Spider Monkey at Night
Spider Monkey at Night
1995, Heibonsha
Revised on March 17, 2005
Short Stories:
Ⅰ
Horn (translated by OSAKABE Yoshio)
Pencil Sharpner - or, the Serendipity of WATANABE Noboru, Part I
(translated by Christopher Allison)
Julio Iglesias (translated by Christopher Allison)
Time Machine - or, the Serendipity of WATANABE Noboru, Part II
(translated by Christopher Allison)
Croquettes (translated by Christopher Allison)
Playing Cards (translated by OSAKABE Yoshio)
Newspaper (translated by OSAKABE Yoshio)
Donutization (translated by Christopher Allison)
Antithesis (tranlated by OSAKABE Yoshio)
Eels (translated by Christopher Allison)
TAKAYAMA Noriko-san and my Sexual Desire (translated by OSAKABE
Yoshio)
Octopus (translated by Christopher Allison)
A Raid by the Old Man Mushikubo (translated by OSAKABE Yoshio)
Spanner
Donuts, again (translated by OSAKABE Yoshio)
Ⅱ
Spider-monkey at Night
Advertisement for Jazz Cafe in Kokubunji a long time ago (translated
by Christopher Allison)
The World Where Horses Sell Tickets (translated by Christopher
Allison)
Bangkok Surprise (translated by Christopher Allison)
Beer
Proverbs
Structurism
A Radish Grater
Message Phone
Stockings (translated by Christopher Allison)
Milk
Good News
High Efficient Stilts
Zoo
The India Salesman (translated by Christopher Allison)
Back of Ceiling
Mosho Mosho
A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall
Nicol, the Liar
Deep Red Mustard
About night whisle, or about Effect of Tale
Back
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Horn
By MURAKAMI Haruki
Translated by OSAKABE Yoshio
There is a musical instrument such as the horn. And there are
professional hornists. Although it is the natural way of the world,
I’m confused like lost in a three-dimensional labyrinth when I start
to consider such a thing seriously.
Why should it be a horn?
Why did he become the hornist? Why not me?
An act of a person becoming a hornist carries deeper mystery than an
act becoming a novelist, I believe. It is the mystery you can
understand everything in your life if you solve it. But the reason
may be I am a novelist, not a hornist. If I am a hornist, an act of
a person becoming a novelist looks much strange.
I imagine he happened to encounter with the horn one afternoon in a
deep forest. During chitchatting, they liked each other and he
became the professional hornist. Or the horn might tell him a story
of the horn’s life, something like a hard time in its boyhood, its
complicated family background, a complex of its feature or its
sexual hang-up.
“I don’t know anything about a violin and flute,” The horn might
have said such as “you see I was born as a horn. I haven’t gone
abroad or skiing…” Since the afternoon, the horn and the hornist
became an inseparable and perfect combination. After the same old,
hard times like Flash Dance, the horn and the hornist, hand in hand,
appear today on the public stage and are playing the first passage
of Brahms’s piano concerto.
Sitting on my seat in the concert hall, I happen to think about such
a thing. And also about a tuba in another deep forest, waiting for
someone to walk by.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pencil Sharpener
Or, the Serendipity of Noboru Watanabe, part I
by MURAKAMI Haruki
Translated by Christopher Allison
If there wasn't a guy named Noboru Watanabe, I would, no doubt,
still be using a ratty old pencil sharpener. Thanks to Noboru
Watanabe, a shiny new pencil sharpener has come into my possession.
This kind of good fortune does not happen everyday.
When Noboru Watanabe came into my kitchen, he immediately spied my
old pencil sharpener sitting on the table. That day, I had been
working at the kitchen table for a change of pace. Thus, the pencil
sharpener had been left between a bottle of soy sauce and the salt
shaker.
Noboru Watanabe, while he was fixing the sink's drain--he being the
plumber--now and then would steal a glance at the table top out of
the corner of his eye. But at that time, since there was no way of
knowing that he was a maniacal collector of pencil sharpeners, I
couldn't figure out what in the world he was so interested in on the
table top, at which he kept stealing such pointed glances. There
were many and varied things scattered on the table.
"You know, sir, that's a really nice pencil sharpener you've got
there," Noboru Watanabe said, after he had finished with the pipe
repair.
"This?" Surprised, I picked it up off the table. It was the same
ordinary hand-operated gadget I'd been using for more than 20 years,
since my middle school days, and it was no different from any other.
