Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«How do you slice bread?»

«Bread?» He thought it over a second, as if he didn't know what I was talking about. Then it dawned on him. «Oh, slicing bread? Why sure, that's a reasonable question. It's not so hard. I use one hand, of course, but I don't hold the knife the usual way. I'd be useless if I did that. The trick is to keep the bread in place with your fingers while you move the blade. Like this.»

Dick demonstrated with his hand, but for the life of me I couldn't imagine how it would actually work. Yet I'd seen his handiwork. His slices were cleaner than most people with two hands could cut.

«Works perfectly well,» he declared with a smile. «Most things I can manage with one hand. I can't clap, but I can do push-ups. Chin-ups too. It takes practice, but it's not impos­sible. How did you think I sliced bread?»

«I don't know, maybe with your feet?»

That drew a laugh from him. «Clever,» he said. «I'll have to write a poem about that. The one-armed poet making sandwiches with his feet. Very clever.»

I didn't know whether to agree or not.

A little ways down the coast highway, we pulled over and bought a six-pack, then walked to a deserted area of the beach. We lay down and drank beer after beer, but it was so hot the beer didn't seem to go to my head.

The beach was very un-Hawaiian. Unsightly scrub bushes, uneven sands, somehow rocky, but at least it was off the tourist track. A few pickup trucks were parked nearby, local families hanging out, veteran surfers doing their stuff. The pithecanthropus cloud was still pinned in place, sea

gulls going around like washing-machine suds.

We talked in spurts. Dick had nothing but awe and respect for Ame. She was a true artist, he repeated several times. When he spoke about her, his Japanese trailed off into English. He said he couldn't express his feelings in Japanese.

«Since meeting her, my own thinking about poetry has changed. Her photographs—how can I put it?—strip poetry bare. I mean, here we are, choosing our words, braiding strands to cut a figure. But with her photos it's immediate, the embodiment. Out of thin air, out of light, in the gap between moments, she grabs things just like that. She gives physical presence to the depths of the human psyche. Do you know what I mean?»

Kind of, I allowed.

«Sometimes it frightens me, looking at her photos. My whole being is thrown into question. It's that overwhelming. She's a genius. Not like me and not like you . . . Forgive me, that's awfully presumptuous of me. I don't even know a thing about you.»

I shook my head. «That's okay, I understand what you're saying.»

«Genius is rare. I'm not talking about talent, or even first-rate talent. With genius, you're lucky just to encounter it, to see it right there before your eyes. And yet—,» he paused, opening his hand up in a gesture of helplessness. «And yet, in some sense, the experience can be pretty upsetting. Some­times it's like a needle piercing straight through my ego.»

I gazed out at the ocean as I listened. The surf was rough, the waves breaking hard. I buried my fingers in the hot sand, scooped some up and let it drizzle down. Over and over again. Meanwhile, the surfers caught the waves they'd been waiting for and paddled back out.

«But you know,» Dick went on, «even with my ego sacri­ficed, her talent attracts me. It makes me love her even more. Sometimes I think I've been drawn into a whirlpool. I already have a wife—she's Japanese too—and we have a child. I love them, I love them very much. Even now I love

them. But from the first time I met Ame, I was drawn right in to her. I couldn't resist her. And I knew it was happening. I knew it wasn't going to come my way again, not in this life. That's when I decided—if I go with her, there'll come a time that I'll regret it. But if I don't go with her, I'll be losing the key to my existence. Have you ever felt that way about something?»

Never, I told him.

«Odd,» Dick continued. «I'd struggled so hard to have a quiet, stable life. A wife and kid, a small house, my own work. I didn't make a lot of money, but the work was worth doing. I was writing and translating, and it was a good life, I thought. I'd lost my arm in the war, and that was pretty traumatic, but I worked hard at getting my head together and I found some peace and I was doing all right. Life was all right. And then—» He lifted his palm in a broad flat sweep. «In an instant it was lost. Just like that. I have no place to go. I have no home in Japan anymore, I have no home in America. I've been away too long.»

I wanted to offer him some words of comfort, but didn't know what to say. I continued scooping up sand and letting it fall. Dick stood up, walked over to a bush and took a leak, then walked slowly back.

«Confession time,» he said, then smiled. «I wanted to tell someone. What do you think?»

What was I supposed to think? We weren't kids. You choose who you sleep with, and whirlpool or tornado or sandstorm, you make a go of what you choose. This Dick made a good impression on me. I respected him for all the difficulties he overcame with only one arm. But this diffi­culty probably cut deeper.

«I'm afraid I'm not an artist,» I said. «So I can't really understand what it means to have an artistically inspiring relationship. It's beyond me. I'm sorry.»

Dick seemed saddened by my response and looked out to sea. I shut my eyes. And the next thing I knew, I was waking up. I'd dozed off. Maybe the beer after all. The heat made

my head feel light. My watch read half past two. I shook my head from side to side and sat up. Dick was playing with a dog at the edge of the surf. I felt bad. I hoped I hadn't offended him.

But what was I supposed to have said ?

Was I cold? Of course I could appreciate his feelings. One arm or two, poet or not, it's a tough world. We all have to live with our problems. But weren't we adults? Hadn't we come this far already? At the very least, you don't go asking impossible questions of someone you've just met. That wasn't courteous.

Cold .

Dick rang the doorbell when we got back, and Yuki opened the door with a totally unamused look on her face. Ame was seated on the sofa, cigarette at her lips, eyes peer­ing off into space as if she were in Zen meditation. Dick walked over and planted a kiss on her forehead.

«Finished talking?» he asked.

«Mmm,» she said, cigarette still in her mouth. Affirma­tive, I assumed.

«We had a nice relaxing time on the beach, looked off the edge of the earth, and caught some rays,» Dick reported.

«We have to be going,» said Yuki flatly.

My thoughts exactly. Time we were getting back to the real world of tourist-town Honolulu.

Ame stood up. «Well, come visit again. I'd like to see you,» she said, giving her daughter a tweak on the cheek.

I thanked Dick for his hospitality and had just helped Yuki into the car when Ame hooked me by the elbow. «I have something to tell you,» she said. She led me to a small playground a bit up the road. Leaning against the jungle gym, she put a cigarette to her mouth and seemed almost bothered that she'd have to strike a match to light it.

«You're a decent fellow, I can tell,» she began earnestly. «So I know I can ask a favor of you. I want you to bring the

child here as often as you can. I don't have to tell you that ] love her. She's my child. I want to see more of her. Under­stand? I want to talk with her. I want to become friends with her. I think we can become friends, good friends, even before being parent and child. So while she's here, I want to talk with her a lot.»

Ame gave me a meaningful look.

I couldn't think of an appropriate reply. But I had to say something. «That's between you and her.»