Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami
Like a bird returning to the nest? Well, it did have that feel about it. Maybe my life had been following this unspoken course all this time.
“Sonow, yourturn,” said the Sheep Man. “Tellus’boutyourself. Thishere’syourworld. Noneedstandingonceremony. Takeyourtime. Talkallyouwant.”
There in the dim light, staring at the shadow on the wall, I poured out the story of my life. It had been so long, but slowly, like melting ice, I released each circumstance. How I managed to support myself. Yet never managed to go anywhere. Never went anywhere, but aged all the same. How nothing touched me. And I touched nothing. How I’d lost track of what mattered. How I worked like a fool for things that didn’t. How it didn’t make a difference either way. How I was losing form. The tissues hardening, stiffening from within. Terrifying me. How I barely made the connection to this place. This place I didn’t know but had this feeling that I was part of.… This place that maybe I knew instinctively I belonged to.…
The Sheep Man listened to everything without saying a word. He might even have been asleep. But when I was through talking, he opened his eyes and spoke softly. “Don’tworry. Youreallyarepartofhere, really. Alwayshavebeen, alwayswillbe. Itallstartshere, itallendshere. Thisisyourplace. It’stheknot. It’stiedtoeverything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything. Thingsyoulost. Thingsyou’regonnalose. Everything. Here’swhereitalltiestogether.”
I thought about this. I couldn’t make any sense of it. His words were too vague, fuzzy. I had to get him to explain. But he was through talking. Did that mean explanation was impossible? He shook his woolly head silently. His sewed-on ears flapped up and down. The shadow on the wall quaked. So massively I thought the wall would collapse.
“It’llmakesense. Soonenough, it’llallmakesense. Whenthetimecomes, you’llunderstand,” he assured me.
“But tell me one thing then,” I said. “Why did the owner of the Dolphin Hotel insist on the name for the new hotel?”
“Hediditforyou,” said the Sheep Man. “Theyhadtokeepthename, soyou’dcomeback. Otherwise, youwouldn’tbehere. Thebuildingchanges, the DolphinHotelstays. Likewesaid, it’sallhere. Webeenwaitingforyou.”
I had to laugh. “For me? They called this place the Dolphin Hotel just for me?”
“Darntootin’. Thatsostrange?”
I shook my head. “No, not strange, just amazing. It’s so out-of-the-blue, it’s like it’s not real.”
“Oh, it’sreal,” said the Sheep Man softly. “RealastheDolphinHotelsigndownstairs’sreal. Howrealdoyouwant?” He tapped the tabletop with his fingers, and the flame of the candle shuddered. “Andwe’rereallyhere. Webeenwaiting. Foryou. Wemadearrangements. Wethoughtofeverything. Everything, soyoucouldreconnect, witheveryone.”
I gazed into the dancing candle flame. This was too much to believe. “I don’t get it. Why would you go to all the trouble? For me?”
“Thisisyourworld,” said the Sheep Man matter-of-factly. “Don’tthinktoohardaboutit. Ifyou’reseekingit, it’shere. Theplacewasputhereforyou. Special. Andweworkedspeciallhardtogeyoubackhere. Tokeepthingsfromfallingapart. Tokeepyoufromforgetting.”
“So I really am part of something here?”
“ ‘Courseyoubelonghere. Everybody’sallinhere, together. Thisisyourworld,” repeated the Sheep Man.
“So who are you? And what are you doing here?”
“WearetheSheepMan,” he chortled. “Can’tyoutell? Wewearthesheepskin, andweliveinaworldhumanscan’tsee. Wewerechasedintothewoods. Longtimeago. Long, longtimeago. Canhardlyrememberwhatwewerebefore. Butsincethenwebeenkeepingoutofsight. Easytodo, ifthat’swhatyouwant. Thenwecamehere, tolookaftertheplace. It’ssomewhere, outoftheelements. Thewoodsgotwildanimals. Knowwhatwemean?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Weconnectthings. That’swhatwedo. Likeaswitchboard, weconnectthings. Here’stheknot. Andwetieit. We’rethelink. Don’twantthingstogetlost, sowetietheknot. That’sourduty. Switchboardduty. Youseekforit, weconnect, yougotit. Getit?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“So,” resumed the Sheep Man, “sonowyouneedus. Else, youwouldn’tbehere. Youlostthings, soyou’relost. Youlostyourway. Yourconnectionscomeundone. Yougotconfused, thinkyougotnoties. Buthere’swhereitalltiestogether.”
