Dance Dance Dance

by Haruki Murakami

  Well, maybe so, the engineer admitted, but having been a wartime child who had to live under deprived conditions, he couldn’t grasp what this new social structure meant. “Our generation, we’re not like you young folks,” he said, straining a smile. “We don’t understand these complex workings of yours.”

  I couldn’t say I exactly understood things either, but as I wasn’t eager for the conversation to drag on, I kept quiet. No, I’m not used to things; I just recognize them for what they are. There’s a decisive difference between those two propositions. Which is just as well, I supposed, as I finished my omelet and excused myself.

  I slept for thirty minutes, and the rest of the trip I read a biography of Jack London I’d bought near the Hakodate station. Compared to the grand sweep and romance of Jack London’s life, my existence seemed like a squirrel with its head against a walnut, dozing until spring. For the time being, that is. But that’s how biographies are. I mean, who’s going to read about the peaceful life and times of a nobody employed at the Kawasaki Municipal Library? In other words, what we seek is some kind of compensation for what we put up with.

  Arriving at Sapporo, I decided to take a leisurely stroll to the hotel. It was a pleasant enough afternoon, and I was carrying only a shoulder bag.

  The streets were covered in a thin layer of slush, and people trained their eyes carefully at their feet. The air was exhilarating. High school girls came bustling along, their rosy red cheeks puffing white breaths you could have written cartoon captions in. I continued my amble, taking in the sights of the town. It had been four and a half years since I was in Sapporo. It seemed like much longer.

  Along the way I stopped into a coffee shop. All around me normal, everyday city types were going about their normal, everyday affairs. Lovers were whispering to each other, businessmen were poring over spread sheets, college kids were planning their next ski trip and discussing the new Police album. We could have been in any city in Japan. Transplant this coffee shop scene to Yokohama or Fukuoka and nothing would seem out of place. In spite of which—or, rather, all the more because—here I was, sitting in this coffee shop, drinking my coffee, feeling a desperate loneliness. I alone was the outsider. I had no place here.

  Of course, by the same token, I couldn’t really say I belonged to Tokyo and its coffee shops. But I had never felt this loneliness there. I could drink my coffee, read my book, pass the time of day without any special thought, all because I was part of the regular scenery. Here I had no ties to anyone. Fact is, I’d come to reclaim myself.

  I paid the check and left. Then, without further thought, I headed for the hotel.

  I didn’t know the way exactly and part of me worried that I might miss the place. I didn’t. How could anyone have? It had been transformed into a gleaming twenty-six-story Bauhaus Modern-Art Deco symphony of glass and steel, with flags of various nations waving along the driveway, smartly uniformed doormen hailing taxis, a glass elevator shooting up to a penthouse restaurant. A bas-relief of a dolphin was set into one of the marble columns by the entrance, beneath which the inscription read:

  l’Hôtel Dauphin

  I stood there a good twenty seconds, mouth agape, staring up at it. Then I let out a long, deep breath that might as easily have been beamed straight to the moon. Surprise was not the word.

  I couldn’t stand around gawking at the façade forever. Whatever this building was, the address was correct, as was the name—for the most part. And anyway, I had a reservation, right? There was nothing to do but go in.

  I walked up the gently sloped driveway and pushed my way through the shiny brass revolving door. The lobby was large enough to be a gymnasium, the ceiling at least two stories high. A wall of glass rose the full height, and through it cascaded a brilliant shower of sunlight. The floor space was appointed with a fleet of luxurious designer sofas, between which were stationed planters of ornamental trees. Lots of them. The overall decor focused on an oil painting—three tatami mats large—of some Hokkaido marshland. Nothing outstanding artistically, but impressive, if only for its size. At the far end of the lobby a posh coffee bar beckoned. The sort of place where you order a sandwich and they bring you four deviled ham dainties arrayed like calling cards on a silver tray with an embellishment of potato crisps and cornichons. Throw in a cup of coffee and you’re spending enough to buy a frugal family of four a midday meal.

