Харуки Мураками - First Person Singular - Stories

Her cell phone rang, and she looked at me apologetically. I motioned to her to take the call. She checked the incoming number and answered it. It seemed to be about some reservation she’d made. At a restaurant, maybe, or hotel, or air flight. Something along those lines. She talked for a while, checking her pocket planner, and then shot me a troubled look.

“I’m very sorry,” she said to me in a small voice, hand covering the speaker. “This is a weird question, I know, but what’s my name?”

I gasped, but, as casually as I could, I told her her full name. She nodded and relayed this to the person on the other end of the phone. She hung up, and apologized to me.

“I’m so sorry about that. All of a sudden I just couldn’t remember my name. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Does that happen sometimes?” I asked.

She seemed to hesitate, but finally nodded. “Yes, it’s happening a lot these days. I just can’t recall my name. Like I’ve blacked out or something.”

“Do you forget other things too? Like you can’t remember your birthday, or telephone number, or a PIN?”

She shook her head decisively. “No, not at all. I’ve always had a good memory. I know all my friends’ birthdays by heart. I haven’t forgotten anyone else’s name, not even once. But still, sometimes I can’t remember my own name. I can’t figure it out. After a couple minutes my memory comes back, but that couple of minutes is totally inconvenient, and I panic, like I’m no longer myself anymore.”

I nodded silently.

“Do you think it’s a sign of early-onset Alzheimer’s?” she asked.

I sighed. “Medically, I don’t know, but when did it start—those symptoms where you suddenly forget your name?”

She squinted and thought about it. “About a half a year ago, I think. I remember it was when I went to enjoy the cherry blossoms, and I couldn’t recall my name. That was the first time.”

“This might be an odd thing to ask, but did you lose anything at that time? Some sort of ID, like a driver’s license, a passport, an insurance card?”

She pursed her lip, lost in thought for a while, then replied.

“You know, now that you mention it, I did lose my driver’s license back then. It was lunchtime and I was sitting on a park bench, taking a break, and I put my handbag right next to me on the bench. I was redoing my lipstick with my compact, and when I looked over next, the handbag was gone. I couldn’t understand it. I’d only looked away from the handbag for a second, and didn’t sense anyone nearby, or hear any footsteps. I looked around, but I was alone. It was a quiet park, and I’m sure if somebody had come to steal my bag I would have noticed it.”

I waited for her to go on.

“But that’s not all that was strange. That same afternoon I got a call from the police saying my handbag had been found. It had been set outside a police box near the park. Nothing else was missing—the cash was still inside, as were my credit cards, ATM card, and cell phone. All there, untouched. Only my driver’s license was gone. That was the only thing taken from my purse. It seemed unthinkable, and the policeman was quite surprised. They don’t take the cash, only the license, and leave the bag right outside a police box?”

I sighed quietly, but said nothing.

“This was the end of March. Right away I went to the Motor Vehicles office in Samezu and had them issue a new license. The whole incident was pretty weird, but fortunately there wasn’t any real harm done. And Samezu’s near work, so it didn’t take much time.”

“Samezu is in Shinagawa, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. It’s in Higashioi. My company’s in Takanawa, so it’s a quick taxi ride,” she said. She turned a doubtful look at me. “Do you think there’s a connection? Between me not remembering my name and losing my license?”

I quickly shook my head. I couldn’t exactly bring up the story of the Shinagawa monkey here. If I did, she might wangle his whereabouts from me, and head off to that inn to confront him face-to-face. And grill him about what had happened.

“No, I don’t think there’s a connection,” I said. “It just sort of popped into my head. Since it involves your name.”

She still looked unconvinced. I knew it was risky, but there was one more vital question I had to ask.

“By the way, have you seen any monkeys lately?”

“Monkeys?” she asked. “You mean, like the animals?”

“Yes, real live monkeys,” I said.

She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve seen a monkey for years. Not in a zoo, or anywhere else.”

WAS THE SHINAGAWA MONKEY back to his old tricks? Or was another monkey using his MO to commit these crimes? (A copycat monkey!) Or was something else, other than a monkey, responsible?

I really didn’t want to think the Shinagawa monkey was back to stealing names. He’d told me, quite matter-of-factly, that holding seven women’s names tucked inside him was plenty, and that he was happy simply living out his remaining years quietly in that little hot springs town. And he seemed to mean it. But maybe that monkey had a chronic psychological condition, one that reason alone couldn’t hold in check. And maybe his illness, and his dopamine, was urging him to just do it! And perhaps all that brought him back to his old haunts in Shinagawa, back to his former, pernicious habits.

Maybe I’ll try it myself sometime. On sleepless nights, that random, fanciful thought comes to me sometimes. I’ll filch the ID or name tag of a woman I love, set a laser-like focus on it, gather her name inside me, and possess a part of her all to myself. What would that feel like? No. That’ll never happen. I’ve never been deft with my hands, and would never be able to swipe something that belonged to someone else. Even if that something had no physical form, and stealing it wasn’t against the law.

Extreme love, extreme loneliness. Ever since then, whenever I listen to a Bruckner symphony, I ponder that Shinagawa monkey’s personal life . I picture the elderly monkey in that tiny hot springs town, in the attic of a rundown inn, wrapped up in a thin quilt, asleep. And I think of the snacks—the Kakipi and dried squid—we enjoyed as we drank beer together, propped up against the wall.

I haven’t seen the beautiful travel magazine editor since then, so I have no idea what happened with her name. I hope it didn’t cause her any real hardship. She was blameless, after all. Nothing about it was her fault. I do feel bad about it, but I still can’t bring myself to tell her about the Shinagawa monkey.

OF ALL THE WOMEN I’ve known until now, she was the ugliest. But this might not be a fair way of putting it. I’ve known lots of women whose looks were uglier. I think I’m on safe ground, though, in saying that among the women I’ve been close with in my life—those who have put down roots in the soil of my memory—she was indeed the ugliest. I could use a euphemism, of course, and say least beautiful in place of ugly , which should be easier for readers, especially women readers, to accept. But I’ve decided to go with the more straightforward (and somewhat brutal) term instead here, for this captures more the essence of who she really was.

I’m going to call her F*. There are a couple of reasons it wouldn’t be appropriate to reveal her real name. Incidentally, her real name has nothing to do with either F or with *.

Perhaps F* might read this story somewhere. She often told me she was only interested in works by living women writers, but it’s not impossible that she might run across these words. And if she did, she’d surely recognize herself here. Even if that happened, I seriously doubt that my saying “Of all the women I’ve known until now, she was the ugliest” would bother her much. For all I know, she might even find it amusing. She was more aware than anyone that her looks were far from appealing, or ugly , as I put it, and even enjoyed using this to her advantage.