The metal part was badly rusted, and on top an 'Atom Seal' sticker
had been stuck. In short, it was old and dirty.
"What you have there is a 1963 model Marx PSD. Very rare," Noboru
Watanabe said. "The way the blade cuts is a little different from
any other type. The shape of the shavings is subtly different."
"Wow," I said.
It was thus that I attained a brand new pencil sharpener of the
latest model, and Noboru Watanabe came away with a 1963 model Marx
PSD (with Atom Seal). Noboru Watanabe always carries new pencil
sharpeners around in his bag, to exchange in barter under just such
circumstances. Although it will doubtless recur, this kind of
serendipity does not come too often in one lifetime.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Julio Iglesias
by Haruki Murakami
Translated by Christopher Allison
After the mosquito coils disappeared, there was not one single thing
left to protect us from the attack of the sea turtle. I had tried to
order more mosquito coils both by mail and by telephone, but the
telephone line had been cut, and mail service had stopped about two
weeks before. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was
that there was nothing to prevent that crafty sea turtle from doing
just what he pleased. Until now, he's been forced to drink ancient
sea brine, thanks to the mosquito coils we had with us. Now,
however, he was probably smiling contentedly to himself, down at the
bottom of the deep blue sea, maybe chuckling a little, and taking a
nap in preparation for nightfall.
"We've done for," she said to me. "When night comes, we'd both be
devoured by the sea turtle."
"We must not give up hope," I said. "If we wrack our brains, we'd
defeat this vile sea turtle."
"But the sea turtle stole every last one of our mosquito coils."
"We're got to try to think theoretically. If the sea turtle hates
mosquito coils so much, there must be something else that he hates
as well."
"For example?"
"Julio Iglesias," I said.
"Why Julio Iglesias?" she asked.
"I don't know. It just suddenly popped into my head. Like intuition
or something."
Following my instincts, I put Julio Iglesias "Begin the Begine" on
the Hi-Fi system's turntable and waited for sunset. When it got
dark, the sea turtle would certainly launch his attack. Then, all
would be decided: whether we would be eaten, or whether the sea
turtle would weep.
Just before midnight, I heard the sound of squishy footsteps near
the entranceway, and dropped the needle onto the record
straightaway. When Julio Iglesias's sugar-water voice began to sing
"Begin the Begine," the footsteps immediately stopped, and in their
place could be heard a sea turtle anguished moaning.
We had beaten the sea turtle.
That night, Julio Iglesias sang "Begin the Begine" 126 times. While
I hate Julio Iglesias too, it wasn't nearly as bad as the sea
turtle.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time Machine
Or, the Serendipity of Noboru Watanabe, part II
by MURAKAMI Haruki
Translated by Christopher Allison
There was a knock at the door.
I left the peel of the tangerine I was eating on top of the kotatsu
and went to the genkan, only to find Noboru Watanabe (plumber and
collector of pencil sharpeners) standing there. It was about 6:30,
so Noboru Watanabe said "Good evening."
"Good evening," I replied, not really knowing why. "Uhh, I don't
remember calling for any work..."
"Yes, I know. Today I would like to ask a favor of you. You have an
old fashioned time machine in your house, and I thought that...well,
that you might consider swapping it for a brand new one."
"Time machine?" I repeated to myself, a little surprised. But the
surprise wouldn't go away. "Yes, there is," I said casually. "You
want to see it?"
"Yes, if I might."
And so I accompanied Noboru Watanabe to my four-and-a-half mat room,
with the tangerine peel still sitting on the electric kotatsu.
"Ah, the time machine," he said. I thought he had a sense of humor
kind of like mine.
But Noboru Watanabe didn't laugh. Rolling back the kotatsu futon
with a grave demeanor, he turned the knobs, checked the graduations,
and tugged gently at the four legs, one by one.
"This is an amazing piece, sir," he said with a sigh. "Incredible.
It's a 1971 model National 'Hoka-Hoka.' Of course you think so too,
sir?"
"Yeah, sure," I replied agreeably. One of the legs was a little
wobbly, but warmth is warmth.
Since Noboru Watanabe had offered to swap it for a brand new time
machine, I told him "Go ahead." Norboru Watanabe went out to his
Light Ace parked in front of the house and retrieved a brand new
electric kotatsu (or 'time machine') from the trunk, brought it into
my room, and exchanged it for the National "Hoka-Hoka" (or 'time
machine'), which he held tightly in his arms as he bore it away.
