Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«—when a man knew what was right and what wasn't right,» said Hiraku Makimura.

I nodded without much conviction.

«You play golf?»

«I'm afraid not,» I said.

«You dislike golf?»

«I don't like it or dislike it. I've never played.»

He laughed. «There's no such thing as not liking or dislik­ing golf. People who've never played golf hate golf. That's the way it is. So be honest with me.»

«Okay, I don't like golf,» I said.

«Why not?»

«I guess it strikes me as silly. The overblown gear, the cute carts, the flags and the pompous clothes and shoes. The look in the eyes, the way ears prick up when you crouch down to read the turf. Little things like that bother me.»

«The way ears prick up?»

«Just something I've observed. It doesn't mean anything. But there's something about golf that doesn't sit well with me,» I answered, summing up.

Makimura stared at me blankly.

«Is there something wrong with you, son?»

«Not at all,» I said. «I'm perfectly normal. I guess my jokes aren't very funny.»

Before long, the manservant brought out beer on a tray with two glasses. He set the tray down, poured for us, then quickly disappeared.

«Cheers,» said Makimura, raising his glass.

«Cheers,» I said, doing the same.

I couldn't quite place Makimura's age, but he had to be at least in his mid-forties. He wasn't tall, but his solid frame made him seem like a large man. Broad-chested, thick arms and neck. His neck was thick. If it were trimmer, he could have passed for a sportsman, as opposed to someone with years of dissipated living. I remembered photos of a young, slender Makimura with a piercing gaze. He hadn't been par­ticularly handsome, but he had presence, which he still had. How many years ago had it been? Fifteen? Sixteen? Today, his hair was short, peppered with gray. He was well-tanned and wore a wine-red Lacoste shirt, which couldn't be but­toned around the neck.

«I hear you are a writer,» said Makimura.

«Not a real writer,» I said. «I produce fill on demand. Negligible stuff, based on how many words they need. Somebody's got to do it, and I figure it might as well be me. I'll spare you my spiel about shoveling snow.»

«Shoveling snow, huh?» repeated Makimura, glancing over at the golf clubs he'd set aside. «Clever notion.»

«Pleased you think so,» I said.

«Well, you like writing?»

«I can't say I like or dislike it. I'm proficient at it, or should I say efficient? I've got the knack, the know-how, the stance, the punch, all that. I don't mind that aspect.»

«Uh-huh.»

«If the level of the job is low enough, it's very simple any­way.»

«Hmm,» he mused, pausing several seconds. «You think up that phrase, 'shoveling snow'?»

«I did,» I said.

«Mind if I use it somewhere? It's an interesting expres­sion.»

«Go right ahead. I didn't take out a copyright on it.»

«It's exactly the way I feel sometimes,» said Makimura, fingering his earlobe. «That it doesn't amount to a hill of beans. It didn't used to be that way. The world was smaller, you could get a handle on things, you knew—or thought you knew—what you were doing. You knew what people wanted. The media wasn't this huge, vast thing.»

He drained his glass, then poured us two more glasses. I declined, said I was driving, but he ignored me.

«But not now. There's no justice. No one cares. People do whatever they have to do to survive. Shoveling snow. Just like you say,» he said, eyeing the green net stretched between the tree trunks. Thirty or forty white golf balls lay on the grass.

Makimura seemed to be thinking of what to say next. That took time. Not that it concerned him, he was used to people waiting on his every word. I decided to do the same. He kept pulling at his earlobe.

«My daughter's taken to you,» Makimura began again, finally. «And she doesn't take to just anyone. Or rather, she doesn't take to almost everyone. She hardly says a word to me. She doesn't say much to her mother either, but at least she respects her. She's got no respect for me. None whatso­ever. She thinks I'm a fool. She hasn't got any friends. She doesn't go to school, she just stays in her room alone, listen­ing to that noise she calls music. She's got problems with people. But for some reason, you, she takes to you. I don't know why.»

«Me either.»

«Maybe you're a kindred spirit?»

«Maybe.»

«Tell me, what do you think of Yuki?»

This was starting to feel like a job interview. «Yuki's thir­teen, a terrible age,» I answered straightforwardly. «And from what I can see, her home environment's a disaster. No one looks after her. No one takes responsibility for her. No one talks to her. She's lonely and she's hurt. She's got two famous parents. She's too beautiful for her own good. And she's acutely sensitive to everything around her. That's a pretty heavy burden for a thirteen-year-old girl to bear.»

«And no one's giving her proper attention.»

«That's what I think.»

He heaved a long sigh. He let go of his ear and stared at his fingers. «I think you're right, absolutely right. But I can't do a thing about it. When her mother and I divorced, I signed papers that said I would lay off Yuki. I can't get around that. I wasn't the most faithful husband at the time, so I wasn't in any position to contest it. In fact, I'm sup­posed to get Ame's permission even before seeing Yuki like this. And the other thing is, like I said before, Yuki doesn't have a whole lot of respect for me. So I'm in a double bind. But I'd do anything for her if I could.»

He turned his gaze back toward the green net. Evening was gathering, darker and deeper.

«Still, things can't continue the way they've been going,» I said. «You know that her mother flew off to Kathmandu and it was three days before she remembered that Yuki was still in that hotel in Hokkaido? Three days! And after I brought Yuki back to Tokyo, she stayed in that apartment and didn't go anywhere for days. As far as I know, all she did was listen to rock and eat junk food. I hate to sound wholesome and middle-class, but this isn't healthy.»

«I'm not arguing. What you say is one hundred percent correct,» said Makimura. «No, make that two hundred per­cent. That's why I wanted to talk to you. Why I had you come all the way down here.»

I had an ominous feeling. The horses were dead. The Indi­ans had stopped beating their drums. It was too quiet. I scratched my temple.

«I was wondering,» he began cautiously, «if you wouldn't like to look after Yuki. Nothing formal or anything like that. Just two or three hours a day. Spend time with her, make sure she's all right and eating reasonable meals. That's all. I'll pay you for your time. You can think of it as tutoring without having to teach. I don't know how much you make, but I can guarantee you something close to that. The rest of the time you can do as you like. That's not such a bad deal, is it? I've already talked to her mother about it. She's in Hawaii now, and she agreed that it was a good idea. Even if it doesn't look that way, she has Yuki's best interests at heart, really. She's just . . . different. She's brilliant, but sometimes her head's off in the stratosphere. She forgets about people and things around her. She even has trouble with arithmetic.»

«Right,» I said, smiling without much conviction, «but what Yuki needs more than anything else is a parent's love—you know, completely unconditional love. I'm not her parent and I can't give her that. She also needs friends her own age. Which leads me to another thing: I'm a man, and I'm too old. A thirteen-year-old girl is already a woman in some ways. Yuki's very pretty and emotionally unstable. Are you going to put a girl like that in the care of some guy out of nowhere? What do you know about me? I was just hauled in by the cops in connection with a homicide. What if I was the murderer?»