Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«Of course,» she said.

«So if she wants to see you, certainly, I'll be happy to bring her around,» I said. «Or if you, as her parent, tell me to bring her here, I'll do that. One way or the other. But other than that, I have no say in this. Friends don't need the intervention of a third party. Friendship's a voluntary thing. At least that's the way I know it.»

Ame pondered over what I'd said.

I got started again: «You say you want to be her friend. That's very good. But before being Yuki's friend, you're her mother, whether you like it or not. Yuki's thirteen. She needs a mother. She needs someone who will love her and hold her and be with her. I know I'm way out of line shooting my mouth off like this. But Yuki doesn't need a part-time friend; she needs a situation that accepts her one hundred percent. That's what she needs first.»

«You don't understand,» said Ame.

«Exactly. I don't understand,» I said. «But let's get this straight. Yuki's still a child and she's been hurt. Someone needs to protect her. It's a lot of trouble, but somebody's got to do it. That's responsibility. Can't you understand that?»

«I'm not asking you to bring her here every day,» she said. «Just when she wants to come. I'll be calling regularly too. Because I don't want to lose that child. The way things are going, she's going to move away from me as she grows up. I understand that, so what I want are psychological ties. I want a bond. I know I probably haven't been a great mother. But I have so much to do before being a mother.

There's nothing I can do about it. The child knows that. That's why what I want is a relationship beyond mother and daughter. Maybe you could call it blood friends.»

On the drive back, we listened to the radio. We didn't talk. Occasionally I'd whistle, but otherwise silence pre­vailed. Yuki gazed out the window, face turned away from me. For fifteen minutes. But I knew something was coming. I told myself, very plainly: You'd better stop the car some­where.

So that's what I did. I pulled over into a beach parking lot. I asked Yuki how she was feeling. I asked her if she wanted something to drink. Yuki said nothing.

Two girls wearing identical swimsuits walked slowly under the palms, across my field of vision, stepping like cats balancing on a fence. Their swimsuits were a skimpy patch­work of tiny handkerchiefs that any gust of wind might eas­ily blow away. The whole scene had this wild, too-real unreality of a suppressed dream.

I looked up at the sky. A mother wants to make friends with her daughter. The daughter wants a mother more than a friend. Ships passing in broad daylight. Mother has a boyfriend. A homeless, one-armed poet. Father also has a boyfriend. A gay Boy Friday. What does the daughter have?

Ten minutes later it began. Soft sobs at first, but then the dam burst. Her hands neatly folded in her lap, her nose buried in my shoulder, her slim body trembling. Cry, go ahead and cry . If I were in your position I'd cry too . You better believe I'd cry .

I put my arm around her. And she cried. She cried until my shirt sleeve was sopping. She cried and cried and cried.

Two policemen in sunglasses crossed the parking lot flashing revolvers. A German shepherd wandered by, pant­ing in the heat. Palm trees swayed. A huge Samoan climbed out of a pickup truck and walked his girlfriend to the beach. The radio was playing.

«Don't ever call me Princess again,» she said, head still resting in my shoulder.

«Did I do that?» I asked.

«Yes, you did.»

«I don't remember.»

«Driving back from Tsujido, that night. Don't say it again.»

«I won't. I promise I won't. I swear on Boy George and Duran Duran. Never, never, never again.»

«That's what Mama always calls me. Princess .»

«I won't call you that again.»

«Mama, she's always hurting me. She's just got no idea. And yet she loves me. I know she does.»

«Yes, she does.»

«So what am I supposed to do?»

«The only thing you can. Grow up.»

«I don't want to.»

«No other way,» I said. «Everyone does, like it or not. People get older. That's how they deal with it. They deal with it till the day they die. It's always been this way. Always will be. It's not just you.»

She looked up at me, her face streaked with tears. «Don't you believe in comforting people?»

«I was comforting you.»

She brushed my arm from her shoulder and took a tissue from her bag. «There's something really abnormal about you, you know,» she said.

We went back to the hotel. We swam. We showered. We went to the supermarket and bought fixings for dinner. We grilled the steak with onions and soy sauce, we tossed a salad, we had miso soup with tofu and scallions. A pleasant supper. Yuki even had half a glass of California wine.

«You're not such a bad cook,» Yuki said.

«No, not true. I just put my heart into it. That's the dif­ference. It's a question of attitude. If you really work at

something, you can do it, up to a point. If you really work at being happy, you can do it, up to a point.»

«But anything more than that, you can't.»

«Anything more than that is luck,» I said.

«You really know how to depress people, don't you? Is that what you call being adult?»

We washed the dishes, then went out walking on Kalakaua Avenue as the lights were blinking on. We cri­tiqued the merchandise of different offbeat shops, eyed the outfits of the passersby, took a rest stop at the crowded Royal Hawaiian Hotel garden bar. I got my requisite pina colada; Yuki asked for fruit punch. I thought of Dick North and how he would hate the noisy city night. I didn't mind it so much myself.

«What do you think of my mother?» Yuki asked when

our drinks arrived.

«Honestly, I don't know what to think,» I said after a moment. «It takes me a while to consider everything and pass judgment. Afraid I'm not very bright.»

«But she did get you a little mad, right?»

«Oh yeah?»

«It was all over your face,» said Yuki.

«Maybe so,» I said, taking a sip and looking out on the night sea. «I guess I did get a little annoyed.»

«At what?»

«At the total lack of responsibility of the people who should be looking after you. But what's the use? Who am I to get mad? As if it does any good.»

Yuki nibbled at a pretzel from a dish on the table. «I guess nobody knows what to do. They want to do some­thing, but they don't know how.»

«Nobody seems to know how.»

«And you do?»

«I'm waiting for hints to take shape, then I'll know what

action to take.»

Yuki fingered the neck of her T-shirt. «I don't get it,» she said.

«All you have to do is wait,» I explained. «Sit tight and wait for the right moment. Not try to change anything by force, just watch the drift of things. Make an effort to cast a fair eye on everything. If you do that, you just naturally know what to do. But everyone's always too busy. They're too tal­ented, their schedules are too full. They're too interested in themselves to think about what's fair.»

Yuki planted an elbow on the table, then swept the pret­zel crumbs from the tablecloth. A retired couple in matching aloha shirt and muumuu at the next table sipped out of a big, brash tropical drink. They looked so happy. In the torch-lit courtyard, a woman was playing the electric piano. Her singing was less than wonderful, but two or three pairs of hands clapped when her vocal stylings were over. And then Yuki grabbed my pina colada and took a quick sip.

«Yum,» she exclaimed.

«Two votes yum,» I said. «Motion passed.»

Yuki stared at me. «What is with you? I can't figure you out. One minute you're Mister Cool, the next you're bonkers from the toes up.»