Dance Dance Dance

by Haruki Murakami

  My ex-wife wrote, needing some practical affairs taken care of, very matter-of-fact. Then she mentioned she was getting married—to someone I didn’t know, and probably never would. Which meant she’d split up with that friend of mine she’d gone off with when we divorced. Not surprising, them splitting up. The guy wasn’t so great a jazz guitarist and he wasn’t so great a person either. Never could understand what she saw in him—but none of my business, eh? About me, she said she wasn’t worried. She was sure I’d be fine whatever it was I chose to do. She reserved her worries for the people I’d get involved with.

  I read these letters over a few times, then filed them away.

  And so the months passed.

  Money wasn’t a problem. I had saved plenty enough to live on, and I wasn’t thinking about what came later. Winter was past.

  And spring took hold. The scent of the wind changed. Even the darkness of night was different.

  At the end of May, Kipper, my cat, died. Suddenly, without warning. I woke up one day and found him curled up on the kitchen floor, dead. He himself probably hadn’t known it was happening. His body was cold and hard, like yesterday’s roast chicken, sheen gone from the fur. He could hardly have claimed he had the best life. Never really loved by anyone, never seeming really to love anyone either. His eyes always had this uneasy look, like, what now? You don’t see that look in a cat too often. But anyway, he was dead. Nothing more. Maybe that’s the best thing about death.

  I put his body in a Seiyu supermarket bag, placed him on the backseat of the car, and drove to the hardware store for a shovel. I turned off the highway a good ways up in the hills and found an appropriate grove of trees. A fair distance back from the road I dug a hole one meter deep and laid Kipper in his shopping bag to rest. Then I shoveled dirt on top of him. Sorry, I told the little guy, that’s just how it goes. Birds were singing the whole time I was burying him. The upper registers of a flute recital.

  Once the hole was filled in, I tossed the shovel into the trunk of the car, and got back on the highway. I turned the radio on as I drove home to Tokyo.

  Which is when the DJ had to put on Ray Charles moaning about being born to lose … and now I’m losing you.

  I felt like crying. Sometimes one little thing will do the trick. I turned the radio off and pulled into a service area. First, I washed the dirt from my hands, then went into the restaurant. I could only manage a third of a sandwich, but I put down two cups of coffee.

  What was Kipper doing now? I wondered. Down there in the dark. The sound of the dirt hitting the Seiyu bag echoed in my brain. That’s just how it goes, pal, for me the same as you.

  I sat staring at my unfinished sandwich for an hour. Until a violet-uniformed waitress came by and nervously asked if she could clear the plate away.

  That’s that, I thought. So now, back to society.

  It takes no great effort to find work in the giant anthill of an advanced capitalist society. That is, of course, so long as you’re not asking the impossible.

  When I still had my office, I did my share of editing and writing, and I’d gotten to know a few professionals in the field. So as I embarked on a free-lance career, there was no major retooling required. I didn’t need much to live on anyway.

  I pulled out my address book and made some calls. I asked if there was work available. I said I’d been laying back but was ready to take stuff on. Almost immediately jobs came my way. Though not particularly interesting jobs, mostly filler for PR newsletters and company brochures. Speaking conservatively, I’d say half the material I wrote was meaningless, of no conceivable use to anyone. A waste of pulp and ink. But I did the work, mechanically, without thinking. At first, the load wasn’t much, maybe a couple hours a day. The rest of the time I’d be out walking or seeing a movie. I saw a lot of movies. For three months, I had an easy time of it. I was slowly getting back in touch.

  Then, in early autumn, things began to change. Work orders increased dramatically. The phone rang nonstop, my mailbox was overflowing. I met people in the business and had lunch with them. They promised me more work.

  The reason was simple. I was never choosy about the jobs I did. I was willing to do anything, I met my deadlines, I never complained, I wrote legibly. And I was thorough. Where others slacked off, I did an honest write. I was never snide, even when the pay was low. If I got a call at two-thirty in the morning asking for twenty pages of text (about, say, the advantages of non-digital clocks or the appeal of women in their forties or the most beautiful spots in Helsinki, where, needless to say, I’d never been) by six A.M., I’d have it done by five-thirty. And if they called back for a rewrite, I had it to them by six. You bet I had a good reputation.

