch, which makes me look like a duck, and they tease me about that. Kids can be really mean. You wouldn't believe how mean ...»

«It's all right,» I said, grabbing for Yuki's hand and hold­ing it. «Forget about them. If you don't feel like going to school, don't. Don't force yourself. School can be a real nightmare. I know. You have these brown-nosing idiots for classmates and these teachers who act like they own the world. Eighty percent of them are deadbeats or sadists, or both. Plus all those ridiculous rules. The whole system's designed to crush you, and so the goodie-goodies with no imagination get good grades. I bet that hasn't changed a bit.»

«Was it like that for you too?»

«Of course. I could talk a blue streak about how idiotic school is.»

«But junior high school is compulsory.»

«That's for other people to worry about, not you. It's not compulsory to go someplace where you're miserable. Not at all. You have rights too, you know.»

«And then what do I do after that? Is it always going to be like this?»

«Things sure seemed that way when I was thirteen,» I said. «But that's not how it happens. Things can work out. And if they don't, well, you can deal with that when the time comes. Get a little older, you'll fall in love. You'll buy brassieres. The whole way you look at the world will change.»

«Boy, are you a dolt!» she turned to me and shook her head in disbelief. «For your information, thirteen-year-old girls already wear bras. You're half a century behind, I swear!»

«I'm only thirty-four,» I reminded her.

«Fifty years,» said Yuki. «Time flies when you're a dolt.»

And at that, she walked to the car ahead of me.

By the time we reached Yuki's father's house near the beach, it was dusk. The house was big and old, the property thick with trees. The area exuded the old charm of a Shonan resort villa. In the grace of the spring evening all was still. Cherry trees were beginning to fill out with buds, a prelude to the magnolias. A masterful orches­tration of colors and scents whose change day to day reflected the sweep of the seasons. To think there were still places like this.

The Makimura villa was circumscribed by a high wooden fence, the gate surmounted by a small, traditional gabled roof. Only the nameplate was new. We rang the doorbell and soon a tall youth in his mid-twenties came to let us in. With short-cropped hair and a pleasant smile, he was clean-cut and amiable—not unlike Gotanda but without the refine­ment. Apparently Yuki had met him several times before. Leading us around to the back of the house, he introduced himself as Makimura's assistant.

«I act as his chauffeur, deliver his manuscripts, research, caddy, accompany him overseas, whatever,» he explained eagerly. «I am what in times past was known as a gentle­man's valet.»

«Ah,» I said.

I felt sure Yuki was about to come out with something rude, but to my surprise she said nothing. Apparently she could be discreet if she wanted to.

Makimura was practicing his golf swing in the backyard. A green net had been stretched between the trunks of two pines. The famous writer was trying to hit the target in the center with little white balls. When his club sliced through the air, you'd hear this whoosh . One of my least favorite sounds. Asthmatic and hollow. Though it was pure prejudice that I should feel that way. I hated golf.

Makimura set down his club and wiped his forehead with a towel. «Good to see you,» he said to Yuki, who pretended not to have heard. Averting her eyes, she fished a stick of gum from the pocket of her jacket and began to chew with loud cracks . Then she wadded up the wrapper and tossed it into a potted plant.

«How about a hello at least?» Makimura tried again.

«Hello,» Yuki sneered, plunging her hands into her pock­ets and wandering off.

«Boy, bring us some beer,» Makimura called out rather

curtly.

«Yes sir,» the manservant answered in a clear voice and hurried into the house. Makimura coughed and spat, wiped his forehead again. Then ignoring my presence for the time being, he squinted at the target on the green net and concen­trated. I concerned myself idly with the moss-covered rocks.

The whole scene seemed artificial—and more than a little absurd. There wasn't anything specific that seemed odd. It was more the sense that I had happened upon the stage of an elaborate parody. The author and his valet—except that Gotanda could have played either role better and with more sophistication and appeal.

«Yuki tells me you've been looking after her,» said the famous man.

«It wasn't anything special,» I said. «I merely got her onto a flight coming back from Hokkaido. More important, though, let me thank you for the help with the police.»

«Uh, oh that? No, not at all. Glad to be able to return a favor. It's so rare that my daughter asks me for anything. I was very happy to help. I hate the police. I had a run-in with them at the Diet way back in the sixties when Michiko Kanba was killed. Back in those times—»

At that he bent over from the waist and gripped his golf club, tapping its head on his foot. He turned to look me in the face, then glanced down at my feet and up at my face again.