  The lobby was crowded. Apparently a function was in progress. A group of well-dressed, middle-aged men sat on facing sofas, nodding and smiling magnanimously. Jaws thrust out, legs crossed, identically. A professional organization? Doctors or university professors? On their periphery—perhaps they were part of the same gathering—cooed a clutch of young women in formal dress, some of them in kimono, some in floor-length dresses. There were a few Westerners as well, not to mention the requisite salarymen in dark suits and harmless ties, attaché cases in hand.

  In a word, business was booming at the new Dolphin Hotel.

  What we had here was a hotel founded on a proper outlay of capital and now enjoying proper returns. But how the hell had this come about? Well, I could guess, of course. Having once put together a PR bulletin for a hotel chain, I knew the whole process. Before a hotel of this scale is built, someone first costs out every aspect of the venture in detail, then consultants are called in and every piece of information is input into their computers for a thorough simulation study. Everything including the wholesale price and usage volume of toilet paper is taken into account. Then students are hired to go around the city—Sapporo in this case—to do a market survey. They stop young men and women on the street and ask how many weddings they expect to attend each year. You get the picture. Little is left unchecked. All in an effort to reduce business risk.

  So the Hôtel Dauphin project team had gone to great lengths over many months to draw up as precise a plan as possible. They bought the property, they assembled the staff, they pinned down flash advertising space. If money was all it took—and they were convinced they’d make that money back—there’d be no end of funds pouring in. It’s big business of a big order.

  Now, the only enterprises that could embark on such a big business venture were the huge conglomerates. Because even after paring away the risks, there’s bound to be some hidden factor of uncertainty lurking around, which only a major player can conceivably absorb.

  To be honest, this new Dolphin Hotel wasn’t my kind of hotel.

  Or at least, under normal circumstances, if I had to choose a place to stay, I wouldn’t go for one that looked like this. The rates are too high; too much padding, too many frills. But this time the die had been cast.

  I went to the front desk and gave my name, whereupon three light blue blazered young women with toothpaste-commercial smiles greeted me. This smile training surely figured into the capital outlay. With their virgin-snow white blouses and immaculate hairstyles, the receptionists were picture-perfect. Of the three, one wore glasses, which of course suited her nicely. When she stepped over to me, I actually felt a shot of relief. She was the prettiest and most immediately likable. There was something about her expression I responded to, some embodiment of hotel spirit. I half expected her to produce a tiny magic wand, like in a Disney movie, and tap out swirls of diamond dust.

  But instead of a magic wand, she used a computer, swiftly typing in my name and credit card number, then verifying the details on the display screen. Then she handed me my card-key, room number 1523. I smiled as I accepted the hotel brochure from her. When had the hotel opened? I asked. Last October, she answered, almost in reflex. It was now in its fifth month of operation.

  “You know,” I began, donning my professional smile, “I seem to remember a small hotel with a similar name in this location a few years ago. Do you have any idea what became of it?”

  A slight disturbance clouded her smile. Quiet ripples spread across her face, as if a beer bottle had been tossed into a sacred spring. By the time the ripples subsided, her reassumed smile was a
shade less cheerful than before. I observed the changes with great interest. Would the sprite of the spring now appear to ask whether the item I disposed of had a gold or silver twist top?

  “Well, now,” she hedged, touching the bridge of her glasses with her index finger. “That was before we opened our doors, so I really couldn’t—”

  Her words cut off. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said. Seconds went by. I found myself liking her. I wanted to touch the bridge of my glasses as well, except that I wasn’t wearing any glasses. “Well, then, is there anyone you can ask?”

