Sputnik Sweetheart

by Haruki Murakami

  How are you?

  I can imagine how surprised you must be to all of a sudden get a letter from me from Rome. You’re so cool, though, it’d probably take more than Rome to surprise you. Rome’s a bit too touristy. It’d have to be someplace like Greenland, Timbuktu, or the Strait of Magellan, wouldn’t it? Though I can tell you I find it hard to believe that here I am in Rome.

  Anyhow, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to take you out to dinner like we planned. This Europe trip came about out of the blue, right after I moved. After that it was utter madness for a few days—running out to apply for a passport, buying suitcases, finishing up some work I’d begun. I’m not very good at remembering things—I don’t need to tell you, do I?—but I do try my best to keep my promises. The ones I remember, that is. Which is why I want to apologize for not keeping our dinner date.

  I really enjoy my new apartment. Moving is certainly a pain (I know you did most of the work, for which I’m grateful; still, it’s a pain), but once you’re all moved in it’s pretty nice. There’re no roosters crowing in my new place, as in Kichijoji, instead a lot of crows making a racket like some old wailing women. At dawn flocks of them assemble in Yoyogi Park, and make such a ruckus you’d think the world was about to end. No need for an alarm clock, since the racket always wakes me up. Thanks to which I’m now like you, living an early-to-bed-early-to-rise farmer’s lifestyle. I’m beginning to understand how it feels to have someone call you at three-thirty in the morning. Beginning to understand, mind you.

  I’m writing this letter at an outdoor café on a side street in Rome, sipping espresso as thick as the devil’s sweat, and I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put it into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and some-one came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back to-gether again. That sort of feeling. Can you understand what I’m getting at?

  My eyes tell me I’m the same old me, but something’s different from usual. Not that I can clearly recall what “usual” was. Ever since I stepped off the plane I can’t shake this very real, deconstructive illusion. Illusion? I guess that’s the word. . . .

  Sitting here, asking myself, “Why am I in Rome, of all places?” everything around me starts to look unreal. Of course if I trace the details of how I got here I can come up with an explanation, but on a gut level I’m still not convinced. The me sitting here and the image of me I have are out of sync. To put it another way, I don’t particularly need to be here, but nonetheless here I am. I know I’m being vague, but you understand me, don’t you?

  There’s one thing I can say for sure: I wish you were here. Even though I have Miu with me, I’m lonely being so far away from you. If we were even farther apart, I know I’d feel even more lonely. I’d like to think you feel the same way.

  So anyhow, here Miu and I are, traipsing around Europe. She had some business to take care of and was planning originally to go around Italy and France by herself for two weeks, but asked me to come along as her personal secretary. She just blurted this out one morning, took me by complete surprise. My title might be “personal secretary,” but I don’t think I’m much use to her; still, the experience will do me good, and Miu tells me the trip’s her present to me for quitting smoking. So all the agony I went through paid off in the end.

  We landed first in Milan, went sightseeing, then rented a blue Alfa Romeo and headed south on the autostrada. We went around a few wineries in Tuscany, and after taking care of business stayed a few nights in a charming little hotel, and then arrived in Rome. Business is always conducted in either English or French, so I don’t have much of a role to play, though my Italian has come in handy in day-to-day things as we travel. If we went to Spain (which unfortunately won’t happen on this trip), I might be of more use to Miu.

  The Alfa Romeo we rented was a manual shift, so I was no help at all. Miu did all the driving. She can drive for hours and never seems to mind. Tuscany is all hills and curves, and it was amazing how smoothly she shifted gears up and down; watching her made me (and I’m not joking here) shiver all over. Being away from Japan, and simply being by her side, are quite enough to satisfy me. If only we could stay this way forever.

