Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

her neck bones.

«There is no problem. I mean, the only problem is, I don't have unshakable confidence in myself as a mother. So I don't have it in me to stand up for her like that. If you lack confi­dence, you give in. Deep down, you worry that the idea of not going to school is socially wrong.»

Socially wrong ? «I can't make any reassurances, but who knows what's going to be right or what's going to be wrong? No one can read the future. The results could be devastating. But that could happen either way. I think if you showed the girl that you're really trying—as a mother or as a friend—to make things work with her, and if you showed her some respect, then she'd be sharp enough to pick up on it and do the rest for herself.»

Ame stood there, hands in the pockets of her shorts, and was quiet. Then she said, «You really understand how the child feels, don't you? How come?»

Because I wasn't always on another planet, I felt like telling her. But I didn't.

Ame then said she wanted to give me something as an expression of her appreciation. I told her I'd already received more than enough from her former husband.

«But I want to. He's him and I'm me. And I want to thank you. And if I don't now, I'll forget to.» «I'd be quite happy if you forgot,» I joked. We sat down on a bench, and Ame pulled out a pack of Salems from her shirt pocket. She lit up, inhaled, exhaled. Then she let the thing turn to ash between her fingers.

Meanwhile, I listened to the birds singing and watched the gardeners whirring about in their carts. The sky was begin­ning to clear, though I did hear the faint report of thunder in the distance. Strong sunlight was breaking through thick gray cloud cover. In her sunglasses and short sleeves, Ame seemed oblivious to the glare and heat, although several trails of sweat had stained the neck of her shirt. Maybe it wasn't the sun. Maybe it was concentration, or mental diffu­sion. Ten minutes went by, apparently not registering with her. The passage of time was not a practical component in her life. Or if it was, it wasn't high on her list of priorities. It was different for me. I had a plane to catch.

«I have to be going,» I said, glancing at my watch. «I've got to return the car before I check in.»

She made a vague effort to refocus her eyes on me. A look I occasionally noted in Yuki. Like mother, like daughter, after all. «Ah, yes, the time. I hadn't noticed,» said Ame. «Sorry.»

We got up from the bench and walked back to the cot­tage.

They all came outside to see me off. I told Yuki to cut out the junk food, but figured Dick North would see to that. Lined up in the rearview mirror as I pulled away, the three of them made a curious sight. Dick waving his one arm on high; Ame staring ahead blankly, arms folded across her chest; Yuki looking off to the side and kicking a pebble. The remnant of a family in a makeshift corner of an imperfect universe. How had I ever gotten involved with them? A left-hand turn of the wheel and they were gone from sight. For the first time in ages I was alone.

Back at the Shibuya apartment, I went through my mail and messages. Nothing, of course, but petty work-related matters. How's that piece for the next issue coming along? Where the hell did you disappear to? Can you take on this new project? I returned nobody's call. Faster, simpler to get on with the work at hand.

But first, a phone call to Makimura. Friday picked up and promptly turned me over to the big man. I gave him a brief rundown of the trip, saying that Hawaii seemed to be a good breather for Yuki.

«Good,» he said. «Many thanks for everything. I'll give Ame a call tomorrow. Did the money hold out, by the way?»

«With lots to spare.»

«Well, go ahead and use it up. It's yours.»

«I can't do that,» I said. «Oh yes, I've been meaning to ask you about your little present.»

«Oh, that,» he said, making light of it.

«How did you arrange that?»

«Through channels. I trust you didn't stay up all night playing cards, eh?»

«No, I don't mean that. I want to know how you could buy me a woman in Honolulu all the way from Tokyo. I'm just curious how something like that is done.»

Makimura was quiet, sizing up the extent of my curiosity.

«Well,» he began, «it's like international flower delivery. I call the organization in Tokyo and tell them I want a girl sent to you, at such-and-such a place, at such-and-such a time. Then Tokyo contacts its affiliated Honolulu organiza­tion and they send the girl. I pay Tokyo. Tokyo takes a com­mission and wires the rest to Honolulu. Honolulu takes its commission and what's left goes to the girl. Convenient, eh? All kinds of systems in the modern world.»

«Sure seems that way,» I said. International flower deliv­ery.

«Very convenient. It costs you, but you save on time and energy. I think they call it worldwide sex-o-grams. They're safe, too. No run-ins with violent pimps. Plus you can write it off as expenses.»

«That so?» I said, nodding to myself. «I guess you couldn't give me the number to this organization?»

«Sorry, no go. It's absolutely confidential. Members only, very exclusive. You need glamour and money and social standing. You'd never pass. I mean, forget it. Listen, I'm already talking too much. I told you this much out of the kindness of my heart.»

I thanked him for it.

«Well, was she good?» he asked.

«Yes, quite good,» I admitted.

«Glad to hear it. I asked them to send you the best. What was her name?»

«June.»

«June, eh? Was she white?»

«No, Southeast Asian.»

«I'll have to check her out next time,» he said.

There wasn't much more to say, so I thanked him again and hung up.

Next, I rang Gotanda and got his answering machine. I left a message saying I was back and would appreciate a call. By then it was already getting late in the day, so I hopped in the Subaru and drove to Aoyama to do some shopping before the stores closed. More pedigreed vegetables, the latest shipment fresh from Kinokuniya's own pedigreed veg­etable farms. Somewhere in the remote mountains of Nagano, pristine acres surrounded by barbed wire. Watch-tower, guards with machine guns. A prison camp like in The Great Escape . Rows of lettuce and celery whipped into shape through unimaginably grueling supravegetable train­ing. What a way to get your fiber.

No message from Gotanda when I got back.

The following morning, after a quick breakfast at Dunkin' Donuts, I headed to the library and combed through the last month's newspapers. Checking if there'd been a breakthrough in the investigation of Mei's death. I read the Asahi and Mainichi and Yomiuri with extreme care, but found only election results and a statement by Revchenko and a big piece on delinquency in the schools and how for reasons of «musical impropriety» the White House had canceled a command performance by the Beach Boys. Anyway, not one line about the case.

I then read through back issues of various weekly maga­zines. And there it was: «Naked Beauty Found Strangled in Akasaka Hotel.» A sensationalized, one-page article on Mei. Instead of a photograph, there was a sketch of the corpse by a specialist in criminal art. Next best thing if you didn't have the bloody photo itself. True, the sketch did look like Mei, but then I knew who it was supposed to be. Could anyone else have recognized her? No, Mei had been warm and ani­mated. Full of hopes, full of illusions. She'd been gentle and smooth, fantastic, shoveling her sensual snow. It was the rea­son we could connect so well, could share those illusions. Cuck-koo . She was all innocence.

This lousy sketch made it cheap and dirty. I shook my head. I shut my eyes and sighed slowly. Yet that line draw­ing, better than any morgue photograph, hammered home the fact that Mei was dead. Extremely, irrevocably dead. She was gone. Her life had been sucked away into black nothing­ness.