Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami

  “I’m not worried about that,” said Gotanda, looking me in the eye. “Not worried in the least. There’s something about you—I don’t know what it is—somehow I know I can trust you. I trust you from the word go. But it’s hard to be open with people. I could talk—well, maybe I could—to my ex-wife. For a while there, until everyone around us screwed up the works, we really understood and loved each other. If it was just the two of us, things might have worked out. But she was too insecure. She needed her family too much, couldn’t get out from under them. So that’s when I … No, I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s a whole other story. What I want to know is, is all this talk a drag?”

  Nope, I said, not a drag at all.

  After that he talked about our science lab unit. How he was always uptight, having to see to it that the experiment came out right, having to explain things to the slow girl. How, again, he envied my puttering along at my own pace. I, however, could scarcely recall what we’d done in science class. So I was at a total loss what there’d been to envy. All I remember was that Gotanda was good with his hands. Setting up the microscope, things like that. Meanwhile, I could relax precisely because he tended to all the hard tasks.

  I didn’t say that to him. I just listened.

  At some point, a well-appointed man in his forties came up to our table and tapped Gotanda on the shoulder. They exchanged greetings and talked show business. The fellow glanced at me, pegged me immediately as a nobody, and continued his conversation. I was invisible.

  When the fellow left, after a promise of lunch and golf, Gotanda fretted one eyebrow a few millimeters, raised two fingers to gesture for a waiter, and asked for the check. Which he signed, with no ceremony whatsoever.

  “It’s all expenses,” he said. “It’s not money, it’s expenses.”

  Then we rode in the Mercedes to a bar down a back street in Azabu. We took seats at one end of the counter and had a few more drinks. Gotanda could hold his liquor; he didn’t show the least sign of inebriation, not in his color or his speech. He went on talking. About the inanity of the TV stations. About the lamebrained directors. About the no-talents who made you want to throw up. About the so-called critics on news shows. He was a good storyteller. He was funny, and he was incisive.

  He wanted to hear about me. What sorts of turns my life had taken. So I proceeded to relate snippets of the saga. The office I set up with a friend and then quit, the personal life, the free-lance life, the money, the time, … Taken in gloss, an altogether sedate, almost still life. It hardly seemed to be my own story.

  The bar began to fill up, making conversation difficult. People were ogling Gotanda’s famous face. “Let’s get out of here. Come over to my place,” he said, rising to his feet. “It’s close by. And empty. And there’s drink.”

  His condo proved to be a mere two or three turns of the Mercedes away. He gave the driver the rest of the night off, and we went in. Impressive, with two elevators, one requiring a special key.

  “The agency bought me this place when I got thrown out of my house,” he said. “They couldn’t have their star actor broke and living in a dump. Bad for the image. Of course, I pay rent. On a formal level, I lease the place from the office. And the rent gets deducted from expenses. Perfect symmetry.”

  It was a penthouse condo, with a spacious living room and two bedrooms and a veranda with a view of Tokyo Tower. Several Persian rugs on the hardwood floor. Ample sofa, not too hard, not too soft. Large potted plants, postmodern Italian lighting. Very little in the way of decorator frills. Only a few Ming dynasty plates on the sideboard, GQ and architectural journals on the coffee table. And not a speck of dust. Obviously he had a maid too.

  “Nice place,” I said with understatement.

  “You leave things to an interior designer and it ends up looking like this. Something you want to photograph, not live in. I have to knock on the walls to make sure they’re not props. Antiseptic, no scent of life.”

  “Well, you’ve got to spread your scent around.”

  “The problem is, I haven’t got one,” he voiced expressionlessly.

  He put a record on a Bang & Olufsen turntable and lowered the cartridge. The speakers were old-favorite JBL P88s, the music an old Bob Cooper LP. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  “Whatever you’re drinking,” I said.

  He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with vodka and soda and ice and sliced lemons. As the cool, clean West Coast jazz filtered through this glorified bachelor pad, I couldn’t help thinking, antiseptic or not, the place was comfortable. I sprawled on the sofa, drink in hand, and felt utterly relaxed.