  Next time I’ll write about all the wonderful meals and wine we’ve had in Italy; it’d take too much time to do so now. In Milan we walked from store to store shopping. Dresses, shoes, underwear. Other than some pajamas (I’d forgotten to take mine), I didn’t buy anything. I didn’t have much money, and besides there were so many beautiful things I had no idea where to start. That’s the situation where my sense of judgment blows a fuse. Just being with Miu as she shopped was sufficient. She’s an absolute master shopper, choosing only the most exquisite things, and buying only a select few. Like taking a bite of the tastiest part of a dish. Very smart and charming. When I watched her select some expensive silk stockings and underwear I found it hard to breathe. Drops of sweat popped out on my forehead. Which is pretty strange when you think about it. I’m a girl, after all. I guess that’s enough about shopping—writing about all that, too, will make this too long.

  At hotels we stay in separate rooms. Miu seems very insistent on this. One time only, in Florence, our reservation got messed up somehow and we ended up having to share a room. The room had twin beds, but just being able to sleep in the same room with her made my heart leap. I caught a glimpse of her coming out of the bath with a towel wrapped around her, and of her changing her clothes. Naturally I pretended not to look and read my book, but I did manage a peek. Miu has a truly gorgeous figure. She wasn’t completely nude, but wore some tiny underwear; still her body was enough to take my breath away. Very slim, tight buns, a thoroughly attractive woman. I wish you could have seen it—though it’s a little weird for me to say that.

  I imagined being held by that lithe, slim body. All sorts of obscene images came to mind as I lay in bed, in the same room with her, and I felt these thoughts gradually pushing me to some other place. I think I got a little too worked up—my period started that same night, way ahead of schedule. What a pain that was. Hmm. I know telling you this isn’t going to get me anywhere. But I’ll go ahead anyway—just to get the facts down on paper.

  Last night we attended a concert in Rome. I wasn’t expecting much, it being the off-season, but we managed to enjoy an incredible performance. Martha Argerich playing Liszt’s Piano Concerto no. 1. I adore that piece. The conductor was Giuseppe Sinopoli. What a performance! Can’t slouch when you listen to that kind of music—it was absolutely the most expansive, fantastic music I’ve ever heard. Come to think of it, maybe it was a bit too perfect for my taste. Liszt’s piece needs to be a bit slippery, and furtive—like music at a village festival. Take out the difficult parts and let me feel the thrill—that’s what I like. Miu and I agreed on this point. There’s a Vivaldi festival in Venice, and we’re talking about going. Like when you and I talk about literature, Miu and I can talk about music till the cows come home.

  This letter’s getting pretty long, isn’t it? It’s like once I take hold of a pen and start to write I can’t stop halfway. I’ve always been like that. They say well-brought-up girls don’t overstay their welcome, but when it comes to writing (maybe not just writing?) my manners are hopeless. The waiter, with his white jacket, sometimes looks over at me with this disgusted look on his face. But even my hand gets tired, I’ll admit. Besides, I’ve run out of paper.

  Miu is out visiting an old friend in Rome, and I wandered the streets near the hotel, decided to take a break in this café I ran across, and here I am busily writing away to you. Like I’m on a desert island and I’m sending out a message in a bottle. Strange thing is, when I’m not with Miu I don’t feel like going anywhere. I’ve come all this way to Rome (and most likely won’t get back again), but I just can’t rouse myself to get up and see those ruins—what do they call those?—or those famous fountains. Or even to go shopping. It’s enough just to sit here in a café, sniff the smell of the city, like a dog might, listen to v
oices and sounds, and gaze at the faces of the people passing by.

  And suddenly I just got the feeling, while writing this letter to you, that what I described in the beginning—the strange sense of being disassembled—is starting to fade. It doesn’t bother me so much now. It’s like the way I feel when I’ve called you up in the middle of the night and just finished the call and stepped out of the phone booth. Maybe you have that kind of effect on me?

  What do you think? At any rate, please pray for my happiness and good fortune. I need your prayers.

  Bye for now.

  P.S. I’ll probably be back home around the fifteenth of August. Then we can have dinner together—I promise!—before the summer’s over.