"Thanks again," Noboru Watanabe said as he waved from the driver's
seat. I waved back. And so, returning to my room, I finished eating
my tangerine.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Croquettes
by Haruki Murakami
Ttranslated by Christopher Allison
I was working at home one day when a girl came calling. She was
pretty, maybe 18 or 19, and wore a green wool sweater. Standing
nervously at the door, she fumbled with the clasp of her purse.
"Umm, year-end bonus, sir," she said in a soft voice.
"Ah, so I need to sign for something, right?" I said.
"No, no. I'm your year-end bonus."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand."
"Well, you see, to cut straight to the heart of the matter, you can
do whatever you like with me. I'm a gift. I was told to come here by
the manager at K Inc. in charge of courtesy gifts."
"I see," I groaned. K Inc. was a major publishing company, and I had
done work for them many times. One day when I was getting drunk with
this particular manager, he asked me what I wanted for my
end-of-the-year bonus, and I replied "A young girl." Of course, I
said it as a joke. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that
such a truly first-rate publisher would actually do it.
"Unfortunately, I'm really busy today. See, I have a lot of work to
finish for a deadline tomorrow, and anyway I'm not really in the
mood for sex right now. And the bed's not made. If I had known you
were coming today, I could have been prepared."
When I said this, she began to sob. "I'm useless. You can't even
give me away. I can't do a single thing right. They wouldn't even
give me a driver's license."
"There, there," I said.
But the girl looked like she was just going to keep bawling in my
genkan. And, there being neighbors around, I had no choice but to
invite her in and give her a cup of coffee.
"If you don't want to have sex, let me do something else for you.
The boss said to provide you with two full hours of service. Do you
like karaoke? I can sing. I'm really good at 'Elly, My Love' by
Southern All Stars."
"I'd rather you not sing," I said, cutting her off quickly. If she
did something like that, I'd never be able to get my work done.
"Then I'll make croquettes. I make excellent croquettes."
"Great," I said. I really like croquettes a lot.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Playing Cards
By MURAKAMI Haruki
Translated by OSAKABE Yoshio
After the record of Julio Iglesias wore out, there was nothing left
to protect us from the attack of the sea turtle. It had only been
playing Begin the Begine of Julio Iglesias every night that we had
managed to keep the sea turtle away.
"We are finished, are't we?" she said. "There is no mosquito coils
and Julio's disc is worn out."
"There has to be some other way," I said.
"How about Willy Nelson or Richard Clayderman?"
"No, it's only Julio that works for the sea turtle," I knew it.
That day I went to the shore alone and peered into the sea from a
far out rock. The sea turtle napped as usual crouching on the sea
bed. It was conserving its power for the night attack. No matter how
long I looked down at the sea turtle, no idea to drive it away
occurred to me. I was too tired to play with my imagination.
We were finished this time, I thought. And ending our lives eaten by
the sea turtle was miserable way to go. What would my mother think?
Her only son, eaten by a sea turtle!
We were resigned ourselves to our fate and finished our last meal.
While calmly drinking tea, the sea turtle came upon us. Its
footsteps approached steadily and it slowly walked round our house.
"Now we're done for," she said holding my hands.
"We have to give up. It's a short but pleasant life," I said.
The door creaked open and the sea turtle peeped and found out that
there was no mosquito coils, and no song of Julio Iglesias either. A
deck of playing cards was grasped by its hands.
Playing cards?
And since then all we do, all three of us, is play the card game, 51
every night. It's not such a fun game but much better than being
eaten alive. Besides, it's not as if we were listening to Julio
Iglesias every night by choice.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Newspaper
by MURAKAMI Haruki
translated by OSAKABE Yoshio
The extreme behavior of the big monkeys on the Ginza line carried on
for months before any of it got into the news. Friends of mine told
me in details of their own experiences and I witnessed it by myself.
The big monkeys raged on in this way but nothing appeared in the
newspapers and there was no sign of a police investigation. If the
newspapers and police considered the curse of the big monkeys
unworthy of attention, I would seriously urge them to reconsider.
Though at this time the big monkeys activities are limited to the
Ginza line, there is no guarantee that they won't spread to the
Marunouchi or Hanzomon lines. It will be too late to take a step
after that.
An event from the curse of the big monkey I witnessed was relatively
harmless one. It happened on February 15, the day after Saint
Valentine's day. I was taking the Ginza line from Omotesando to
Toranomon. A well dressed office worker in his early forties sat
next to me and was eagerly reading a morning edition of The Mainichi
Newspaper. He was reading an article entitled ‘Depreciation of the
dollar brings US economy inflation?’I glanced at a new book ad below
it, “5 kg diet changes your life.” .
