Haruki Murakami - Dance Dance Dance

Idiotic, yet that's what came to mind whenever I called Yumiyoshi. As time went on, the vision got more and more complex, with a whole cast of characters. Kiki and Mei and Yuki put in guest appearances. As Gotanda's fingers stroked her body, Yumiyoshi became Kiki.

«Listen, I'm just a plain, run-of-the-mill person,» Yumi­yoshi said one night. She seemed particularly drained after a long day's drudgery. «The only difference between me and anyone else is my name. Otherwise I'm the same. I'm just working behind the counter of a hotel day after day, pointlessly wearing down my life. Don't call me any more. I'm not worth the phone charges.»

«But I thought you liked hotel work.» «I do.» «But?»

«The work is fine. But sometimes, I think the hotel's going to eat me up. Just sometimes. I ask myself, if I'm here or not, what's the difference? The hotel would still be there. But not me. I'm out of the picture. That's the difference.»

«Aren't you taking this hotel business a little too seri­ously?» I asked. «The hotel's the hotel, you're you. I think about you a lot, and sometimes I think about the hotel. But never together. You're you, the hotel's the hotel.»

«You think I don't know that? I know that, but people get confused. My private life and my identity get dragged into this hotel world, and then they get swallowed up.»

«It happens to everyone. You get dragged into something and you lose track of where one thing ends and the other

begins. You're not the only one. It happens to me too,» said.

«It's not the same thing, not at all,» she declared.

«No, maybe not. But I can still sympathize, can't I? Because, I mean, there's something about you that's very attractive.»

Yumiyoshi went silent, out there in the telephone void.

«I ... I'm frightened,» said Yumiyoshi, verging into sobs. «I'm frightened of that darkness. I'm frightened that it's going to come again, soon.»

«Hey, what's going on with you? Are you all right?»

«Of course I'm all right. What did you think?» She was clearly sobbing now. «So I'm crying. Anything wrong with that?»

«No, nothing at all. I was merely concerned.»

«Can't you just be quiet?»

I did as told and Yumiyoshi cried until she couldn't cry anymore, then she hung up on me.

On May seventh, Yuki called.

«I'm back,» she announced. «Why don't we go out for a ride?»

I tooled the Maserati to the Akasaka condo. But when Yuki saw the car, she wrinkled up her face unpleasantly.

«What's with this?»

«I didn't steal it, don't worry. My car fell into an enchanted spring and what do you know? The fairy of the spring appeared looking like Isabelle Adjani and asked, 'Was that a gold Maserati or a silver BMW just now?' And I said, 'Neither, that was a copper Subaru,' and—»

«C'mon, bag the stupid jokes,» said Yuki. «I'm asking a serious question. Where the heck did you get this thing?»

«I traded temporarily with a friend. He needed to borrow the Subaru, for personal reasons.»

«A friend?»

«You may not believe it, but yes, I do have at least one friend.»

She climbed into the passenger seat, took a look around inside, then made a funny face. «Weird car,» she said.

Dopey.»

«Now that you mention it, the owner said the same thing. Although his words were slightly different.»

That shut her up.

I pointed the Maserati south, toward Shonan. Yuki wouldn't speak. I played a Steely Dan tape on low and drove with care. The weather was clear and warm, so I was wear­ing an aloha shirt and sunglasses, and Yuki had on a pink Polo shirt. It was like being in Hawaii again. In front was a livestock truck full of pigs, their red eyes peering through the slats at us. Could pigs distinguish between a Maserati and a

Subaru?

«How was it in Hawaii after I left?» I finally asked.

Yuki shrugged.

«Things go all right with your mother?»

Another shrug.

«Get your surfing down?»

Still another shrug.

«You look real healthy. Perfectly tanned. Like cafe au lait, all smooth and delicious.»

Shrug.

You couldn't say I wasn't trying. I was trying everything.

«Is it your period or something?»

The same.

So I shrugged back.

«I want to go home,» Yuki said. «Hang a U.»

«This is an expressway. Even Niki Lauda couldn't man­age a U-turn here.»

«Then exit someplace.»

I turned to her. She looked exhausted suddenly, her eyes lifeless and unfocused. Perhaps a bit pale too; it was hard to tell through the tan.

«Want to stop and take a rest?»

«I don't want a rest stop. I want to go back to Tokyo.

Now!»

We got off at the expressway at Yokohama, then headed back on going in the opposite direction. When we reached Akasaka, Yuki asked if we could go sit somewhere. So I parked the Maserati in the lot, and we walked to the grounds of Nogi Shrine and found a bench.

«I'm sorry,» said Yuki, trying to be reasonable. «I felt sick. I didn't want to say anything, so I held it in.»

«You don't have to hold it in. I know how girls get. I'm used to it.»

«It's not like that!» she shouted. «That has nothing to do with it! What got to me was riding in that car. That stupid car!»

«What's wrong with the Maserati? It's not such a bad car. It handles real well, rides pretty nice too. True, a bit too flashy for my simple tastes. Even if I could afford it, I guess I'd never buy a car like that.»

«I don't care what brand that car is. The problem's that car . Couldn't you feel it? It was icky . I was suffocating. I could feel a pressure in my chest, and in my stomach too. You didn't feel it?»

«No,» I said. «Although I got to admit, I don't feel one hundred percent comfortable in it. I thought it was because I was used to the Subaru. You know, you like what you're used to, but that's not this pressure you're talking about.»

She shook her head. «No, it's not that at all. This is some­thing real peculiar .»

«Is this more of your . . . ?» I cut myself short. I didn't want to say anything that sounded condescending.

«Yeah, it's more of that. I felt something.»

«Well, what was it? What did you sense in that car?»

Yuki shrugged yet again, but this time she was talking. «It'd be easy if I could explain, but I can't. I can't picture it. There's just this feeling—a heavy, dark, awful lump of pres­sure in me. And it's totally ...» Yuki searched for the word, hands on her lap. «It's wrong ! I don't know what's wrong.

But some thing's wrong. I couldn't breathe in there. I tried to ignore it, I thought maybe it was jet lag or something, but then it got worse and worse. I don't want to ride in that car ever again, you hear me? Get your Subaru back.»

«The Curse of the Maserati,» I intoned.

«This is no joke. You shouldn't be driving that car,» she said, very seriously.

«Okay, okay,» I gave in with a smile. «I know you're not kidding. I'll try not to drive the Maserati too much. Or maybe I should go sink the thing in the sea?»

«If possible,» said a grave Yuki.

It took Yuki about an hour to recover from this shock to her system. We sat on the bench, and she rested her chin on her hands and kept her eyes shut. People passed through the grounds. Old folks, mothers with children, foreign tourists with cameras strung around their necks. Occasionally, a salesman-type or salaryman would stop and take a breather on a bench near us. Dark suit, plastic briefcase, glassy stare. Ten minutes later, he'd be off beating the pavement again. By most standards, a normal adult should be working at this hour, and a normal kid should be in school.

«What about your mother?» I asked. «Did she come back with you?»