The Wind (1) and Up Bird Chronicle (2)

by Haruki Murakami

  She closed her eyes again, the cigarette still dangling from her lips. “Any old thing. And cool it with the damn questions.”

  I went to the wardrobe across the room, opened the doors, and, after some hesitation, took out a sleeveless blue shift and handed it to her. She pulled it over her head without bothering to put on panties, and zipped the back up herself. Then she let out another sigh.

  “Gotta run.”

  “Where to?”

  “Work,” she spat out, staggering to her feet. I sat there on the edge of the bed watching her as she washed her face and passed a brush through her hair.

  She kept her room neat but only to a degree, as if to make it any nicer wasn’t worth the effort. Resignation hung heavily in the air.

  The room was ten feet square and packed with cheap furniture, leaving enough space to lie down and no more. She stood there brushing her hair.

  “What kind of work?”

  “None of your business.”

  No argument there.

  I kept silent for the interval it took a cigarette to burn itself out. She was peering in the mirror with her back to me, massaging the dark lines under her eyes with her fingertips.

  “What time is it?” she asked again.

  “Ten after nine.”

  “We’ve got to go. Put on your clothes and go home,” she said, spraying her armpits with an aerosol can of eau de cologne. “You do have a home, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I replied, pulling on my T-shirt as I sat there on the bed. I took a long last look out the window. “Where are you headed?”

  “Near the harbor. What’s it to you?”

  “I’ll give you a lift. That way you won’t be late.”

  She stared at me, hairbrush in hand, looking as if she would burst into tears any minute. She’ll feel better if she does, I thought. But she didn’t.

  “Look, let’s get one thing clear. I drank too much, more than I could handle. Whatever happened after that is my responsibility.”

  She was slapping the handle of the brush against her hand in an almost businesslike manner. I didn’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.

  “Am I right?”

  “Sure.”

  “But a guy who’ll take advantage of a girl who’s passed out…you can’t get any lower than that.”

  “But we didn’t do anything.”

  A moment passed. I could see her struggling to control her anger.

  “Oh yeah? Then why was I naked?”

  “You took your own clothes off.”

  “Fat chance!”

  She hurled the brush on the bed and began hurriedly stuffing things into her shoulder bag. Wallet, lipstick, aspirin.

  “Can you prove we didn’t do anything?”

  “Why don’t you check and see?”

  “How the hell could I do that?” She was seriously pissed off.

  “You have my word of honor.”

  “I can’t trust you.”

  “You have no choice.” Now I was in a foul mood too.

  Giving up on our conversation, she pushed me out of her room, followed me through the door, and locked it.

  —

  We walked along the asphalt path bordering the river to the vacant lot where my car was parked without so much as a single word.

  I wiped the dust off the windshield with a tissue while she slowly circled the car, eyeing it with suspicion. She stopped to stare at the big white bull’s head painted on the hood. The bull had a huge ring through his nose and a white rose between his teeth. He was smiling a lewd smile.

  “Did you paint that?”

  “No, the previous owner did.”

  “Why a bull?”

  “Beats me.”

  She took two steps back to study the bull some more, then got in the car with her lips clamped shut, as if regretting having talked too much.

  The car was stifling hot, but she smoked one cigarette after another in silence all the way to the harbor, mopping her sweat with a towel as she smoked. She would light one up, take three puffs, examine the lipstick stain on the filter, and then butt it out in the car’s ashtray before firing up another.

  “Hey, about last night. What did I say?” she exclaimed, when we reached our destination.

  “All kinds of stuff.”

  “Like what? Tell me.”

  “Like about Kennedy, for example.”

  “Kennedy?”

  “Yeah, John F. Kennedy.”

  She shook her head and sighed.

  “I can’t remember a thing.”

  —

  When she got out of the car, she tucked a single thousand-yen bill behind my rearview mirror.

  10

  It was a real scorcher of a night. Hot enough to soft-boil an egg.

  The chill of the air-conditioning met me when I backed my way as usual through the heavy door of J’s Bar, the stale aroma of cigarettes, whiskey, French fries, unwashed armpits, and bad plumbing all neatly layered like a Baumkuchen. I took my usual seat at the end of the bar, back against the wall, and surveyed the scene. There were three French sailors in an unfamiliar uniform, two girls they had brought with them, and a young couple who looked about twenty years old. That was it. No sign of the Rat.

  I ordered a corned beef sandwich and a beer, pulled out my book, and leaned back to wait.

  Ten minutes later, a thirtyish woman in a gaudy dress, with breasts like grapefruits, entered the bar and took a seat two down from mine. She scanned the room just as I had done and ordered a gimlet. When the drink came, she took one sip, got up, walked over to the pay phone, and made a call that seemed to go on forever. When the call was over, she grabbed her purse and disappeared into the toilet. This pattern repeated itself three times over the next forty minutes. Gimlet, long phone call, purse, toilet.

  J the bartender came down to my end of the bar. “She’ll wear her ass out at this rate,” he muttered, a disgusted look on his face. J may be Chinese, but his Japanese is a hell of a lot better than mine.

