Dance Dance Dance

by Haruki Murakami

  “Hey,” I said to Yuki. “Could you tell about that man in the sheepskin? Where did you meet him? And how did you know I’d met him too?”

  She looked at me, placing the sunglasses back on the dashboard, then shrugged. “Okay, but first, will you answer something for me?”

  “I guess so,” I agreed.

  Yuki hummed along with a hangover-heavy Phil Collins song for a moment, then picked up the sunglasses again and played with them. “Do you remember what you said after we got back from Hokkaido? That I was the prettiest girl you ever dated?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you mean that? Or were you just trying to make me like you? Tell me honestly.”

  “Honestly, it’s the truth,” I said.

  “How many girls have you dated, up to now?”

  “I haven’t counted.”

  “Two hundred?”

  “Oh, come on,” I laughed. “I’m not that kind of a guy. I may play the field, but my field’s not that big. I’d say fifteen, max.”

  “That few?”

  I nodded. This gave her something to puzzle over.

  “Fifteen, huh?”

  “Around there,” I said. “Twenty on the outside.”

  “Twenty, huh?” sighed a disappointed Yuki. “But out of all of them, I’m the prettiest?”

  “Yes, you are the prettiest,” I said.

  “You never liked the beautiful type?” she asked, lighting up her second Virginia Slim. I spotted a policeman at the intersection ahead, grabbed the cigarette out of her hand, and flung it out the window.

  “I dated some pretty girls,” I went on. “But none of them was as pretty as you. I mean that. You probably will take this wrong, but you’re pretty in a different way. Nothing like most girls. But please, no smoking in the car, okay? You’ll stink it up. And I don’t want cops poking their nose in. Besides, don’t you know that girls who smoke too much when they’re young get irregular periods?”

  “Gimme a break,” she cried.

  “Now tell me about the guy in the sheepskin,” I said.

  “The Sheep Man?”

  “How do you know that was his name?”

  “You said it over the phone. The Sheep Man.”

  “Did I?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We were stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. Traffic, as we neared Tsujido, had picked up, and the light had to change twice before we could move on.

  “So about the Sheep Man. Where did you see him?”

  Yuki shrugged. “I never saw him. He just came into my head, when I saw you,” she said, winding a strand of her fine straight hair around her finger. “I just had this feeling. About a guy dressed in a sheepskin. Like a hunch. Whenever I ran into you at the hotel, I had this … feeling. So I brought it up. That was it.”

  I tried to make sense of that. I had to think, had to wrack my brains.

  “What do you mean by like a hunch?” I pressed her. “You mean you didn’t really see him? Or you only caught a glimpse of him?”

  “I don’t know how to put it,” she said. “It wasn’t like I saw him with my own eyes. It was more this feeling that someone had seen him, even though he was invisible. I couldn’t see anything, but inside, the feeling I had had a kind of shape. Not a definite shape. Something like a shape. If I had to show it to someone, they probably wouldn’t know what it was. It could only make sense to me. I’m not explaining this very well. Am I coming through at all?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Yuki raised her eyebrows and nibbled at the frame of my sunglasses.

  “Let me go over this again,” I tried. “You sensed something in me, some kind of feeling, or ideation—”

  “Ideation?”

  “A very strong thought. And it was attached to me and you visualized it, like you do in a dream. You mean something like that?”

  “Yeah, something kind of like that. A strong thought, but not only that. There was some thing behind it. Something powerful. Like energy that was creating the thinking. I could just feel that it was out there. They were like vibes that I could see. But not like a dream. Like an empty dream. That’s it, an empty dream. Nobody’s there, so you don’t see anybody. You know, like when you turn the contrast on the TV real low and the brightness way up. You can’t see a thing. But there’s an image in the picture, and if you squint real hard, you can feel what the image is. You know what I mean?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Anyway, I could sort of see this man in a sheepskin. He didn’t seem evil or anything like that. Maybe he wasn’t even a man. But the thing is, he wasn’t bad. I don’t know how to put it. You can’t see it, but it’s like a heat rubbing, you know it’s something, like a form without a shape.” She clicked her tongue. “Sorry, awful explanation.”