The train approached the Akasakamitsuke station, the lights went
off, as usual, and then came on again next instant. When I looked at
the Mainichi Newspaper once more, there was an obvious mishap. It
was turned upside-down.
‘?noitalfni ymonoce SU sgnirb rallod eht fo noitaicerpeD’
“efil ruoy segnahc teid gk 5”
‘Oh dear! The big monkey did it again,’ the office worker said to
me. ‘What is the government waiting for?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied.
It would be difficult for us, if it lasts forever like this.
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Donutization
Haruki Murakami
Translated by Christopher Allison
At the time when my girlfriend with whom I had been going out for
three years, and to whom I was engaged, donutized, and our
relationship subsequently fell apart--I mean, who among us can
really get along with a donutized girlfriend?--I started drinking in
bars nearly every night, and had grown thin and drawn like Humphrey
Bogart in "The Treasure of Sierra Madre."
"Look, Big Brother: dump her, if only for my sake. If you go on like
this, you can't help but fall apart," my sister advised. "I know
what you're feeling, but donutized people never return to normal.
You have no choice but to break up with her."
She was absolutely right. Just as she said, once a person is
donutized, they stay donutized forever. I called the freak on the
phone and said goodbye. "I hate breaking up, but in the end, I guess
it's just fate. I'll never forget you...bleah, bleah, bleah"
"You still don't get it?" the donutized girlfriend said. "The center
of our human existence is nothing.There is nothing, like a zero. Why
don't you take a long, hard look at this void? Why do you insist on
looking only at the things immediately around you?"
Why? That was the question I wanted to ask her. Why do donutized
people only think in suchnarrow-minded, parochial ways?
But anyway, that's how I broke up with my girlfriend. That was two
years ago. Then, last spring, my little sister, for no apparent
reason, donutized as well. After graduating from Jouchi University,
and beginning to work for Japan Airlines, she was in the lobby of a
Sapporo hotel one day on a business trip, when she suddenly
donutized. My mother stayed at home day after day and cried her life
away.I call my sister on the phone once in a while, just to see how
she's doing.
"You still don't get it?" my donutized little sister says. "The
center of our human existence is..."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Antithesis
by MURAKAMI Haruki
translated by OSAKABE Yoshio
A picture card at last arrived from my uncle. We did not hear from
him since he had gone to Borneo last September to catch Antithesis.
Although it had an ordinary design with that usual house on stilts
and coconut trees, the letter itself from the uncle, famous for poor
letter writer, is quite amazing.
“Unfortunately, Antithesis, we can call it a big one, disappeared
recently even in this place,” he wrote. Its letters are shaky since
he wrote it on the boat.
“Natives said they have not seen Antithesis of 8 meter class for
years. I caught one last month with five meters twenty-five long.
Obviously a middle class, but according to them it’s even the
miracle. Quite my grief. Regarding the decrease of Antithesis,
someone says it’s caused by less volcanic ash and another says it’s
due to the geothermal change. But no one knows definite reasons. If
thing go on like this, I’ll go back to Japan by June.”
An old picture of my uncle, posing in front of the twelve and a half
meter Antithesis carried by natives, was hung in my room. My uncle
found the super-big fish in 1966 and it was officially recorded as
the biggest Antithesis caught in 1960’s. At that time, he was in the
prime time as the Antithesis hunter and I felt firmly his strong
drive from the picture. It was the happy time like the Age of
Discovery for Antithesis hunters.
To encounter real shiny Antithesis in French restaurants became as
hard as to catch a falling meteorite by a tennis racket. Of course
sometimes it’s on the menu even today. But it’s taken for granted
they are from India, dry and almost tasteless, small Antithesis,
furthermore they are frozen. If my uncle finds such a menu, he will
tear it to pieces immediately. Because he kept saying, “Big
Antithesis, or nothing”.
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Eels
Haruki Murakami
Translated by Christopher Allison
It was 3:30 in the morning when I got a phone call from May
Kasahara, that abruptly rousted me from a deep sleep. In the midst
of the soft warm mud of the velveteen sleep in which I was
submerged, eels and rubber boots crowded around me, the overall
effect being that I was greedily devouring the fruit of this
luxuriant happiness. It was thus that the phone call came.
Ring ring.
First, the fruit vanished; then the eels and the rubber boots; and
finally the mud as well, so that at last only I was left. Just me:
37 years old, drunk, and not particularly likeable. What right does
anyone in the world have to deprive me of my eels and rubber boots?