  When the woman came back from the toilet a third time, she glanced around the room and then slid into the seat beside me.

  “I hate to ask,” she said in a low voice, “but could you lend me some change?”

  I dug the change out of my pocket and laid it on the counter. There were thirteen ten-yen coins in all.

  “You’re a doll. If I asked the bartender to break another bill, he’d just give me a dirty look.”

  “No problem. I feel a lot lighter now, thanks to you.”

  Smiling, she whisked the coins off the bar and disappeared in the direction of the phone.

  So much for reading. I had J move the portable TV set to the counter and settled back with a beer to watch the baseball game. Some game, too. It was only the top of the fourth inning, but in that half inning two pitchers gave up six hits, including two home runs, and one outfielder collapsed from the strain. When the new pitcher was brought in, they ran six commercials: for beer, life insurance, vitamins, an airline, potato chips, and sanitary napkins.

  The sailor, the one without a girl, I figured, came over to stand behind me, beer glass in hand.

  “What are you watching?” he asked in French.

  “Baseball,” I replied in English.

  “Beizeball?”

  I gave him a simple breakdown of the rules. That guy throws the ball, that guy tries to whack it with his stick, and if he makes it all the way around the bases it counts as one run. The sailor watched for five minutes, but when a commercial began he asked why there were no Johnny Hallyday records on the jukebox.

  “ ’Cause nobody likes him, that’s why,” I said.

  “Then what French singers do people like here?”

  “Adamo.”

  “He’s Belgian.”

  “Okay, then Michel Polnareff.”

  “Merde,” he swore, and headed back to his table.

  —

  It was the top of the fifth inning when the woman finally returned.

  �
��Thanks,” she said. “Let me buy you a drink in return.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  “No, really. I’m a girl who likes to give back what she gets. For better or worse.”

  I tried to smile back but it didn’t work, so I just nodded in reply. The woman summoned J with a raised finger and ordered a beer for me, another gimlet for herself. J gave three crisp nods and disappeared behind the end of the counter.

  “Looks like I’m being stood up. You too?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Is it a girl?”

  “No, a guy.”

  “Then we’re in the same boat. Gives us something to talk about.”

  I could only nod back.

  “Tell me, how old do I look?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Okay, then twenty-six.”

  “What a bullshit artist! But you’re nice,” she said, laughing. “Do I look single? Or like I’ve got a husband?”

  “Do I get a prize if I guess right?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Okay, then I guess you’re married.”

  “Mmm, you’re half right. I got divorced last month. Ever talk to a divorcée before?”

  “No, but I met a neuralgic cow once.”

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  “In the school lab. Took five of us to push it into the classroom.”

  The woman gave a hearty laugh.

  “Then you go to college?”

  “Yep.”

  “I was a college student once upon a time. Around 1960. Those were the good old days.”

  “How so?”

  She chuckled to herself and took a sip of her gimlet. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she looked at her wristwatch.

  “Got to make another call,” she said, standing up, purse in hand.

  My unanswered question hovered in the air after she was gone.

  I drank half the beer and asked J for my bill.

  “Hightailing it, huh?” J said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not into older women, are you.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with age. Give the Rat my best if he stops by.”

  When I left the bar, the woman was just embarking on her fourth visit to the toilet.

  —

  I found myself whistling in the car on the way home. It was a tune I had heard somewhere before, but I couldn’t place it. A real oldie. I pulled over to the side of the road and sat there staring out at the ocean under the night sky, trying my best to remember.

  Then I got it. It was “The Mickey Mouse Club Song.”

  Come along and sing a song and join the jamboree,

  M-I-C, K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E.

  Maybe those really were the good old days.

  11

  ON

  Hey, all you out there. How’re you feeling this evening? I’m feeling great myself, flying high, in fact. And I’m gonna try to bring you up to join me for the next two hours on your favorite program, The Greatest Hits Request Show, right here on NEB Radio. Yep, until nine o’clock on this beautiful Saturday night I’ll be cranking out all those hot tunes you love to hear. Songs to warm your heart, songs to bring back memories, fun songs, songs to make you get up and dance. Songs you’re sick of, songs that’ll make you wanna puke—you name it, we play it. So keep those calls pouring in. You all know the number. Just remember: “Dial it wrong, you lose your song; dial it right, you cruise all night.” Three syllables short of a haiku, but you can dig what I’m saying. Our lines opened at six, and for the last hour the phones have been ringing off the desks, all ten of them. You don’t believe me? Here, get an earful of this…Far out, huh? Yessirree, we’re cookin’ now. Dial till your finger falls off. Got to apologize for last week, though. So many calls came in, we blew a fuse. But we’re back in business now with a special cable they installed yesterday. Thing’s as thick as an elephant’s leg, let me tell you. “An elephant’s calf, looks bigger by half, beside a giraffe.” Darn, two syllables short this time! But you know where I’m coming from. Just lay back and let your fingers do the walking. Dial till you freak. Our staff here at the station may go nuts, but our fuse won’t blow this time. Right? So here we go. Today was hot enough to bum anyone out, a real downer, so let’s blow all those bad feelings away with the rock sounds you love to hear. After all, that’s what great music is for, isn’t it? Just like a dynamite chick. Okay, our first song of the evening. This one you can just sit back and enjoy. A great little number, and the best way to beat the heat. Brook Benton’s “Rainy Night in Georgia.”