  “You’re explaining just fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I said.

  We continued our drive along the sea. Beside a pine grove, I pulled the car over and suggested we go for a short walk. The afternoon was pleasant, hardly any wind, the surf gentle. Just a rippling sheet of tiny waves drawing in toward shore. Perfect peaceful periodicity. The surfers had all given up and were sitting around on the beach in their wet suits, smoking. The white smoke trail from burning trash rose nearly straight up into the blue, and off to the left drifted the island of Enoshima, faint and miragelike. A large black dog trotted across the breakers from right to left. In the distance fishing boats dotted the deeper waters, while noiseless white clouds of sea gulls swirled above them. Spring had come even to the sea.

  Yuki and I strolled the path along the shore, passing joggers and high school girls on bicycles going the other way. We ambled in the direction of Fujisawa, then we sat down on the sand and looked out to sea.

  “Do you often have experiences like that?” I asked.

  “Sometimes,” said Yuki. “Rarely, actually. I get these feelings from very few people. And I try to avoid them if I can. If I get a feeling, I try not to think about it, I try to close it off. That way I don’t have to feel it so deep. It’s like if you close your eyes, you don’t have to see what’s in front of you. You know something’s there, like with a scary part in the movies, but you don’t have to see it if you shut your eyes and keep them shut until the scary part is over.”

  “But why should you close yourself up?”

  “Because it’s horrible to see it,” she said. “When I was small, I didn’t close up. At school, if I felt something, I just came right out and told everybody about it. But then, it made everyone sick. If someone was going to get hurt, I’d say, so-and-so is going to get hurt, and sure enough, she would. That happened over and over again, until everyone started treating me like a weird spook. That’s what they called me. ‘Spook.’ That was the kind of reputation I had. It was terrible. So ever since then, I decided not to say anything. And now if I feel like I’m going to feel anything, I just close myself up.”

  “But with me you didn’t close up.”

  She shrugged. “It was an accident. There wasn’t any warning. Really, suddenly, the image just popped up. The very first time I saw you. I was listening to music … Duran Duran or David Bowie or somebody … and I wasn’t on guard. I was relaxed. That’s why I like music.”

  “Then you’re kind of clairvoyant?” I asked. “Like when, say, you knew beforehand that a classmate was going to get hurt.”

  “Maybe. But kind of different. When something’s going to happen, there’s this atmosphere that gives me the feeling it’s going to happen. I know it sounds funny, for instance, with someone who’s going to get injured on the high bar, there’s this carelessness or this overconfidence that’s in the air, almost like waves. People who are sensitive can pick up these waves. They’re like pockets in the air, maybe even solid pockets in the air. You can tell that there’s danger. That’s when those empty dreams pop up. And when they do … Well, that’s what they are. They aren’t like premonitions. They’re more unfocused. But they
appear and I can see them but I’m not talking about them anymore. I don’t want people calling me a spook. I just keep my mouth shut. I might see that that person over there is maybe going to get burned. And maybe he does get burned. But he can’t blame me. Isn’t that horrible? I hate myself for it. That’s why I close up. If I close myself, I don’t hate myself.”

  She scooped up sand and sifted it through her fingers.

  “Is there really a Sheep Man?” she asked.

  “Yes, there really is,” I said. “There’s a place in that hotel where he lives. A whole other hotel in that hotel. You can’t see it most of the time. But it’s there. That’s where the Sheep Man lives, and all sorts of things connect to me through there. The Sheep Man is kind of like my caretaker, kind of like a switchboard operator. If he weren’t around, I wouldn’t be able to connect anymore.”

  “Huh? Connect?”

  “Yeah, when I’m in search of something, when I want to connect, he’s the one who does it.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  I scooped up some sand and let it run through my fingers too.