  She held her breath a second, thinking it over. The smile vanished. It’s exceedingly difficult to hold your breath and keep smiling. Just try it if you don’t believe me.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said again, “but would you mind waiting a bit?” Then she retreated through a door. Thirty seconds later, she returned with a fortyish man in a black suit. A real live hotelier by the looks of him. I’d met enough of them in my line of work. They are a dubious species, with twenty-five different smiles on call for every variety of circumstance. From the cool and cordial twinge of disinterest to the measured grin of satisfaction. They wield the entire arsenal by number, like golf clubs for particular shots.

  “May I help you, please,” he said, sending a midrange smile my way with a polite bow of the head. When he noted my attire, however, the smile was quickly adjusted down three notches. I was wearing my fur-lined hunting jacket with a Keith Haring button pinned to the chest, an Austrian Army-issue Alps Corps fur cap, a rough-and-ready pair of hiking trousers with lots of pockets, and snow-tire treaded work boots. All fine and practical items of dress, but just a tad unsuitable for this hotel lobby. No fault of mine, only a difference in life-style.

  “You had a question concerning our hotel, I believe?” he voiced most properly.

  I put both hands on the counter and repeated my query.

  The man cast a glance at my Mickey Mouse watch with the same clinical unease a vet might direct at a cat’s sprained paw.

  “Might I inquire,” he regained his composure to speak, “why you wish to know about the previous hotel? If you don’t mind my asking, that is?”

  I explained as simply as I could: A good while back I had stayed at the old Dolphin Hotel and gotten to know the owner; now, years later, I visit and everything’s completely changed. Which makes me wonder, what happened to the old guy?

  The man nodded attentively.

  “In all honesty, I’m not entirely clear on the details myself,” he chose his words guardedly. “Nevertheless, my understanding of the history of this hotel is that our concerns purchased the property where the previous Dolphin Hotel stood and erected on the site what we now have before us. As you can see, the name was for all intents and purposes retained, but let me assure you that the management is altogether separate, with no relation whatsoever to its predecessor.”

  “Then why keep the name?”

  “You must forgive me, I’m afraid I really don’t …”

  “And I suppose you wouldn’t have any idea where I could find the former owner?”

  “I am sorry, but no, I do not,” he answered, moving on to smile number 16.

  “Is there anyone else I could ask? Someone who might know?”

  “Since you insist,” the man began, straining his neck slightly. “We are merely employees here, and accordingly we are strictly out of touch with any goings on prior to when the current premises opened for business. So unfortunately, if someone such as yourself desires to know anything more specific, there’s really very little …”

  Certainly what he said made sense, yet something caught in the back of my mind. Something artificial, manufactured really, about the responses from both the young woman and the stiff now fielding my questions. I couldn’t put my finger on anything exactly, yet I couldn’t swallow the line. Do your share of interviews and you get this professional sixth sense. That tone of voice when someone’s hiding something, that knowing expression of someone who’s lying. No real evidence to go on. Only a hunch, that there was more here than being said.

  Still, it was clear that nothing more would come from pushing them further. I thanked the man; he excused himself and withdrew. After his black suit had vanished from view, I asked the young woman about meals and room service, and she went on at length. While she spoke, I peered straight into her eyes. Beautiful eyes. I swear I almost began to see things in them. But when she met my gaze, she blushed. Which made me like her even more. Why was that? Was it that hotel spirit in her? Whatever, I thanked her, turned away, and took the elevator up to my floor.

  Room 1523 proved to be quite a room. Both the bed and the bath were far too big for a single. A full complement of shampoo, conditioner, and after-shave was provided, as was a bathrobe. The refrigerator was chock-full of snacks. There was an ample writing desk, with plenty of stationery and envelopes. The closet was large, the carpet deep-piled. I took off my coat and boots and picked up the hotel brochure. Quite a production. They hadn’t spared any expense on this job.

  L’Hôtel Dauphin represents a wholly new development in quality city center lodgings, the brochure stated. Complete with the latest conveniences and full twenty-four-hour services. Our guest rooms are spacious and sumptuously styled. Featuring the finest selection of products, a restful atmosphere, and a warm at-home feeling. “Professional space with a human face.”