  The same as for shoveling snow.

  Let it snow and I’d show you a thing or two about efficient roadwork.

  And with not one speck of ambition, not one iota of expectation. My only concern was to do things systematically, from one end to the other. I sometimes wonder if this might not prove to be the bane of my life. After wasting so much pulp and ink myself, who was I to complain about waste? We live in an advanced capitalist society, after all. Waste is the name of the game, its greatest virtue. Politicians call it “refinements in domestic consumption.” I call it meaningless waste. A difference of opinion. Which doesn’t change the way we live. If I don’t like it, I can move to Bangladesh or Sudan.

  I for one am not eager to live in Bangladesh or Sudan.

  So I kept working.

  And soon enough, it wasn’t just PR work. I got called to do bits and pieces for regular magazines. For some reason, mostly women’s magazines. I started doing interviews, minor legwork reportage. But really, the work wasn’t much of an improvement over PR newsletters. Due to the nature of these magazines, most of the people I had to interview were in show business. No matter what you asked them, they had only stock replies. You could predict what they’d answer before you asked the question. In the worst cases, the manager would insist on seeing the questions in advance. So I always came with everything written out. Once I asked a seventeen-year-old singer something that wasn’t on the list, which caused her manager to pipe up: “That wasn’t what we agreed on—she doesn’t have to answer that.” That was a kick. I wondered if the girl couldn’t answer what month followed October without this manager by her side. Still, I did my best. Before each interview I did my homework, surveyed available sources, tried to come up with questions others wouldn’t think to ask. I took pains structuring the article. Not that these efforts received any special recognition. They never got me an appreciative word. I went the extra step because, for me, it was the simplest way. Self-discipline. Giving my disused fingers and head a practical—and if at all possible, harmless—dose of overwork.

  Social rehabilitation.

  After that, my days were busier than ever. Not only with double or triple my regular load, but with a lot of rush jobs too. Without fail, jobs that had no takers found their way to me. My role in those circles was the junkyard at the edge of town. Anything, particularly if complicated or a pain, would get hauled to me for disposal.

  By way of thanks, my savings account swelled to figures I’d never seen the likes of, though I was too busy to spend much of it. So when a guy I knew offered me a good deal, I got rid of my nothing-but-headaches car and bought his year-old Subaru Leone. Hardly any miles on it, stereo and air-conditioning. A real first for me. And I moved to an apartment in Shibuya, closer to the center of town. It was a bit noisy—the expressway passing right outside my window—but you got used to it.

  I slept with a few women I met through work.

  Social rehabilitation.

  I had a sense about which women I ought to sleep with. And which women I’d be able to sleep with, which not. Maybe even which I shouldn’t sleep with. It’s an intelligence that comes with age. I also knew when to call it quits, all very nice and easy so no one got hurt. The only thing missing was those tugs on the heartstrings.

  The deepest
I got involved was with a woman who worked at the phone company. I met her at a New Year’s party. Both of us were tipsy, we joked with each other, liked each other, and ended up back at my place. She had a good head on her shoulders and terrific legs. We went for rides in my new-used Subaru. She’d call, whenever the mood struck, and come over and spend the night. She was the only relationship with one foot in the door like that. Though both of us knew there was no place this thing could go. Still, we quietly shared something approaching a pardon from life. I knew days of peace for the first time in ages. We exchanged tenderness, talked in whispers. I cooked for her, gave her birthday presents. We’d go to jazz clubs and have cocktails. We never argued, not once. We knew exactly what we wanted in each other. And even so, it ended. One day it stopped, as if the film simply slipped off the reel.

  Her departure left me emptier than I would have suspected. For a while, I stayed in again.