  “So out of all the possibilities, here I am,” Gotanda addressed the ceiling light, drink in hand also. “I could have been a doctor. In college I got my teaching credentials. But this is how I end up, with this lifestyle. Funny. The cards were laid out in front of me, I could have picked any one. I could’ve done all right whatever I chose. Not a doubt in my mind. All the more reason not to make a choice.”

  “I never even got to see the cards,” I said in all honesty. Which elicited a laugh from Gotanda. He probably thought I was joking.

  He refilled our glasses, squeezed a lemon, and tossed the rind into the trash. “Even my marriage was by default, almost. We were in the same film and went on location together. We got friendly and went on drives. Then after the filming was over, we dated a couple of times. Everyone thought what a nice couple we made, so we thought, yeah, what a nice couple we make, let’s get married. Now I don’t know if you realize it, but the film industry’s a small world. It’s like living in a tenement at one end of a back alley. Not only do you see everybody’s dirty laundry, but once rumors start, you can’t stop ’em. All the same, I did like her, truly. She was the best thing I ever laid hands on. That really came home to me after we got married. I tried to make it last, but it was no go. The second I make a conscious choice, I chase the thing away. But if I’m on the receiving end, if it’s not me that’s making the decision, it seems like I can’t lose.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I’m not looking on the dark side,” he said. “I still love her. Maybe that’s the problem. I still think of her. How it might have been if we both had given up acting and settled down to a quiet life. Wouldn’t need a condo that looked like this. Wouldn’t need a Maserati. None of that. Only a decent job and our own little place. Kids. After work I’d stop somewhere for a beer and let off steam. Then home to the wife. A Civic or Subaru on installment. That’s the life. That would be everything I needed—if she was there. But it’s not going to happen. She wanted something different. And her family—don’t get me started on them. Anyway, I guess some things just don’t work out. But you know what? I slept with her last month.”

  “With your former wife?”

  “Yup. Do you think that’s normal?”

  “I don’t think it’s abnormal,” I said.

  “She came here, I couldn’t figure out what for. She rings up, wants to drop by. Of course, I say. So we’re drinking, the two of us, just like old times, and we end up in bed together. It was great. She told me she still liked me and I told her how I wished we could start all over again. But she didn’t say anything to that. She just listened and smiled. I started going on about having a normal life, a regular home, like I was telling you now. And she listened and smiled, but she wasn’t really listening. She didn’t hear a word of it. It was like talking to a wall. Futile. She was feeling lonely and wanted to be with someone. I happened to be available. Not a nice thing to say about yourself, but it’s true. She’s a world apart from somebody like you or me. For her, loneliness is something you have others remove for you. And once it’s gone, everything’s okay. Doesn’t go any further. I can’t live that way.”

  The record finished. He raised the cartridge and stood thinking in silence for a moment.

  “What do you think about calling in some girls?” he asked.

  “Fine by me. Whatever you want,” I sa
id.

  “You never bought a woman?” he asked.

  Never, I told him.

  “How come?”

  “Never occurred to me,” I said, honestly.

  Gotanda shrugged his shoulders. “Well tonight, I think you should. Play along with me, okay?” he said. “I’ll ask for the girl who came with Kiki. She might know something about her.”

  “I leave it up to you,” I said. “But don’t tell me you can write it off as expenses.”

  He laughed as he refilled his glass. “You won’t believe it, but I can. There’s a whole system. This place has this front as a party service, so they can make out these very legitimate receipts. Sex as ‘business gifts and entertainment.’ Amazing, huh?”

  “Advanced capitalism,” I said.

  While waiting for the girls to arrive, Kiki and her fabulous ears came to mind. I asked Gotanda if he’d ever seen them.

  “Her ears?” he said, puzzled. “No, I don’t think so. Or if I did, I don’t remember. What about her ears?”

  Oh, nothing, I told him.