Ring ring.
"Hello," May Kasahara said. "Are you there?"
"Uh, yeah...hello," I responded.
"Hey, it's May Kasahara. Sorry for calling so late. But there are
ants coming in again. They built a nest in one of the side pillars
in the kitchen. We chased I'm out of the bathroom, but they just
moved their nest. I'd not kidding: they moved the whole thing. Right
down to the speckled white babies. I can't stand it! So, like, bring
over that spray again, OK? I know it's late and everything, but I
totally hate ants. So can you come?"
In the darkness, I shook my head violently. Who in the world was
this May Kasahara? Who was this May Kasahara, who had robbed me of
my eels?
I tried asking her these questions.
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I must have made a mistake," said May Kasahara,
sounding genuinely apologetic. "This ant problem has really got me
flustered, ever since they moved their nest. Sorry."
Heaving a sigh, I crawled back in my futon, closed my eyes, and
tried to find those friendly eels in the thick mud of sleep.
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TAKAYAMA Noriko-san and my sexual desire
By MURAKAMI Haruki
Translated by OSAKABE Yoshio
Up to now in my life, I have walked with many women side by side but
not with such a quick woman walker as TAKAYAMA Noriko-san,
twenty-five years old. She strides the streets with a very cheerful
way, swinging her arms back and forth refreshingly, as if to say,
“I’m just oiled”. From a little far way, she seems like a spider-fly
wearing transparent wings. She is so swift and smooth, looks very
happy like a light after the heavy rain.
When I walked with her for the first time (we walked from the front
of Sendagaya elementary school to Aoyama Icchome), I was so
astonished with her speed and thought my company annoyed her and she
hoped to part from me as soon as possible with such an unusual
speed. Or I thought she planned at least to reduce my sexual desire
with a furious speed (however, as I had no sexual desire to her, I
wonder it worked or not.)
It took some months to realize her quick space has no special
meaning but she only likes to walk as if flying. Early winter I saw
her at the front of the Yotsuya station, walking alone in crowds,
also then she moved from someplace to someplace on this ground named
“Tokyo” with that awful speed, we might call it an unreasonable
speed. She was walking gripping a strap of her handbag with her
right hand, flapping skirts of her trench coat in the wind and
straightening her spine.
When I took several steps to her and wanted something, she was far
forward and I was left alone in front of the Yotsuya station in an
awkward manner like Rossano Brazzi in the last scene of
“Summertime”. But I was pleased to know TAKAYAMA Noriko-san did not
misunderstand my sexual desire.
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Octopus
by Haruki Murakami
Translated by Christopher Allison
Noboru Watanabe sent me a postcard with a picture of an octopus on
it. Beneath the octopus, a short note had been written in a cramped
hand.
"It has come to my attention that you rendered my daughter
invaluable service while riding the subway the other day, for which
I want to extend my heartiest thanks. Let's go out to eat octopus
sometime soon."
I was very surprised when I read this. I had only just gotten back
from a trip, and for one reason or another, had not had cause to
ride the subway for nearly two months, nor did I remember rendering
his daughter any aid. For that matter, I didn't even know he had a
daughter. I guess he had me confused with someone else.
But eating octopus together didn't sound so bad.
I wrote Noboru Watanabe a letter. On the postcard, there was a
picture of a thrush, beneath which I wrote:
"Thank you for your postcard of the other day. I like octopus a lot.
Let's go out to eat together. Please contact me at the end of the
month."
A full month passed without any response from Noboru Watanabe. He
probably let it pass as a matter of courtesy, I thought. And
although I had the strangest desire to eat octopus that month, I
held off, under the assumption that I was going to eat octopus with
Noboru Watanabe.
Just about the time I was forgetting about Noboru Watanabe and
octopai altogether, I received another postcard from him. This time
there was a picture of a manbo on it. Beneath this, there was a
note.
"That octopus the other day was delicious. It had been a long time
indeed since I had eaten such delicious octopus as that. But
concerning the opinions you expressed at that time, I must take some
issue. As the parent of a daughter of about that age, I cannot
tolerate your sexual values. Let's get together and discuss the
matter leisurely over nabe sometime."
Oh, well, I sighed. Noboru Watanabe has me mixed up with someone
else yet again.
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A Raid by the Old Man Mushikubo
By MURAKAMI Haruki
Translated by OSAKABE Yoshio
“I am the Old Man Mushikubo.” the Old Man Mushikubo said and cleared
hi throat.
