Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

«Idiots all around me,» Gotanda practically spat out the words. «Bloodsuckers, fat, ugly bloodsuckers, slopping their fat asses around, feeding off the hopes and dreams of decent people. I tell myself it'd be a waste of good energy strangling them.»

«Yeah, using a baseball bat would be better. Strangling

takes too long.»

«You're right,» said Gotanda. «But strangling makes the point clearer. Instant death is too good. Why waste kindness on them?»

«Ah, the voice of reason.»

«Honestly—,» he went on, ignoring my irony, then broke off with a sigh and brought his hands together in front of his face again. «I feel so much better.»

«Well, now that we've settled that, how about some o- chazuke ?»

« O-chazuke ? You're kidding. I'd love some o-chazuke .»

I boiled water for tea, tossed together some crumbled nori and salt-plum and wasabi horseradish, topped two bowls of rice with the mixture, and poured tea over each. O-chazuke . Yum.

«From where I sit, seems to me you don't have a bad life,» Gotanda said.

I lay back against the wall and listened to the rain. «Some parts, sure. I'm not un happy. But I'm like you. I feel like something's missing. I'm living a normal life, I suppose. I'm dancing. I know the steps, and I'm dancing. It's all right. But socially speaking, I've got nothing. I'm thirty-four, I'm not married, I don't have a regular job, I live from day to day. I can't get a public housing loan. I'm not sleeping with any­body. What am I going to be like in thirty years?»

«You'll get by.»

«Or else I won't,» I said. «Who knows? Same as every­one.»

«But with my life, I don't even have parts I enjoy.»

«Maybe not, but you look like you're doing pretty well for yourself.»

Gotanda shook his head. «Do people who're doing pretty well for themselves pour out such endless streams of grief? Do they come bother you and slosh all over you?»

«Sometimes they do,» I said. «We're talking about peo­ple, not common denominators.»

At one-thirty, Gotanda announced he was leaving.

«You can stay if you like. I've got an extra futon . I'll even make you breakfast,» I said.

«No, really, but thanks for the offer. I'm sober now, so I might as well go home,» he said. «But I've got a favor to ask first. I'm afraid you're going to think it's a little strange.»

«Fire away.»

«Would you be willing to let me borrow the Subaru for a bit? I'll trade you the Maserati for it. The Maserati is so flashy, I can't go anywhere in peace, especially when I'm try­ing to see my ex-wife.»

«Borrow the Subaru for as long as you like,» I said. «But to be honest, I don't know about taking on the Maserati. I keep my heap in a parking lot, so it could easily get banged up at night. And if I dent it or something, I'll never be able

to pay for it.»

«Don't worry about it. I don't. If anything happens, the agency will take care of it. That baby's insured up the tail pipe. Drive the thing into the sea if you feel like. Honest. They'll only buy me a Ferrari next. There's a porno writer who's got one he wants to sell.» «A Ferrari?» I said limply.

«I know what you're thinking,» he laughed. «But you can just shelve it. It's hard for you to understand, but in this debauched world of mine, you can't survive with good taste. Because a person with good taste is a twisted, poor person, a sap without money. You get sympathy, but no one thinks

better of you.»

So Gotanda drove off in my Subaru, and I pulled his Maserati into the lot. A superaggressive machine. All response and power. The slightest pressure on the accelerator and it practically left the ground.

«Easy baby, you don't have to try so hard,» I said with an affectionate pat on the dashboard. But the Maserati wasn't listening to the likes of me. Cars know their class too.

The following morning, I went to check on the Maserati. It was still there, untouched. A curious picture, seeing it parked where the Subaru usually was. I climbed inside and sank into the seat, but just couldn't get comfortable. Like waking up and finding a beautiful woman you don't know sleeping next to you. She might be great to look at, but having her there doesn't feel right. Makes you a little tense. You need time to get used to things.

In the end, I left the car alone that day. Instead, I walked, saw a movie, bought some books.

Toward evening Gotanda rang. Thanks for yesterday. Don't mention it.

«About the Honolulu connection,» he said. «I made a call to the club. And, well, yes, it is possible to reserve a woman in Hawaii from here. Modern conveniences, you know.»

«Uh-huh.»

«I also asked about this June of yours. I mentioned some­one recommending this Southeast Asian girl to me. They went and checked their files. They made a big deal about their information being confidential, but seeing as how I was such a favored customer, blah blah blah. Not something to be so proud of, let me tell you. Anyway, they did have a listing for a June in Honolulu. A Filipino girl. But she quit three months ago.»

«Three months ago?»

«That's what they said.»

I thanked him and hung up. This was going to take some hard figuring.

I went out walking again.

June quit three months ago, but I slept with her not two weeks before. She gave me her telephone number, but when I called it, nobody answered. This made my third call girl— first Kiki, then Mei, now June—who'd disappeared. All of them somehow connected to Gotanda and Makimura and me.

I stepped into a coffee shop and drew a diagram in my notebook of these personal relations of mine. It looked like a chart of the European powers before the start of World War I.

I pored over the diagram, half in admiration, half in despair. Three call girls, one too-charming-for-his-own-good actor, three artists, one budding teenage girl, and a very uptight hotel receptionist. If this was anything more than a network of casual relationships, I sure didn't see it. But it

might make a good Agatha Christie novel. By George, that's it! The Secretary did it! Only who was laughing?

And who was I kidding? I didn't have a clue. The ball of yarn tangled wherever you tried to unravel it. First there were the Kiki and Mei and Gotanda threads. Add Makimura and June. Then Kiki and June were somehow connected by the same phone number. And around and around you go.

«Hard nut to crack, eh, Watson?» I addressed the ashtray before me. The ashtray, of course, did not respond. Smart ashtray. Same went for the coffee cup and sugar bowl and the bill. They all pretended not to hear. Stupid me. I was the one running amok in these weird goings-on. I was the worn-out one. Such a wonderful spring night, and no prospect for a date.

I went home and tried calling Yumiyoshi. No luck. The early shift? Or her swim club night? I wanted to see her badly. I missed her nervous patter, her brisk movements. The way she pushed her glasses up on her nose, her serious expression when she stole into the room. I liked how she took off her blazer before sitting down beside me. I felt warm just thinking about her. I felt drawn to her. But would we ever get things straight between us?

Working behind the front desk of a hotel, going to her swim club—that gave her satisfaction. While I found plea­sure in my Subaru and my old records and eating well as I went on shoveling. That's the two of us. It might work and then again it might not. insufficient data, prognosis impos­sible. Or would I wind up hurting her too, as I did every woman I ever got involved with? Like my ex-wife said.