  “I still don’t really understand it myself. But that’s how the Sheep Man explained it to me.”

  “You mean, the Sheep Man’s been there from way back?”

  “Uh-huh, for ages. Since I was a kid. But I didn’t realize he had the form of the Sheep Man until not so long ago. Why is he around? I don’t know. Maybe I needed him. Maybe because as you get older, things fall apart, so something needs to help hold things together. Put the brakes a little on entropy, you know. But how do I know? The more I think about it, the stranger it seems. Stupid even.”

  “You ever tell anybody else about it?”

  “No. If I did, who would believe me? Who would understand what the hell I was talking about? And anyway, I can’t explain it very well. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  “I’ve never talked to anybody about this thing I have either. Mama and Papa know about it a little, but we never discussed it or anything. After what happened in school, I just clamped up about it.”

  “Well, I guess I’m glad we had this talk,” I said.

  “Welcome to the Spook Club,” said Yuki.

  “I haven’t gone to school since last summer vacation,” Yuki told me as we strolled back to the car. “It’s not because I don’t like to study. I just hate the place. I can’t stand it. It makes me sick, physically sick. I was puking every day and every time I puked, they’d gang up on me some more. Even the teachers were picking on me.”

  “Why would anyone want to pick on someone as pretty as you?”

  “Kids just like to pick on other kids. And if your parents are famous, it can be even worse. Sometimes they treat you special, but with me, they treat me like trash. Anyway, I have trouble getting along with people to begin with. I’m always tense because I might have to close myself up any moment, you know. So I developed this nervous twitch, which makes me look like a duck, and they tease me about that. Kids can be really mean. You wouldn’t believe how mean …”

  “It’s all right,” I said, grabbing for Yuki’s hand and holding it. “Forget about them. If you don’t feel like going to school, don’t. Don’t force yourself. School can be a real nightmare. I know. You have these brown-nosing idiots for classmates and these teachers who act like they own the world. Eighty percent of them are deadbeats or sadists, or both. Plus all those ridiculous rules. The whole system’s designed to crush you, and so the goodie-goodies with no imagination get good grades. I bet that hasn’t changed a bit.”

  “Was it like that for you too?”

  “Of course. I could talk a blue streak about how idiotic school is.”

  “But junior high school is compulsory.”

  “That’s for other people to worry about, not you. It’s not compulsory to go someplace where you’re miserable. Not at all. You have rights too, you know.”

  “And then what do I do after that? Is it always going to be like this?”

  “Things sure seemed that way when I was thirteen,” I said. “But that’s not how it happens. Things can work out. And if they don’t, well, you can deal with that when the time comes. Get a little older, you’ll fall in love. You’ll buy brassieres. The whole way you look at the world will change.”

  “Boy, are you a dolt!” she turned to me and shook her head in disbelief. “For your information, thirteen-year-old girls already wear bras. You’re half a century behind, I swear!”

  “I’m only thirty-four,” I reminded her.

  “Fifty years,” said Yuki. “Time flies when you’re a dolt.”

  And at that, she walked to the car ahead of me.

  By the time we reached Yuki’s father’s house near the beach, it was dusk. The house was big and old, the property thick with trees. The area exuded the old charm of a Shonan resort villa. In the grace of the spring evening all was still. Cherry trees were beginning to fill out with buds, a prelude to the magnolias. A masterful orchestration of colors and scents whose change day to day reflected the sweep of the seasons. To think there were still places like this.

  The Makimura villa was circumscribed by a high wooden fence, the gate surmounted by a small, traditional gabled roof. Only the nameplate was new. We rang the doorbell and soon a tall youth in his mid-twenties came to let us in. With short-cropped hair and a pleasant smile, he was clean-cut and amiable—not unlike Gotanda but without the refinement. Apparently Yuki had met him several times before. Leading us around to the back of the house, he introduced himself as Makimura’s assistant.