“Yes, I know you.” I replied. Any inhabitants around here know him.
“Sorry for no notice but today I’d like to speak with you about
virginity of young girls.”
“Wait …, wait a minute. I am now preparing my supper. Maybe another
day for the story …” I tried to push back him in a hurry but he
caught a whiff of it and pushed half of his body quickly into the
door.
“It doesn’t take a long time. If you like, you can cook there. We
can speak here during your cooking.”
Really, can’t be helped, thinking in mind, I cut garlic and eggplant
with a kitchen knife, Shuko-Shoko-Shuko. He was really careful to
enter properly from the kitchen door. Although the Old Man Mushikubo
is quite in his dotage usually, his brain works extremely quickly in
a thing of this sort.
“What are you cooking?” The Old Man Mushikubo asked me
interestingly.
“Well, spaghetti with eggplant and garlic, and kidney beans salad.”
“Are they your supper?”
“Yes.” I replied. What I eat in supper is no concern of a stranger.
I will eat kidney beans if I like to the eat kidney beans; I will
eat a pumpkin if I like to eat the pumpkin. In the same way with the
virginity of young girls, the Old Man Mushikubo has no right to
meddle. I had half a mind to put into words, but if the Old Man
Mushikubo hates me, I am not sure what he would broadcast around in
my neighborhoods; therefore I patiently shut my mouth. Anyhow after
the Old Man Mushikubo finishes what he wants to say, he will go
back.
Until I ate the spaghetti and the salad, and finished to wash
dishes, the Old Man Mushikubo continued to speak endlessly without a
break about an importance of the virginity at the door. His voice
was so loud that I had a buzzing in my ears even after he came back.
Really it was a terrible disaster. But unintentionally I thought…
well, virgins have been scarcely found lately.
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Donuts, again
by MURAKAMI Haruki
translated by OSAKABE Yoshio
I got a phone call from Sophia University Donuts Study Club. Indeed,
today’s students invent a lot of new things. They asked me to join
symposium to discuss about donuts. Yes, I said. I have my own
opinion about donuts and all my knowledge, views and appreciations
are vastly superior to average students.
The autumn meeting of the Sophia University Donuts Study Club was
held in the banquet room of the Hotel New Otani. A live band played
music and there was an attraction of a donut-aligning game. After a
snack was served for dinner, the symposium began in the next room.
Besides me, a famous cultural anthropologist and a cooking critic
were present.
I argued, “If donuts have the power in contemporary literature, they
act as an essential piece in a certain personal focusing power,
which identifies with a subconscious field ......” They paid me
50,000 yen.
I shoved the money into my pocket, moved to the hotel bar and drank
vodka tonic with a girl, French-Lit major, whom I acquainted with at
the donut-aligning game.
“Your novels are like donuts, both good and bad. I don't think that
Flaubert ever thought much about donuts.”
She’s right. I agree that Flaubert never thought much about donuts.
But it’s the 20th century and the 21st century is just around the
corner. Discussing Flaubert at this time is simply embarrassing.
“Flaubert, c'est moi.” I said trying to imitate Flaubert.
“You are a funny man,” she giggled. I flatter myself that I’m pretty
good at entertaining French-Lit major girls.
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Advertisement for a Jazz Coffee Shop That Was in Kokubunji a Long
Time Ago
by Haruki Murakami
Translated by Christopher Allison
While it may alienate some people right from the start, this isn't
the kind of shop where everyone, male or female, young or old, is
cheerfully welcomed. We have something of a problem, especially
during the summer. The air-conditioner doesn't work very well. It's
not that it doesn't work at all: the area right around the vent is
quite cool. But if you move away a little bit, this cool air won't
reach you. There is, possibly, some kind of structural defect with
the machine. We keep wondering if we should exchange it for a new
one. But there are other more difficult circumstances as well.
In this shop, we play music. If, perchance, you are not a jazz fan,
the volume of the music may be quite unpleasant. If, on the other
hand, you are an ardent jazz fan, you may find the same volume to be
less-than-satisfying. To whichever group you belong, please don't
blame the manager. This is a perfect example of "You can't please
all the people all the time." We don't have many John Coltraine
records. In compensation, we have lots of Stan Getz. There are no
Keith Jarret records, but we have all the Chord Williams albums.