  In other words, they’d spent a lot of money, so the rates were high.

  Indeed, this was a very well turned out hotel. A big shopping arcade in the basement, an indoor pool, sauna, and tanning salon. Tennis courts, a health club with training coaches and exercise equipment, conference rooms outfitted for simultaneous translation, five restaurants, three lounges, even a late-night café. Not to mention a limousine service, free work space, unlimited business supplies available to all guests. Anything you could want, they’d thought of—and then some. A rooftop heliport?

  Intelligent facilities in an impeccable decor.

  But what of the commercial group that owned and operated this hotel? I reread the brochure from cover to cover. Not one mention of the management. Odd, to say the least. It was unthinkable that any but the most experienced hotel chain could run a topflight operation like this, and any enterprise of such scale would be certain to stamp its name everywhere and take every opportunity to promote its full line of hotels. You stay at one Prince Hotel and the brochure lists every Prince Hotel in the whole of Japan. That’s how it is.

  And then there was still the question, why would a hotel of this class take on the name of a dump like the old Dolphin?

  I couldn’t come up with even a flake of an answer to that one.

  I threw the brochure onto the table, fell back into the sofa with my feet kicked up, and looked out my fifteenth-story window. All I could see was blue sky. I felt like I was flying.

  All this was fine, but I missed the old dive. There’d been a lot to see from those windows.

  I puttered around in the hotel, seeing what there was to see. I checked out the restaurants and lounges, took a peek at the pool and sauna and health club and tennis courts, bought a couple of books in the shopping arcade. I crisscrossed the lobby, then gravitated to the game center and played a few rounds of backgammon. That alone took up the afternoon. The hotel was practically an amusement park. The world is full of ways and means to waste time.

  After that, I left the hotel to have a look around the area. As I strolled through the early evening streets, the lay of the town gradually came back to me. Back when I’d stayed at the old Dolphin Hotel, I’d covered this area with depressing regularity, day after day. Turn here, and there was this or that. The old Dolphin hadn’t had a dining room—if it had, I doubt I would have been inclined to eat there—so we, Kiki and I, would always go someplace nearby for meals. Now I felt like I was visiting an old neighborhood and was content just to wan
der about, taking in familiar sights.

  When the sun went down, the air grew cold. The streets echoed with the wet sounds of slush underfoot. There was no wind, so walking was not at all unpleasant. It was still crisp and clear. Even the piles of exhaust-gray snow plowed up on every corner looked positively enchanting beneath the streetlights.

  The area had changed markedly from the old days. Of course, those “old days” were only four years back, as I’ve said, so most of the places I’d frequented were more or less the same. The local atmosphere was basically the same as well, but signs of change were everywhere. Stores were boarded up, announcements of development to come tacked over. A large building was under construction. A drive-through burger stand and designer boutiques and a European auto showroom and a trendy café with an inner courtyard of sara trees—all kinds of new establishments had popped up one after the next, pushing aside the dingy old three-story blockhouses and cheap eateries festooned with traditional noren entrance curtains and the sweetshop where a cat lay napping by the stove. The odd mix of styles presented an all-too-temporary show of coexistence, like the mouth of a child with new teeth coming in. A bank had even opened a new branch, maybe a spillover of the new Dolphin Hotel capitalization. Build a hotel of that scale in a perfectly ordinary—if a bit neglected—neighborhood, and the balance is upset. The flow of people changes, the place starts to jump. Land prices go up.

  Or perhaps the changes were more cumulative. That is, the upheaval hadn’t been wrought by the new Dolphin Hotel alone, but was a stage in the greater infrastructural changes of the area. Some long-term urban redevelopment program, for example.

  I went into a small bar I remembered, and had a few drinks and a bite to eat. The place was dirty, noisy, cheap, and good. The kind of hole-in-the-wall I always look for when I have to eat out alone. Places like this put me at ease, never make me lonely. I can talk to myself and nobody listens or cares.