Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami & Alfred Birnbaum

Author:Haruki Murakami & Alfred Birnbaum [Murakami, Haruki & Birnbaum, Alfred]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction:Historical
ISBN: 9780679753797
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 1995-01-31T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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