Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

The more I thought about Yumiyoshi, the more I felt like flying up to Sapporo to fill in the missing data. At least I could tell her how I felt. But, no, first I had to untie some critical knots. Things were half-done. I didn't want to keep dragging them around with me. A half-gray shadow would cloud my path for the rest of my days. Not entirely ideal.

The problem was Kiki. I couldn't get over the feeling that she was at the heart of it. She was trying to reach me. In my

dreams, in a movie in Sapporo, in downtown Honolulu. She kept crossing my path, trying to lead me somewhere, leave me a message. That much was clear. But nothing else. Kiki, what did you want from me?

What was I supposed to do?

I could only wait, until something showed. Same as ever. There was no point in rushing. Something was bound to happen. Something was bound to show. You had merely to wait for it to stir, up from the haze. Call it a lesson from experience.

Very well, then, I would wait.

I got together with Gotanda every few days after that. After a while, it became a habit. And each time we met, he'd apologize for keeping the Subaru so long.

«Haven't plowed the Maserati into the sea yet, have

you?» he joked.

«Sorry to say, but I haven't had time to go to the sea,» I

parried.

Gotanda and I sat at a bar drinking vodka tonics. His

pace a little faster than mine.

«I bet it would feel great, though. Plowing it into the sea,» he said, raising his glass to his lips.

«Like a cool breeze,» I said. «But then you'd only get yourself a Ferrari.»

«I'd ditch that too.»

«And after the Ferrari?»

«Hmm, who knows? But sooner or later, the insurance company's going to want a word with me.»

«Insurance company? Who gives a damn about your insurance company? You got to think big. Go for the grand sweep. This is fantasy, not one of your low-budget movies. Fantasies don't have budgets, so why be middle class about it? Go wild! Lamborghini, Porsche, Jaguar! The sky's the limit! And the ocean's big enough to swallow cars by the thousands. Let your imagination do its stuff, man.»

He laughed. «Well, it certainly lightens me up.»

«Me too, especially since it's not my car and not my imagination,» I said, then asked how things were going with his ex-wife.

He took a sip of his drink and looked out at the rain. The bar had emptied out except for us. The bartender had noth­ing to do but dust the bottles.

«Things're going okay,» he said meekly, under a whisper of a smile. «We're in love. A love affirmed and consum­mated by divorce. Romantic, isn't it?»

«Isn't it, though. I might faint.»

He chuckled.

«But it's true,» he said.

«I know,» I said.

That was the general drift of conversation each time I saw Gotanda. What we talked about was too serious to treat anything but lightly. Most of the jokes weren't terribly good, but it didn't matter. It was enough that we could joke, that there were jokes between us. We ourselves didn't know how serious we were.

Thirty-four is a difficult age. A different kind of difficult than age thirteen, but plenty difficult. Gotanda and I were both thirty-four, both beginning to acknowledge middle age. It was time we did. Readying things to keep us warm during the colder days ahead.

Gotanda put it succinctly. «Love. That's what I need.»

«I'm so touched,» I said. But the fact was, that's what I needed too.

Gotanda paused to consider what he'd said. I thought about it as well. I also thought about Yumiyoshi. How she drank all those Bloody Marys that snowy night.

«I've slept with so many women, I can't count them. You sleep with one, you've slept with them all. Hell, you go through the same motions,» said Gotanda after a while. «Love's what I want. Here I am, baring my sentimental soul

to you again. But I swear, the only woman I want to sleep with is my ex-wife.»

I snapped my fingers. «Incredible. The Word from Above. O Light Resplendent. You've got to hold a press conference. Make your I-only-want-to-sleep-with-my-wife proclamation. Everyone will be moved beyond tears. You might even receive a citation from the Prime Minister.»

«No, this is Nobel Prize material. Not something the common man can do.»

«You'll need a frock coat for the ceremony.»

«I'll buy it. Put it on my expense account.»

« Sanctus tax deductum .»

«I'll be on stage with the King of Sweden,» Gotanda went on. «I'll declare it for all the world to hear. Ladies and gen­tlemen, the only woman I want to sleep with is my wife! Waves of emotion. Storm clouds part; sun breaks through.»

«The ice cap melts, the Vikings are vanquished, the mer­maids sing.»

Ah, love. We both lapsed silent, meditating on its grandeur. I had a lot to think about. I had to make sure I picked up some vodka and tomato juice and Lea & Perrins and lemons.

«Or then again, maybe you won't receive an award,» I piped up. «Maybe they'll just take you for a pervert.»

Gotanda considered that. «Maybe. We're talking neo-sexual revolution here. The masses might rise up and tram­ple me to death,» he said. «I'd be a sexual martyr.»

«The first actor martyred to the neo-sexual revolution.'

«Martyred and never to sleep with his ex-wife again.»

Time for another drink.

If he had a spare moment, Gotanda would call and we'd go out or he'd come over to my place or I'd go over to his. The days passed. I'd resolved not to work at all. I couldn't be bothered. The world was doing very well without me. Meanwhile I was waiting.

I mailed Hiraku Makimura the balance of his money and receipts from the trip.

The next day I got a call from Boy Friday, begging me to take it all.

It was too much trouble to go through the whole back-and-forth bow-and-scrape routine, so I gave in. If it made the Master happy, who was I to argue? And before you could say «money in the bank,» Makimura had sent me a check for three hundred thousand yen. Also in the envelope was a receipt marked for services rendered—field research. I signed it, stamped it with my seal, and posted it. Back to the wonderful world of expense accounts.

I placed the check for three hundred thousand yen on my desk to appreciate 8 3/ 4% dust.

The Golden Week holidays came and went.

I called Yumiyoshi a number of times. She was always the one who determined the length of the conversation. Some­times we talked for a long time, other times she'd simply say, «Busy, got to go now,» and hang up. Or if a silence hung on the line too long, she'd cut me off without warning. But at least we talked. Exchanged data, a little at a time. And one day, she gave me her home phone number. Progress.

She went to her swim club twice a week. Which I found, to my dismay, still brought on moments of jealousy. Hand­some instructors and all. I was as bad as a high school boy and I knew it. And what was worse, I was afraid she knew it. Jealous of a swim club ? That's ridiculous . You're so immature . I was afraid she'd never want to see me again.

So whenever the subject came up, I held my tongue. Though not talking about it only inflated my paranoia. Visions of the instructor—Gotanda, of course—keeping Yumiyoshi after class for intensive one-on-one sessions. His hands supporting her chest and abdomen as she practiced the crawl. His hands caressing her breasts, easing between her thighs. But it's all right, he says.

It's all right . Don't you know ? The only woman I want to sleep with is my wife .

Then he takes Yumiyoshi's hand and puts it on his crotch. She begins to massage it. An underwater erection, like coral. Yumiyoshi is in rapture.

It's all right . Don't you know ? The only woman I want to sleep with is my wife .