  “I act as his chauffeur, deliver his manuscripts, research, caddy, accompany him overseas, whatever,” he explained eagerly. “I am what in times past was known as a gentleman’s valet.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  I felt sure Yuki was about to come out with something rude, but to my surprise she said nothing. Apparently she could be discreet if she wanted to.

  Makimura was practicing his golf swing in the backyard. A green net had been stretched between the trunks of two pines. The famous writer was trying to hit the target in the center with little white balls. When his club sliced through the air, you’d hear this whoosh. One of my least favorite sounds. Asthmatic and hollow. Though it was pure prejudice that I should feel that way. I hated golf.

  Makimura set down his club and wiped his forehead with a towel. “Good to see you,” he said to Yuki, who pretended not to have heard. Averting her eyes, she fished a stick of gum from the pocket of her jacket and began to chew with loud cracks. Then she wadded up the wrapper and tossed it into a potted plant.

  “How about a hello at least?” Makimura tried again.

  “Hello,” Yuki sneered, plunging her hands into her pockets and wandering off.

  “Boy, bring us some beer,” Makimura called out rather curtly.

  “Yes sir,” the manservant answered in a clear voice and hurried into the house. Makimura coughed and spat, wiped his forehead again. Then ignoring my presence for the time being, he squinted at the target on the green net and concentrated. I concerned myself idly with the moss-covered rocks.

  The whole scene seemed artificial—and more than a little absurd. There wasn’t anything specific that seemed odd. It was more the sense that I had happened upon the stage of an elaborate parody. The author and his valet—except that Gotanda could have played either role better and with more sophistication and appeal.

  “Yuki tells me you’ve been looking after her,” said the famous man.

  “It wasn’t anything special,” I said. “I merely got her onto a flight coming back from Hokkaido. More important, though, let me thank you for the help with the police.”

  “Uh, oh that? No, not at all. Glad to be able to return a favor. It’s so rare that my daughter asks me for anything. I was very happy to help. I hate the police. I had a run-in with them at the Diet way back in the sixties when Michiko Kanba was killed. Back in those times—”

  At that he bent over from the waist and gripped his
golf club, tapping its head on his foot. He turned to look me in the face, then glanced down at my feet and up at my face again.

  “—when a man knew what was right and what wasn’t right,” said Hiraku Makimura.

  I nodded without much conviction.

  “You play golf?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said.

  “You dislike golf?”

  “I don’t like it or dislike it. I’ve never played.”

  He laughed. “There’s no such thing as not liking or disliking golf. People who’ve never played golf hate golf. That’s the way it is. So be honest with me.”

  “Okay, I don’t like golf,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I guess it strikes me as silly. The overblown gear, the cute carts, the flags and the pompous clothes and shoes. The look in the eyes, the way ears prick up when you crouch down to read the turf. Little things like that bother me.”

  “The way ears prick up?”

  “Just something I’ve observed. It doesn’t mean anything. But there’s something about golf that doesn’t sit well with me,” I answered, summing up.

  Makimura stared at me blankly.

  “Is there something wrong with you, son?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’m perfectly normal. I guess my jokes aren’t very funny.”

  Before long, the manservant brought out beer on a tray with two glasses. He set the tray down, poured for us, then quickly disappeared.

  “Cheers,” said Makimura, raising his glass.

  “Cheers,” I said, doing the same.

  I couldn’t quite place Makimura’s age, but he had to be at least in his mid-forties. He wasn’t tall, but his solid frame made him seem like a large man. Broad-chested, thick arms and neck. His neck was thick. If it were trimmer, he could have passed for a sportsman, as opposed to someone with years of dissipated living. I remembered photos of a young, slender Makimura with a piercing gaze. He hadn’t been particularly handsome, but he had presence, which he still had. How many years ago had it been? Fifteen? Sixteen? Today, his hair was short, peppered with gray. He was well-tanned and wore a wine-red Lacoste shirt, which couldn’t be buttoned around the neck.