  The problem was that I hadn’t wanted her, really wanted her. I’d liked her, liked being with her. She brought me back to gentle feelings. But what it came down to was, I never felt a need for her. Not three days after she got out of my life, the realization hit home. That ultimately, all the time I’d been next to her, I might as well have been on the moon. The whole while I’d felt her breasts against me, I’d really wanted something else.

  It took four years to get my life back on steady ground. I carefully dispatched each piece of work that came my way, and people came to feel they could depend on me. Not many, but a few, even became friendly. Though, it goes without saying, that wasn’t enough. Not enough at all. Here I’d spent all this time trying to get up to speed, and I was back to where I started.

  Okay, I thought, age thirty-four, square one. What do you do now?

  I didn’t have to think much about that one. I knew already. The answer had been floating over my head like a dark, dense cloud. All I had to do was take action, instead of putting it off and putting it off. I had to go to the Dolphin Hotel. That’s where it all started.

  I also had to find her. The woman who’d first guided me to the Dolphin Hotel, she who’d been a high-class call girl in her own covert world of night. (Under astonishing circumstances, I was to learn this nameless woman’s name sometime later, but, for reasons of convenience, unorthodox as it will seem, I’ll tell it to you now. Pardon me, please. It was Kiki.) Yes, Kiki held the key. I had to call her back to me. To a life with me she’d left never to return. Was it possible? Who knew, but I had to try. From then would begin a new cycle.

  I packed my bags, did double time to finish up outstanding work, then canceled all the jobs I’d penciled in for the next month. I said I was leaving Tokyo on family business. A couple of editors made noises, but what could they do? I’d never let them down before, and besides I was giving them plenty of advance notice to find other ways and means. In the end, it was fine. I’d be back in a month, I told them.

  Then I took a flight to Hokkaido. This was the beginning of March 1983.

  Of course, the family business wasn’t over in anything near a month.

  I booked a taxi for two days, and the photographer and I raced around Hakodate in the snow checking out eateries in the city.

  I’m good at researching, very systematic, very efficient. The most important thing about this sort of job is to do your homework and set up a schedule. That’s the key. When it comes to gathering materials beforehand, you can’t beat organizations that compile information for people in the field. Become a member and pay your dues; they’ll look up almost anything for you. So if by chance you’re researching eating places in Hakodate, they can dig up quite a bit. They use mainframe computer retrieval, arrange the facts in file format, print out hard copy, even deliver to your doorstep. Granted, it’s not cheap, but plenty worth the time it buys.

  In addition to that, I do a little walking for information myself. There are reading rooms specializing in travel materials, libraries that collect local newspapers and regional publications. From all of these sources, I pick out the promising spots, then call them up to check their business hours. This much done, I’ve saved a lot of trouble on site. Then I draw lines in a notebook and plan out each day’s itinerary. I look at maps and mark in the routes we’ll travel. Trying to reduce uncertainties to a minimum.

  Once we arrive in Hakodate, the photographer and I go around to the restaurants in order. There are about thirty. We take a couple of bites—just enough to get the taste—then casually leave the rest of the meal uneaten. Refinements in consumption. We’re still undercover at this stage, so no picture taking. Only after leaving the premises do the photographer and I discuss the food and evaluate it on a scale of one to ten. If it passes, it stays on the list; if not, it’s out. We generally figure on dropping at least half. Taking a parallel tack, we also check the local papers for listings of places we’ve missed, selecting maybe five. We go to these too, and weed out the not-so-good. Then we’ve got our finalists. I call them up, give the name of the magazine, tell them we’d like to do a feature on them—text with photos. All that in two days. Nights, I stay in my hotel room, laying down the basic copy.

  The next day, while the photographer does quick shots of the food and table settings, I talk to the restaurant owners. Saves on time. So we can call it a wrap in three days. True, there are those in our league who take even less time. But they don’t do any research. They do a handful of the more well-known spots, cruise through without eating a thing, write brief comments. It’s their business, not mine. If I may be perfectly frank, I doubt that many writers take as many pains as I do at this level of reportage. It’s the kind of work that can break you if you’re too serious about it, or you can kick back and do almost nothing. The worst of it is, whether you’re earnest or you loaf, the difference will hardly show in the finished piece. On the surface. Only in the finer points can you find any hint of the distinction.