  Five days later a second letter came, posted from some obscure French village. A shorter letter than the first. Miu and Sumire had turned in their rental car in Rome and taken a train to Venice. There they listened to two full days of Vivaldi. Most of the concerts were held at the church where Vivaldi had served as a priest. “If I don’t hear any more Vivaldi for six months that’s fine by me,” Sumire wrote. Her descriptions of the delicious paper-wrapped grilled seafood in Venice were so realistic they made me want to dash over there to try some for myself.

  After Venice, Miu and Sumire returned to Milan and then flew to Paris. They took a break in Paris, shopping some more, then boarded a train to Burgundy. One of Miu’s good friends owned a huge house, a manor really, where they stayed. As in Italy, Miu made the rounds of several small wineries on business. On free afternoons they took a picnic-basket lunch and went walking in the woods nearby. With a couple of bottles of wine to complement the meal, of course. “The wine here is simply out of this world,” Sumire wrote.

  Somehow, though, it looks like our original plan of returning to Japan on the fifteenth of August is going to change. After our work is done in France we may be taking a short vacation on a Greek island. This English gentleman we happened to meet here—a real gentleman, mind you—owns a villa on the island and invited us to use it for as long as we like. Great news! Miu likes the idea, too. We need a break from work, some time to just kick back and relax. The two of us lying on the pure white beaches of the Aegean, two beautiful sets of breasts pointed toward the sun, sipping wine with a scent of pine resin in it, just watching the clouds drift by. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?

  It certainly does, I thought.

  That afternoon I went to the public pool and paddled around, stopped by a nicely air-conditioned coffee shop on the way home, and read for an hour. When I got back to my place I listened to both sides of an old Ten Years After LP while ironing three shirts. Ironing done, I drank some cheap wine I’d gotten on sale, mixed with Perrier, and watched a soccer match I’d videotaped. Every time I saw a pass I thought I wouldn’t have done myself, I shook my head and sighed. Judging the mistakes of strangers is an easy thing to do—and it feels pretty good.

  After the soccer match I sank back into my chair, stared at the ceiling, and imagined Sumire in her village in France. By now she was already on that Greek island. Lying on the beach, gazing at the passing clouds. Either way, she was a long way away from me. Rome, Greece, Timbuktu, Aruanda—it didn’t matter. She was far far away. And most likely that was the future in a nutshell, Sumire growing ever more distant. It made me sad. I felt like I was a meaningless bug clinging for no special reason to a high stone wall on a windy night, with no plans, no beliefs. Sumire said she missed me. But she had Miu beside her. I had no one. All I had was—me. Same as always.

  Sumire didn’t come back on August 15. Her phone still just had a curt I’m away on a trip recording on it. One of her first purchases after she moved was a phone with an answering machine. So she wouldn’t have to go out on rainy nights, umbrella in hand, to a phone booth. An excellent idea all around. I didn’t leave a message.

  I called her again on the eighteenth but got the same recording. After the lifeless beep I left my name and a simple message for her to call me when she got back. Most likely she and Miu found their Greek island too much fun to want to leave.

  In the interval between my two calls I coached one soccer practice at my school and slept once with my girlfriend. She was well tanned, having just returned from a vacation in Bali with her husband and two children. As I held her I thought of Sumire on her Greek island. Inside her, I couldn’t help but imagine Sumire’s body.

  If I hadn’t known Sumire I could have easily fallen for this woman, seven years my senior (and whose son was one of my students). She was a beautiful, energetic, kind woman. She wore a bit too much makeup for my liking, but dressed nicely. She worried about being a little overweight but didn’t need to. I certainly wasn’t about to complain about her sexy figure. She knew all my desires, everything I wanted and didn’t want. She knew just how far to go and when to stop—in bed and out. Made me feel like I was flying first class.

  “I haven’t slept with my husband for almost a year,” she revealed to me as she lay in my arms. “You’re the only one.”

  But I couldn’t love her. For whatever reason, that unconditional, natural intimacy Sumire and I had just wasn’t there. A thin, transparent veil always came between us. Visible or not, a barrier remained. Awkward silences came on us all the time—particularly when we said goodbye. That never happened with me and Sumire. Being with this woman confirmed one undeniable fact: I needed Sumire more than ever.