Please don't hassle the manager for this. It's been this way since
the beginning. We have live music once a week. Young musicians play
their hearts out for next to nothing. The piano is just a cheap
upright, and it's badly out of tune. The quality of the music
varies, but it's always energetic, and the volume is always loud, so
it may not be the most suitable background music for talking to your
sweetheart.
While the manager isn't exactly reticent, he's not very talkative
either. Or perhaps he's just not very good at talking. When he's not
busy, he sits at the counter and reads books. To tell the truth,
four years from now he'll quite unexpectedly write a novel and
receive a literary prize for new writers, but no one knows this yet.
This is not even known to the manager himself. He probably thinks
he'll end his days as the manager of a Kokubunji jazz cafe, quietly
listening to his favorite music everyday. It is not known anywhere
in the world. But anyway, now it's 2:30 in the afternoon, and "Billy
Taylor at London House" is playing. It's not a very good
performance, but the manager kind of likes it. In any event, please
don't blame him for it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The World Where Horses Sell Tickets
Haruki Murakami
Translated by Christopher Allison
I tried asking my father "Dad, where do people go when they die?" I
had been quite uneasy about this for a while. After thinking for a
little while, my father said "When people die, they go to the world
where horses sell tickets. They buy tickets from the horses there,
and ride on trains, and eat bentos. There are chikuwa and kobumaki
and strips of cabbage in the bentos." I thought about this for a
little while. But I couldn't understand why people had to eat
chikuwa and kobumaki after they died. Last year, when Gramma died,
we had sushi delivered. So why can dead people only eat chikuwa and
kobumaki? I had a feeling that this wasn't very fair. When I said
this, my father said "When people die, they want to eat chikuwa and
kobumaki and cabbage. It't just that way."
"So then what happens? After they eat the bentos?" I tired asking.
"When the train reaches it's destination, all the people get off.
Then they buy another ticket from another horse, and ride another
train," my father said.
"And then they eat another bento with chikuwa and kobumaki and
cabbage, right?" I shouted, unable to restrain myself. I can't stand
even the sight of chikuwa or kobumaki or cabbage. I turned to my
father and stuck out my tongue. "That's terrible! I don't eat any of
that stuff," I said.
When I did this, my father glared at me. But it wasn't my father
anymore, but a horse instead. This father-horse had a ticket in his
hand. "Neigh, neigh, aren't we selfish! When you buy this ticket
from me and ride the train, you'll have to eat chikuwa and kobumaki
and strips of cabbage for ever and ever and ever. Neigh, neigh!"
I was so scared that I cried and cried. After a moment had passed,
my father changed back from a horse to my father again. "Hey, don't
cry. Why don't the two of us go to MacDonald's and get hamburgers,"
Father said in a gentle voice." So I finally stopped crying.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bangkok Surprise
by Haruki Murakami
Translated by Christopher Allison
"Hello. Is this 5721-1251?" a woman's voice asked.
"Yes, that's right. 5721-1251."
"Please excuse the disturbance. You see, I've been calling
5721-1252."
"Oh," I said.
"I've called it like 30 times since this morning. But no one ever
answers. Sooo, I figured they probably went on a trip or something."
"And?" I asked.
"And, well, I thought maybe, since it seemed like you might be a
neighbor or something, I'd try 5721-1252 instead."
"Oh."
The woman cleared her throat a little bit. "I just came back from
Bangkok last night. The most amazing thing happened to me in
Bangkok. It was totally unbelievable. Absolutely incredible. I was
planning to stay there for a week, but I came home three days early
because of it. I really want to talk about what happened, so I've
been calling 5721-1252 ever since. I haven't been able to sleep,
keeping it bottled up like this, and now I just want to tell
somebody. So I thought maybe the person at 1251 would listen to me."
"Oh, I see."
"But I thought I really couldn't tell a woman. Women spread these
kinds of things around too easily, I think."
"Uh huh," I said.
"How old are you?"
"I turned 37 last month."
"37, huh? I have a feeling it would be better if it was somebody a
little younger. I'm sorry for saying so."
"Oh, it's OK."
"I'm sorry," she said again. "But I'll try 5721-1253. Bye."
Thus, in the end, I never did find out what happened in Bangkok.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Stockings
by Haruki Murakami
Translation by Christopher Allison
Imagine this, if you will:
There's a small room. It's on the third or fourth floor of a
building, and from the window other buildings can be seen. There is
no one in the room. A man enters the room alone. He is in his late
twenties, and his face is pale. While he is not unhandsome, his face
is very narrow. He is thin, and his height is, what, about 5' 9"?
You follow me so far?
