Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«It's a dirty world,» I said.

«Isn't it, though,» said Gotanda. «Dirty to the core.»

«Two votes, dirty.»

«Say what?»

«Two votes for dirty, motion adopted.»

He nodded, then smiled sadly. «Two votes for dirty. No one can be bothered to think about a murder victim. Every­one's busy looking out for Number One,» he said. «Myself

included.»

I went into the kitchen to replenish the ice, bringing out

crackers and cheese.

«I want to ask you a favor,» I said, sitting down. «Could you call up the organization and ask them something for

me?»

He pinched his earlobe. «What do you want to know? Anything to do with this case is out of the question. They'd never crack.»

«Completely unrelated. I want to know about a call girl I

met in Honolulu. I've heard a girl overseas could be arranged through the club.»

«Who told you that?»

«Someone with no name. I'm willing to bet that the orga­nization this guy was talking about is the same club we're talking about. Because you got to be rich and famous to join. Neither of which I begin to approach, or so I was told.»

Gotanda smiled. «Yeah, I think I may have heard about a service like that. One phone call does the trick. I haven't had the pleasure, but it's probably the same setup. So, what about that hooker in Honolulu?»

«I just want to know if the club has a Southeast Asian woman named June working for them.»

Gotanda thought about this, but didn't ask anything more. He jotted down the name in his datebook.

«June what?»

«Gimme a break. She's a call girl,» I said. «It's just June.»

«Got it. I'll ring the place up tomorrow.»

«Thanks. I owe you,» I said.

«Forget it. After what you've done for me, this is a pit­tance.» He winked and gave me a thumbs-up. «You go to Hawaii alone, by the way?»

«Who goes to Hawaii alone? I went with a girl. She's only thirteen, though.»

«You slept with a thirteen-year-old girl?»

«What do you think I am? The kid doesn't even wear a bra yet.»

«Then why'd you go with her?»

«To teach her table manners, interpret the mysteries of the sex drive, bad-mouth Boy George, go see E . T . You know, the usual.»

Gotanda gave me a long look. Then he skewed his lips into a smile. «You really are a little odd, you know?»

Now everyone seemed to think so. Motion passed by unanimous vote.

Gotanda drank some whiskey and nibbled on a cracker.

«I saw my ex-wife a couple of times while you were away,» he said. «We're getting along pretty well. Strange to say, but sleeping with your ex-wife can be fun.» «I guess.»

«Why don't you try seeing your ex-wife?» «No way. She's about to get married. Didn't I tell you?» He shook his head. «Didn't know. Well, too bad.» «No, it's better this way,» I said and I meant it. «But what about your ex?»

He shook his head again. «It's hopeless. No other way to put it. Hopeless. A dead end. You know, we make better love than we ever have. We don't have to say a word. We understand each other. It's better than when we were mar­ried. We love each other, if you want to know. But it can't go on forever like this, meeting in love hotels. I wish we didn't have to hide, but if her family finds out, they'll make my life miserable. As if they haven't already. If it's between me or them, she'll pick them every time. I lose whichever way I turn. . . . God, the things I would give for a normal life with her.» Gotanda swirled the ice in his glass, around and around. «Funny isn't it? I can get almost anything I want. Except the one thing I want the most.»

«That's how it is,» I said. «But I never could get every­thing I wanted, so I can't really talk.»

«No, you've got it wrong,» said Gotanda. «You never wanted things to begin with. For instance, would you ever want a Maserati or a condo in Azabu?»

«Well, if somebody forced them on me, . . . But I guess I can live without them. My little apartment and my trusty Subaru satisfy me all right. Well, maybe satisfy is an over­statement. But they suit me all right, they're easy to manage, they're not dis satisfying anyway. But who knows? Maybe there'll come a time when I need those things.»

«No, you're wrong again. That's not what need is. This stuff isn't natural. It's manufactured. Take that place where I live. A roof over your head is the point, not what fancy part of town it's in. But the idiots at the agency say—Itabashi or

Kameido or Nakano Toritsukasei? No status. You big star, you live Azabu. The next thing I know, they've stuck me in that ridiculous condo. What bullshit! What the hell is so great about Azabu? A bunch of rip-off restaurants run by fashion designers and that eyesore called Tokyo Tower and all those crazed women wandering around all night. The same thing with the goddamn Maserati. Who the hell drives a Maserati in Tokyo? It's such bullshit! Subaru or Bluebird or Corona? Nope. Big star no get caught dead in anything but Maserati. The only saving grace of that car is that it's not new; they got it off some enka singer.»

He poured some whiskey over melted ice, took a sip, frowned.

«That's my world. Azabu, European sports car, first-class. Stupid, meaningless, idiotic bullshit. How did all this . . . this . . . this total nonsense get started? Well, it's very, very sim­ple. You just repeat the message and repeat the message and repeat the message. You pound that baby in. Until every­body believes it. Like a mantra. Azabu, BMW, Rolex, Azabu, BMW, Rolex, Azabu, BMW, Rolex, Azabu, . . .

«That's how you get those poor suckers who actually believe the bullshit. But if they believe that, they're exactly like everybody else. They're blind; they got zero imagination. I'm fed up with it. I'm fed up with this life they have me liv­ing. I'm their life-size dress-up doll. Sewed together with loans and mortgages. But who wants to hear this grief? After all, I live in a jet-stream condo in Azabu, I drive a Maserati, I have this Patek Philippe watch—a step up from Rolex, don't you know? And I can sleep with a high-class call girl anytime I feel like it. I'm the envy of the whole goddamn town. I want you to know I didn't ask for any of it. But the worst thing is—boy, this must be getting boring—as long as I keep living like this, I can't get what I really want.»

«Like, for instance, love?» I said.

«Yeah, like, for instance, love. And tranquillity. And a healthy family. And a simple life,» he ran down the list. Then he placed both hands together before his face. «Look

at me, I had a world of possibilities, I had opportunities. But now I'm a puppet. I can get almost any woman I want. Yet the one woman I really want...»

Gotanda was getting good and drunk. It didn't show on him, but he sure was letting it all hang out. Which I could appreciate, absolutely, this urge to drink himself silly. We'd been going for almost four hours like this. Gotanda asked if he should get out of here, but I told him I wasn't doing any­thing special, same as always.

«Sorry to force myself on you,» he said. «I don't have anyone else to talk to, to tell you the truth. If I told someone that deep down I'm a Subaru man, they'd think I was stark raving mad, they'd cart me off to a shrink. Of course, it's in fashion, you know, going to a shrink. Amazing bullshit. A show-business shrink is like a vomit clean-up specialist.» He closed his eyes. «Seems like I came here just to bitch.» «You've said 'bullshit' at least twenty times.» «Have I?»

«Go ahead, blow it off, if that's what you want.» «No, enough of this. I'm sorry to make you listen to this garbage. It's just that I'm surrounded by all this steaming shit. Makes me want to puke.» «Then go ahead and puke.»