  It was past twelve when the girls arrived. One was Gotanda’s stunningly beautiful companion to Kiki. And really, she was stunning. The sort of woman who’d linger in your memory even if she never spoke a word to you. Not glitter and glamour, but refinement. Under her coat she wore a green cashmere sweater and an ordinary wool skirt. Simple earrings, no other adornment. Very well-bred university girl.

  The other woman wore glasses and a soft-colored dress. She wasn’t beautiful like her companion. She was more what you would call appealing and fresh. With long legs and slender arms, and tan as if she’d spent the last week on the beach in Guam. Her hair was short and neatly pinned up. She wore silver bangles that played on her wrists with her brisk movements, her flesh trim and taut, like a sleek carnivore.

  Memories of high school came to mind. These two distinct types were to be found in any class. The elegant beauty and the quick-witted mink. It was like being at a reunion. Especially with Gotanda there, so relaxed and effervescent. He seemed to have slept with both of them before, so it was all, “Hey there, how’s it going?” Gotanda introduced me as a former schoolmate, now a writer. Both smiled warmly, fine-we’re-all-friends-here smiles.

  We sat on the floor with brandy-and-sodas, Joe Jackson and the Alan Parsons Project playing in the background. Gotanda put on his dentist act for the girl with the glasses. Then he whispered something to her and she giggled. Then the Beauty was leaning on my shoulder and holding my hand. Her scent was lovely. She was every man’s, every boy’s dream. The high school girl you’d always wanted, now come back years later. I always liked you though I didn’t know how to tell you at the time. Why didn’t you try to reach me? I put my arm around her, and she gently closed her eyes, seeking out my ear with the tip of her nose. She kissed me lightly on the neck, breathing softly. Then I noticed that Gotanda and his girl weren’t around. Why didn’t I turn the lights down a bit? my coed cooed. I got up and switched off the overhead lights, leaving only a low table lamp on. Bob Dylan was droning it’s all over now, baby blue.

  “Undress me nice and slow,” she whispered into my ear. So I took off first her sweater, then her skirt, then her blouse and stockings. Out of reflex I almost started to fold her things, but then realized that in this scene there was no need to do that. She in turn undressed me. Armani tie, Levi’s, T-shirt.

  She stood before me in scanty bra and panties. “Well, what do you think?” she asked with a smile.

  “Super,” I said. She had a beautiful body. Full, brimming with life, clean and sexy.

  “How super?” she wanted to know. “If you tell me better, I’ll do you the best ever.”

  “It’s like old times. Takes me back to high school.” I was being honest.

  She squinted curiously, then smiled. “Unique, I’ll say that.”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” she said. Then she came over next to me and did things nobody in my thirty-four years had ever done for me. Delicate, yet daring, things you wouldn’t think of so readily. But somebody obviously had. The tension slipped out of my body as I closed my eyes, giving myself over to the flow of sensations. This was utterly different from any sex I’d known before.

  “Not bad, huh?” she said, whispering again.

  “Not bad,” I agreed.

  It put my mind at ease, like the best music, released the pockets of tension from my being, sent my temporal senses into limbo. Instead, there was a quiet intimacy, a blending of time and space, a perfect self-contained form of communication. And to think it was tax deductible! “Not bad,” I said again. What was Dylan going on about now? “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall.” She snuggled into the crook of my arm. What a world, where you can sleep with gorgeous women while listening to Bob Dylan and then write off the whole works! Unthinkable in the sixties.

  It’s all just images, I found myself thinking. Pull out the plug and it’ll all go away. A 3-D sex scene. Complete with eau de cologne, soft touchie-feelies, hot breath.

  I followed the expected course, I came, then we took a shower. We returned to the living room, wrapped in oversized towels, to listen to Dire Straits and sip some brandy.

  She asked me about my work, what kind of things I wrote. I explained briefly and she said, how uninteresting. Well, it depends, I told her. What I did was shovel cultural snow. To which she responded that her work was to shovel sensual snow. I had to laugh. But wouldn’t I like to shovel some more snow, right about now? And so we rolled over on the carpet and made love again, this time very simply, very slowly. And she knew just how to please me. Uncanny.

  Later, both lying full-length in Gotanda’s luxurious tub, I asked her about Kiki.