  OFF

  Whew…I’m boiling in here, no kidding…Hey, can’t the air conditioner do any better than this?…It’s hotter than hell…Give me a break, okay? I sweat like a pig, you know that…

  Yeah, yeah, that’s better…

  Hey, I’m thirsty, can someone bring me a nice cold Coke?…No, don’t worry, I won’t have to take a leak. My bladder’s like a steel drum…Blad-der, you’ve got it…

  Thanks, Mi-chan. You’re tops, babe…Aah, that bottle’s nice and cold…

  Hey, where’s the freakin’ opener?…

  That’s crazy. No way I can open this with my teeth…Quit horsing around—the record’s ending. We haven’t got time…Opener!

  Shit!

  ON

  Brook Benton’s “Rainy Night in Georgia.” Great song. Feeling a bit cooler now? Guess how hot it got out there today, folks. Ninety-nine degrees! I don’t care if it is summer, it’s still too hot. A damn oven, is what it is. Ninety-nine means it’s cooler to get it on with your girlfriend. Try to get your head around that one. Okay, I’ve talked enough. Let’s spin another record. “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Let’s rock, baby!

  OFF

  …Hey, no sweat, I opened it with the corner of the mike stand…

  …Whew, that hits the spot…

  …Relax, I won’t start hiccupping. You’re kinda uptight, you know.

  …What’s the score of the baseball game?…It’s on another station, right?…

  …What? You’ve got to be kidding! This is a radio station, and we don’t have a single radio? That’s a criminal offense!…

  …Okay, forget it. I’ll take a beer instead. Make it nice and cold…

  …Hey, I feel a hiccup coming on. Oh shit!…

  …Hic!…

  12

  The phone rang at 7:15. I was stretched out on my rattan chair in the living room, drinking a can of beer and popping cheese crackers into my mouth.

  “A good evening to you, my friend. This is The Greatest Hits Request Show on NEB Radio. Are you listening to your radio?”

  I took a hasty slug of beer to wash the remnants of the cheese crackers down my throat.

  “Radio?”

  “Yes, your radio. The greatest invention…hic…of modern civilization. More precise than a vacuum cleaner, smaller than a refrigerator, cheaper than a TV. And what are you doing right now, my friend?”

  “Reading a book.”

  “That’s a real no-no. You should be listening to your radio. Reading will just make you lonely. Catch my drift?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “A book is good for killing time when you’re cooking spaghetti. Takes only one hand, get it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “All right, then…hic…now we can talk. Ever hear a DJ with hiccups before?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s the first time. Same as for all you listeners out there. So do you know why we’re calling you now, in the middle of our broadcast?”

  “No.”

  “Because, my friend, it just so happens…hic…a young lady has asked us to dedicate a song to you. Can you guess who she is?”

  “No.”

  “She has requested that blast from the past, ‘California Girls,’ by the Beach Boys. Ring a bell?”

  I thought for a moment, but nothing popped into my head.

  “C’mon now, you’ve got
to do better than that. Guess right and you’ll receive a special T-shirt in the mail.”

  I thought again. This time I could feel an infinitesimal something tugging at a corner of my memory.

  “ ‘California Girls’…the Beach Boys…any luck?”

  “Come to think of it, about five years ago a girl in my high school class lent me that record.”

  “What kind of girl?”

  “I helped her find her contact lens on one of our school trips. So she thanked me by lending me the record.”

  “Contact lens, huh?…So did you return the record?”

  “No, I lost it somewhere.”

  “Big mistake. You should have bought her a new copy. With women it’s okay if they owe you…hic…but not if you owe them. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right then. So that girl whose contact lens you found on a school trip five years ago is listening in right now, aren’t you, baby? Can you give me her name?”

  Finally, the name popped into my head. I told him.

  “So there you go, young lady. It looks as if he’s finally going to return that record. Made your day, I bet…By the way, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Great age. Student?”

  “Yes.”

  “…hic…”

  “Huh?”

  “And what are you majoring in?”

  “Biology.”

  “So you’re into animals?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What is it about them that you like?”

  “Maybe it’s because they don’t laugh.”

  “Ah, animals don’t laugh?”

  “Well, dogs and horses do a little.”

  “Like when?”

  “When they’re happy.”

  I could feel myself getting mad for the first time in years.

  “So then…hic…a dog could be a stand-up comic, couldn’t he.”

  “You’re proof of that.”

  “Hahahahaha.”

  13

  Well, East Coast girls are hip,

  I really dig those styles they wear,

  And the Southern girls with the way they talk