  After the woman left, I went for a walk alone, wandered aimlessly for a while, then dropped by a bar near the station and had a Canadian Club on the rocks. As always at times like those, I felt like the most wretched person alive. I quickly drained my first drink and ordered another. Closed my eyes and thought of Sumire. Sumire topless, sunbathing on the white sands of a Greek island. At the table next to me four college boys and girls were drinking beer, laughing it up and having a good time. An old number by Huey Lewis and the News was playing. I could smell pizza baking.

  When did my youth slip away from me? I suddenly thought. It was over, wasn’t it? Seemed just like yesterday I was still only half grown up. Huey Lewis and the News had a couple of hit songs then. Not so many years ago. And now here I was, inside a closed circuit, spinning my wheels. Knowing I wasn’t getting anywhere but spinning just the same. I had to. Had to keep that up or I wouldn’t be able to survive.

  That night I got a phone call from Greece. At 2:00 a.m.

  But it wasn’t Sumire. It was Miu.

  CHAPTER 7

  The first thing I heard was a man’s deep voice, in heavily accented English, spouting my name and then shouting, “I’ve reached the right person, yes?” I’d been fast asleep. My mind was a blank, a rice paddy in the middle of a rainstorm, and I couldn’t figure out what was going on. The bedsheets still retained a faint memory of the afternoon’s lovemaking, and reality was one step out of line, a cardigan with the buttons done up wrong. The man spoke my name again. “I’ve reached the right person, yes?”

  “Yes, you have,” I replied. It didn’t sound like my name, but there it was. For a while there was a crackle of static, as if two different air masses had collided. Must be Sumire making an overseas call from Greece, I imagined. I held the receiver away from my ear a bit, waiting for her voice to come on. But the voice I heard next wasn’t Sumire’s, but Miu’s. “I’m sure you’ve heard about me from Sumire?”

  “Yes, I have,” I answered.

  Her voice on the phone line was distorted by some far-off, inorganic substance, but I could still sense the tension in it. Something rigid and hard flowed through the phone like clouds of dry ice and into my room, throwing me wide awake. I bolted upright in bed and adjusted my grip on the receiver.

  “I have to talk quickly,” Miu said breathlessly. “I’m calling from a Greek island, and it’s next to impossible to get through to Tokyo—even when you do they cut you off. I tried so many times, and finally got through. So I’m going to skip formalities and get right to the point, if you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind,” I s
aid.

  “Can you come here?”

  “By ‘here,’ you mean Greece?”

  “Yes. As soon as you possibly can.”

  I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Did something happen to Sumire?”

  A pause as Miu took in a breath. “I still don’t know. But I think she would want you to come here. I’m certain of it.”

  “You think she would?”

  “I can’t get into it over the phone. There’s no telling when we’ll be cut off, and besides, it’s a delicate sort of problem, and I’d much rather talk to you face-to-face. I’ll pay the round-trip fare. Just come. The sooner the better. Just buy a ticket. First class, whatever you like.”

  The new term at school began in ten days. I’d have to be back before then, but if I wanted to, a round-trip to Greece wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. I was scheduled to go to school twice during the break to take care of some business, but I should be able to have somebody cover for me.

  “I’m pretty sure I can go,” I said. “Yes, I think I can. But where exactly is it I’m supposed to go?”

  She told me the name of the island. I wrote down what she said on the inside cover of a book next to my bedside. The name sounded vaguely familiar.

  “You take a plane from Athens to Rhodes, then take a ferry. There are two ferries a day to the island, one in the morning and one in the evening. I’ll go down to the harbor whenever the ferries arrive. Will you come?”

  “I think I’ll make it somehow. It’s just that I—,” I started to say, and the line went dead. Suddenly, violently, like someone taking a hatchet to a rope. And again that awful static. Thinking we might be reconnected, I sat there for a minute, phone against my ear, waiting, but all I heard was that grating noise. I hung up the phone and got out of bed. In the kitchen I had a glass of cold barley tea and leaned back against the fridge, trying to gather my thoughts.