  “Kiki?” she said. “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. You know Kiki?”

  She pursed her lips like a child and tried to think. “She’s not anywhere now. She just disappeared, all of a sudden. We were pretty close too. Sometimes we’d go out shopping or drinking together. Then, without warning, she was gone. A month, maybe two months ago. But that’s not so unusual. You don’t need to hand in a formal resignation in this line of work. If you want to quit, you quit. You don’t have to tell anyone. I’m sorry she left. We were friends, but that’s how it goes. We’re not girl scouts, after all,” she said, stroking my thighs and cock with her long graceful fingers. “Have you slept with Kiki?”

  “There was a time we lived together. Four years ago.”

  “Four years ago?” she said with a smile. “That’s ancient history. Four years ago, I was still in high school.”

  “Hmm.” I let it pass. “You know of any way I could get to see Kiki?”

  “Pretty difficult, I’d say. I honestly don’t have any idea where she went. It’s like I told you, she just up and left. Practically vanished into a blank wall. Haven’t a clue how you’d go about looking for her. So, you still got a thing for her?”

  I stretched out in the tub and looked up at the ceiling. Was I still in love with Kiki?

  “I don’t know. But that’s almost beside the point now. I just have to see her. Something’s been telling me Kiki wants to see me. I keep dreaming about her.”

  “Strange,” she said, looking me in the eye. “I sometimes dream about Kiki, too.”

  “What sort of dreams?”

  She didn’t reply. She only smiled and said she’d like another drink. She rested against my chest and I threw my arm around her naked shoulder. Gotanda and his girl showed no sign of emerging from the bedroom. Asleep, I supposed.

  “I know you won’t believe me,” she then said, “but I like being with you like this. I enjoy it, no business, no acting. It’s the truth.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “I’m enjoying myself, too. I feel really relaxed. It’s like a class reunion.”

  “Unique, again,” she giggled.

  “About Kiki,” I pressed on, “isn’t there anyone who’d know? Her real name, her address, that sort of thin
g?”

  She shook her head slowly. “We almost never talk about those things. Why else would we bother with these names? She was Kiki. I’m Mei, the other girl’s Mami. Everyone’s four letters or less. It’s our cover. Private life is out-of-bounds. We don’t know and we don’t ask. Manners, you know. We’re all real friendly and we go out together sometimes. But it’s not really us. We don’t actually know each other. Mei, Kiki. These names don’t have real lives. We’re all image. Signs tacked up in empty air. That’s why we respect each other’s illusions. Does that make sense?”

  “Perfect sense,” I said.

  “Some of our customers take pity on us. But we don’t do this just for the money. Me, for example, I do it ’cause it’s fun. And because the club is strictly for members only, we don’t have to worry about crazies, and everyone wants to have fun with us. After all, we’re all in this made-up world together.”

  “Shoveling snow for the fun of it,” I threw in.

  “Right, shoveling snow for fun,” she laughed. Then putting her lips to my chest, “Sometimes even snowball fights.”

  “Mei.” I said her name over again. “I once knew a girl whose name really was Mei. She worked as a receptionist at the dentist’s next to my office. From a farming family up in Hokkaido. Skinny, dark. Everyone called her Mei the Goat Girl.”

  “Mei the Goat Girl,” she repeated. “And your name?”

  “Winnie the Pooh,” I said.

  “Our own little fairy tale.”

  I drew her to me and kissed her. It was a heady kiss, a nostalgic kiss. Then we drank our umpteenth brandy-and-soda, and snuggled together while listening to the Police. Soon Mei had drifted off to sleep, no longer the beautiful dream woman, but only an ordinary, brittle young girl. A class reunion. The clock read four o’clock and everything was still. Mei the Goat Girl and Winnie the Pooh. Images. Deductible fairy tales. What a day! Connections that almost connected but didn’t. Follow the string until it snaps. I’d met Gotanda after all these years, even come to like him, really. Through him I’d met Mei the Goat Girl. We made love. Which was wonderful. Shoveled sensual snow. But none of it led anywhere.