  I’m not explaining this out of pride or anything.

  I just wanted you to have a rough idea of the job, the sort of expendables I deal with.

  On the third night, I finish writing.

  The fourth day is left free, just in case.

  But since the work has been completed and we don’t have anything else in the tube, we rent a car and head off for a day of cross-country skiing. That evening, the two of us settle down to drinks over a nice, simmering hot pot. One day’s relaxation. I turn over my manuscript to the photographer, and that’s it. My job’s done, the work’s in someone else’s hands.

  But before turning in that evening, I rang up Sapporo directory assistance for the number of the Dolphin Hotel. I didn’t have to wait long. I sat up in bed and sighed. Well, at least the Dolphin Hotel hadn’t gone under. Relief, I guess. Because I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had, a mysterious place like that. I took a deep breath, dialed the number—and someone answered immediately. As if they’d been just waiting for it to ring. So immediately, in fact, I was taken aback.

  “Hello, Dolphin Hotel!” went a cheerful voice.

  It was a young woman. A woman? What’s going on? I don’t remember a woman being there.

  It didn’t figure, so I checked if the address was the same. Yes, it was exactly where the Dolphin Hotel I knew used to be. Maybe the hotel had hired someone new, the owner’s niece or something. Nothing so odd about that. I told her I wanted to make a reservation.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” she chirped. “Please wait a moment while I transfer you to our reservations desk.”

  Our reservations desk? Now I was really confused. I couldn’t begin to digest that one. What the hell happened to the old joint?

  “Sorry to keep you waiting. This is the reservations desk. How may I help you?” This time, a young man’s voice. The brisk, friendly pitch of the professional hotel man. Curiouser and curiouser.

  I asked for a single room for three nights. I gave him my name and my Tokyo phone number.

  “Very well, sir. That’s three nights, starting from tomorrow. Your single
room will be waiting for you.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so I thanked him and hung up, completely disoriented. Shouldn’t I have asked for an explanation? Oh well, it’d all become clear once I got there. And anyway, I couldn’t not go. I didn’t have an alternative.

  I asked the concierge to check the schedule for trains to Sapporo. After that, I got room service to send up a bottle of whiskey and some ice, and I stayed up watching a late-night movie on TV. A Clint Eastwood western. Clint didn’t smile once, didn’t sneer. I tried laughing at him, but he never broke his deadpan. The movie ended and I’d had my fill of whiskey, so I turned out the light and slept straight through the night. If I dreamed, I don’t remember.

  All I could see outside the window of the early morning express train was snow. It was a bright, clear day, so the glare soon got to be too much. I didn’t see another passenger looking out the windows. They all knew what snow looks like.

  I’d skipped breakfast, so a little before noon I made my way to the dining car. Beer and an omelet. Across from me sat a fiftyish man in a suit and tie, having beer with a ham sandwich. He looked like a mechanical engineer, and that’s just what he was. He spoke to me first, telling me he serviced jets for the Self-Defense Forces. Then he filled me in on how Soviet fighters and bombers invaded our airspace, though he didn’t seem particularly upset about it. He was more concerned about the economics of F4 Phantoms. How much fuel they guzzled in one scramble, a terrible waste. “If the Japanese had made them, you can bet they’d be more efficient. And at no loss to performance either! There’s no reason why we couldn’t build a low-cost fighter if we wanted to.”

  That’s when I proffered my words of wisdom, that waste is the highest virtue one can achieve in advanced capitalist society. The fact that Japan bought Phantom jets from America and wasted vast quantities of fuel on scrambles put an extra spin in the global economy, and that extra spin lifted capitalism to yet greater heights. If you put an end to all the waste, mass panic would ensue and the global economy would go haywire. Waste is the fuel of contradiction, and contradiction activates the economy, and an active economy creates more waste.