Харуки Мураками - Birthday Girl

She stepped outside with an umbrella and hailed a taxi. One of the waiters held the manager steady and climbed into the car with him to take him to a nearby hospital. Before ducking into the cab, the manager said to her hoarsely, ‘I want you to take a dinner up to room 604 at eight o’clock. All you have to do is ring the bell, say, “Your dinner is here,” and leave it.’

‘That’s room 604, right?’ she said.

‘At eight o’clock,’ he repeated. ‘On the dot.’ He grimaced again, climbed in, and the taxi took him away.

The rain showed no signs of letting up after the manager had left, and customers arrived at long intervals. No more than one or two tables were occupied at any time, so if the manager and one waiter had to be absent, this was a good time for it to happen. Things could get so busy that it was not unusual even for the full staff to have trouble coping.

When the owner’s meal was ready at eight o’clock, she pushed the room-service trolley into the lift and rode up to the sixth floor. It was the standard meal for him: a half-bottle of red wine with the cork loosened, a thermal pot of coffee, a chicken entrée with steamed vegetables, rolls and butter. The heavy aroma of cooked chicken quickly filled the small lift. It mingled with the smell of the rain. Water droplets dotted the lift floor, suggesting that someone with a wet umbrella had recently been aboard.

She pushed the trolley down the corridor, bringing it to a stop in front of the door marked ‘604’. She double-checked her memory: 604. That was it. She cleared her throat and pressed the doorbell.

There was no answer. She stood there for a good twenty seconds. Just as she was thinking of pressing the bell again, the door opened inward and a skinny old man appeared. He was shorter than she was, by some four or five inches. He had on a dark suit and a tie. Against his white shirt, the tie stood out distinctly, its brownish-yellow colouring not unlike withered leaves. He made a very clean impression, his clothes perfectly pressed, his white hair smoothed down: he looked as though he were about to go out for the night to some sort of gathering. The deep wrinkles that creased his brow made her think of ravines in an aerial photograph.

‘Your dinner, sir,’ she said in a husky voice, then quietly cleared her throat again. Her voice grew husky whenever she was tense.

‘Dinner?’

‘Yes, sir. The manager took sick suddenly. I had to take his place today. Your meal, sir.’

‘Oh, I see,’ the old man said, almost as if talking to himself, his hand still perched on the doorknob. ‘Took sick, eh? You don’t say.’

‘His stomach started to hurt him all of a sudden. He went to the hospital. He thinks he might have appendicitis.’

‘Oh, that’s not good,’ the old man said, running his fingers along the wrinkles of his forehead. ‘Not good at all.’

She cleared her throat again. ‘Shall I bring your meal in, sir?’ she asked.

‘Ah yes, of course,’ the old man said. ‘Yes, of course, if you wish. That’s fine with me.’

If I wish? she thought. What a strange way to put it. What am I supposed to wish?

The old man opened the door the rest of the way, and she wheeled the trolley inside. The floor had short grey carpeting with no area for removing shoes. The first room was a large study, as though the apartment was more a workplace than a residence. The window looked out on to the nearby Tokyo Tower, its steel skeleton outlined in lights. A large desk stood by the window, and beside the desk was a compact sofa and love seat. The old man pointed to the plastic laminate coffee table in front of the sofa. She arranged his meal on the table: white napkin and silverware, coffee pot and cup, wine and wine glass, bread and butter, and the plate of chicken and vegetables.

‘If you would be kind enough to set the dishes in the hall as usual, sir, I’ll come to get them in an hour.’

Her words seemed to snap him out of an appreciative contemplation of his dinner. ‘Oh yes, of course. I’ll put them in the hall. On the trolley. In an hour. If you wish.’

Yes, she replied inwardly, for the moment that is exactly what I wish. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said after a moment’s consideration. He was wearing black shoes polished to a high sheen. They were small and chic. He’s a stylish dresser, she thought. And he stands very straight for his age.

‘Well, then, sir, I’ll be getting back to work.’

‘No, wait just a moment,’ he said.

‘Sir?’

‘Do you think it might be possible for you to give me five minutes of your time, miss? I have something I’d like to say to you.’

He was so polite in his request that it made her blush. ‘I… think it should be alright,’ she said. ‘I mean, if it really is just five minutes.’ He was her employer, after all. He was paying her by the hour. It was not a question of her giving or his taking her time. And this old man did not look like a person who would do anything bad to her.

‘By the way, how old are you?’ the old man asked, standing by the table with arms folded and looking directly into her eyes.

‘I’m twenty now,’ she said.

‘Twenty now ,’ he repeated, narrowing his eyes as if peering through some kind of crack. ‘Twenty now . As of when?’

‘Well, I just turned twenty,’ she said. After a moment’s hesitation, she added, ‘Today is my birthday, sir.’

‘I see ,’ he said, rubbing his chin as if this explained a great deal for him. ‘Today, is it? Today is your twentieth birthday?’

She nodded.

‘Your life in this world began exactly twenty years ago today.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said, ‘that is so.’

‘I see, I see,’ he said. ‘That’s wonderful. Well, then, happy birthday.’

‘Thank you very much,’ she said, and then it dawned on her that this was the very first time all day that anyone had wished her a happy birthday. Of course, if her parents had called from Oita, she might find a message from them on her answering machine when she got home from work.

‘Well, well, this is certainly a cause for celebration,’ he said. ‘How about a little toast? We can drink this red wine.’

‘Thank you, sir, but I couldn’t. I’m working now.’

‘Oh, what’s the harm in a little sip? No one’s going to blame you if I say it’s alright. Just a token drink to celebrate.’

The old man slid the cork from the bottle and dribbled a little wine into his glass for her. Then he took an ordinary drinking glass from a glass-doored cabinet and poured some wine for himself.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said. ‘May you live a rich and fruitful life, and may there be nothing to cast dark shadows on it.’

They clinked glasses.

May there be nothing to cast dark shadows on it : she silently repeated his remark to herself. Why had he chosen such unusual words for her birthday toast?

‘Your twentieth birthday comes only once in a lifetime, young lady. It’s an irreplaceable day.’

‘Yes, sir, I know,’ she said, taking one cautious sip of wine.

‘And here, on your special day, you have taken the trouble to deliver my dinner to me like a kind-hearted fairy.’

‘Just doing my job, sir.’

‘But still,’ the old man said with a few quick shakes of the head. ‘But still, lovely young miss.’

The old man sat down in the leather chair by his desk and motioned her to the sofa. She lowered herself gingerly on to the edge of the seat, with the wine glass still in her hand. Knees aligned, she tugged at her skirt, clearing her throat again. She saw raindrops tracing lines down the window pane. The room was strangely quiet.