Харуки Мураками - First Person Singular - Stories

Katsuya Nomura was the Swallows’ manager back then. This was when players like Furuta, Ikeyama, Miyamoto, and Inaba were at their peak (a happy time for the team, now that I think of it). So, naturally, the following poem wasn’t included in the original Yakult Swallows Poetry Collection . I wrote it long after that collection was published.

I didn’t have a pen or any paper on me that day, so as soon as I got back to the hotel, I used the stationery in the room to scribble down this (sort of) poem. A memo that just happened to take the form of a poem, I suppose you could call it. My desk drawer is full of memos and fragments of writing like that. They don’t actually serve much purpose, but I keep them nonetheless.

AT ANY RATE, of all the baseball stadiums in the world, I like being in Jingu Stadium the best of all. In an infield seat behind first base, or in the right-field bleachers. I love all the sounds, the smells, the way I can sit there, just gazing up at the sky. I love the breeze caressing my skin, I love sipping an ice-cold beer, observing the people around me. Whether the team wins or loses, I love the time spent there most of all.

Of course, winning is much better than losing. No argument there. But winning or losing doesn’t affect the weight and value of the time. It’s the same time, either way. A minute is a minute, an hour is an hour. We need to cherish it. We need to deftly reconcile ourselves with time, and leave behind as many precious memories as we can—that’s what’s the most valuable.

The first thing I like to do when I take my seat at the stadium is have a dark beer—a stout. But there aren’t many vendors selling dark beer at the stadium. It takes time to locate one. When I finally locate one, I raise my hand and call out. The vendor makes his way over. A skinny young guy, undernourished looking. He has longish hair. Probably a high school student doing this as a part-time job. He comes over, and the first thing he does is apologize. “I’m sorry, but all I have is dark beer,” he says.

“No need to apologize,” I say, reassuring him. “I mean, I’ve been waiting a long time for someone selling dark beer to come by.”

“Thank you,” he says. And cracks a cheerful smile.

I imagine this young vendor will have to apologize to lots of people this evening. “I’m sorry, but all I have is dark beer,” since most people at the stadium probably wanted regular lager. I pay him for the beer and leave him with a small word of encouragement: “Good luck to you!”

When I write novels, I often experience the same feeling as that young man. I want to face people in the world and apologize to each and every one. “I’m sorry, but all I have is dark beer.”

But no matter. Let’s not get into novels here. Tonight’s game is about to begin. I’m praying that our team wins. But at the same time quietly steeling myself for the possibility of yet another loss.

IHARDLY EVER WEAR SUITS. At most, maybe two or three times a year, since there are rarely any situations where I need to get dressed up. I may wear a casual jacket on occasion, but no tie, or leather shoes. That’s the type of life I chose for myself, so that’s how things have worked out.

Sometimes, though, even when there’s no need for it, I do decide to wear a suit and tie. Why? When I open my closet and check out what kind of clothes are there (I have to do that or else I don’t know what kind of clothes I own), and gaze at the suits I’ve hardly ever worn, the dress shirts still in the dry cleaner’s plastic garment bags, and the ties that look brand new, no trace of ever having been used, I start to feel apologetic toward these clothes. Then I try them on just to see how they look. I experiment with various tie knots to see if I still remember how to do them. Including one making a proper dimple. The only time I do all this is when I’m home alone. If someone else is here, I’d have to explain what I’m up to.

Once I go to the trouble of getting the outfit on, it seems a waste to take it all off right away, so I go out for a while dressed up like that. Strolling around town in a suit and tie. And it feels pretty good. I get the sense that even my facial expression and gait are transformed. It’s an invigorating sensation, as if I’ve temporarily stepped away from the everyday. But after an hour or so of roaming, this newness fades. I get tired of wearing a suit and tie, the tie starts to feel itchy and too tight, like it’s choking me. The leather shoes click too hard and loud as they strike the pavement. So I go home, slip off the leather shoes, peel off the suit and tie, change into a worn-out set of sweatpants and sweatshirt, plop down on the sofa, and feel relaxed and at peace. This is my little one-hour secret ceremony, entirely harmless—or at least not something I need to feel guilty about.

I WAS ALONE in the house that day. My wife had gone out to eat Chinese food. I never eat Chinese food (I think I’m allergic to some of the spices they use), so she goes with a close girlfriend of hers whenever she has a craving.

After a quick dinner, I put on an old Joni Mitchell album and settled down in my special reading chair and read a mystery. I loved this album, and the novel was the very latest by one of my favorite authors. But for some reason I couldn’t settle down, couldn’t focus on either the music or the book. I considered watching a movie I’d recorded, but couldn’t find one I really wanted to see. Some days are like that. You have time on your hands, and you try to decide what you want to do, but can’t come up with a thing. There should have been tons of things I wanted to do… As I wandered aimlessly around the room an idea struck me: I haven’t tried on a suit in ages, so why not?

I laid out a Paul Smith suit on the bed (one I’d bought out of necessity but had only worn twice), and picked out a tie and shirt that would go well with it. A light gray, widespread-collar shirt and an Ermenegildo Zegna tie with an elaborate paisley pattern that I’d bought at the Rome airport. I stood in front of the full-length mirror and checked how I looked. Not bad, I concluded. At least nothing was obviously wrong with the outfit.

But on that particular day as I stood in front of the mirror, an uncomfortable feeling came over me, a twinge of remorse. Remorse? How should I put it?… I imagine it was like the guilty conscience someone feels who goes through life having embellished a resumé. It might not be illegal, but it’s a misrepresentation that raises a lot of ethical issues. You know it’s wrong, you know nothing good will come of it, yet you can’t help yourself. There’s a certain kind of uneasiness that those kinds of actions engender. I’m just imagining this, but it might be similar to the feeling of men who secretly dress up as women.