He is carrying a black vinyl handbag. He sets it down with a thud on
a table in the middle of the room. It seems as if there is something
very heavy in the bag. Opening the bag's clasp, he begins to extract
the contents. First, he pulls out some black stockings. These aren't
pantyhose, but the old-fashioned kind that come separately, two to a
pair. He pulls out about a dozen stockings all together. He seems,
however, not to be interested in the stockings, and throws them on
the floor without so much as looking at them. He pulls out a black
high-heel shoe as well, but this he also throws on the floor. Next,
he finds a large portable stereo. After looking it over briefly, the
man sets this on the floor, seemingly uninterested. The man is
becoming more and more agitated, judging by his expression. He pulls
out five or six packs of cigarettes. They are 'Hi-Lite'. He breaks
the seal on one of the packs and, pulling out a cigarette, commences
smoking. After taking two or three drags, he shakes his head and
stomps it out with his foot.
Just then, a telephone suddenly rings. Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring
ring. With great hesitation, he picks up the receiver. "Hello," he
says in a low voice. The person on the other end says something.
"No, no. It's not right," the man answers. "It's totally wrong. I
don't have a cat and I don't smoke. I haven't eaten cheese crackers
for at least ten years.... That's right. I have no connection to the
Fukuchiyama Line.... None at all. Do you understand?" and he slams
down the phone.
He retrieves a half-empty box of cheese crackers from the bag. Then
another stocking. This time, he stretches the stocking tightly and
holds it up to the light to examine it closely. Then, reaching into
his pants pocket, he retrieves all the change therein and dumps it,
jingling, into an empty vase nearby. He stuffs the stretched
stocking into the vase as well. At exactly that moment, there is the
sound of a knock at the door. Knock knock knock. The man hides the
vase in a corner of the room and slowly opens the door. Outside the
door, a very short, balding man, wearing a necktie with red
butterflies is standing. And jabbing him with a rolled-up newspaper,
he speaks in a gruff voice.
So, here is a question.
"What in the world did the bald man say?"
You have fifteen seconds to answer. Tick tock tick tock...
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The India Salesman
by Haruki Murakami
Ttranslated by Christopher Allison
Usually about once every other month, the India salesman comes
around to our house. My mother will say "I bet it's about time for
the India salesman to come," and sure enough, almost as if he heard
her, the figure of the India salesman will appear in our genkan. So
I always say "you should try to forget about the India salesman,
Mom. Whenever you think about him, he ends up coming," and then my
mother replies "Hmm, I wonder if I didn't think about him whether
he's still come," but then she forgets to forget and "I bet it's
about time for the..." slips carelessly out of her mouth. Without
fail, the India salesman will show up again in our genkan. The India
salesman is a big middle-aged guy with a sunburned voice. He's
always carrying some heavy packages on his shoulders. While he's
just about the same age as my father, he looks a lot healthier. He
has big, beetle-like eyes that bulge out of his head. "This, it's
all on account of India," he says to me boastfully. "If you make
sure to get your India, kid, you'll turn into a big, strong guy,
just like me. You'll have a full, level-headed life."
While I don't really get all of the stuff he says to me, I always
get the feeling that he's scolding me, and it makes me nervous.
Sometimes the India salesman yells at my mother, too. I think that's
amazing. Even my father can't really yell at my mother.
"Ma'am, I'm worried. You haven't been using India very much lately,
have you? You have almost as much as you did the last time I was
here," the Indian salesman says, heaving a sigh while inspecting our
pantry. "Like I always say, if you don't use it consistently, a
little at a time, so that it can be absorbed into the body, it won't
have any effect. Look at your kid. Lately, it seems like his eyes
don't sparkle quite as bright. He's sluggish, and doesn't have any
verve. This will not do. If you look in his eyes, you'll see what I
mean. If you look in his eyes, the change is obvious. You're giving
him too little India. He's not getting enough. Don't you think your
child is beautiful? He's beautiful, isn't he? But he has to get more
India."
"I guess you're right, sir" my mother says, becoming confused, as if
she was making an excuse. "But the other day the Bali salesman was
here, and he's from the neighborhood, so I felt like I had to help
him out. I know that India is great and everything, but..."
"The Bali guy!" the India salesman said derisively, raising his
voice. "The Bali guy, ma'am, is all bluster, all hot air. If you
want the real thing, you're got to make it India. Anything else just
doesn't compare."
As a result of this, my mother ended up buying a little more India.
When I saw this, I thought that the India salesman was really
amazing.