I thought about what he said. “You’re probably right. As you say, I’ve lost and I’m lost and I’m confused. I’m not anchored to anything. Here’s the only place I feel like I belong to.” I broke off and stared at my hands in the candlelight. “But the other thing, the person I hear crying in my dreams, is there a connection here? I think I can feel it. You know, if I could, I think I want to pick up where I left off, years ago. That must be what I need you here for.”
The Sheep Man was silent. He didn’t seem to have more to say. The silence weighed heavily, as if we’d been plunged to the bottom of a very deep pit. It bore down on me, pinning my thoughts under its gravity. From time to time, the candle sputtered. The Sheep Man turned his gaze toward the flame. Still the silence continued, interminably. Then slowly, the Sheep Man raised his eyes toward me.
“We’lldowhatwecan,” said the Sheep Man. “Thoughwe’regettingoninyears. Hopewestillgotthestuffinus, hehheh. We’lltry, butnoguarantees, nopromisesyou’regonnabehappy.” He picked at a snag in his fleece and searched for words. “Wejustcan’tsay. Inthatotherworld, mightnotbeanyplaceanymore, notanywhereforyou. You’restartingtolookprettyfixed, maybetoofixedtopryloose. You’renotsoyounganymore, either, yourself.”
“So where does that leave me?”
“Youlostlotsofthings. Lostlotsofpreciousthings. Notanybody’sfault. Buteachtimeyoulostsomething, youdroppedawholestringofthingswithit. Nowwhy? Why’dyouhavetogoanddothat?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hardtododifferent. Yourfate, orsomethinglikefate. Tendencies.”
“Tendencies?”
“Tendencies. Yougottendencies. Soevenifyoudideverythingoveragain, yourwholelife, yougottendenciestodojustwhatyoudid, alloveragain.”
“Yes, but where does that leave me?”
“Likewesaid, we’lldowhatwecan. Trytoreconnectyou, towhatyouwant,” said the Sheep Man. “Butwecan’tdoitalone. Yougottaworktoo. Sitting’snotgonnadoit, thinking’snotgonnadoit.”
“So what do I have to do?”
“Dance,” said the Sheep Man. “Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays. Yougotta dance. Don’teventhinkwhy. Starttothink, yourfeetstop. Yourfeetstop, wegetstuck. Wegetstuck, you’restuck. Sodon’tpayanymind, nomatterhowdumb. Yougottakeepthestep. Yougottalimberup. Yougottaloosenwhatyoubolteddown. Yougottauseallyougot. Weknowyou’re tired, tiredandscared. Happenstoeveryone, okay? Justdon’tletyourfeetstop.”
I looked up and gazed again at the shadow on the wall.
“Dancingiseverything,” continued the Sheep Man. “Danceintip-topform. Dancesoitallkeepsspinning. Ifyoudothat, wemightbeabletodosomethingforyou. Yougottadance. Aslongasthemusicplays.”
Dance. As long as the music plays, echoed my mind.
“Hey, what is this world you keep talking about? You say that if I stay fixed in place, I’m going to be dragged from that world to this world, or something like that. But isn’t this world meant for me? Doesn’t it exist for me? So what’s the problem? Didn’t you say this place really exists?”
The Sheep Man shook his head. His shadow shook a hurricane. “Here’sdifferent. You’renotready, notforhere. Here’stoodark, toobig. Hardtoexplain. Likewesaid, wedon’tknowmuch. Butit’sreal, allright. Youandustalkinghere’sreality. Butit’snottheonlyonereality. Lotsofrealitiesoutthere. Wejustchosethisone, because, well, wedon’tlikewar. Andwehadnothingtolose. Butyou, youstillgotwarmth. Sohere’stoocold. Nothingtoeat. Nottheplaceforyou.”
No sooner had the Sheep Man mentioned the cold than I noticed the temperature in the room. I burrowed my hands in my pockets, shivering.
“Youfeelit, don’tyou?” asked the Sheep Man.
Yes, I nodded.
“Time’srunningout,” warned the Sheep Man. “Themore-timepasses, thecolderit
“Wait, one last thing. I guess you’ve been around all this time, except I haven’t seen you. Just your shadow everywhere. You’re just sort of always there.”
The Sheep Man traced an indefinite shape with his finger. “That’sright. We’rehalfshadow, we’reinbetween.”
“But I still don’t understand,” I said. “Here I can see your face and body clearly. I couldn’t before, but now I can. Why?”
“Youlostsomuch,” he bleated softly, “thatnowyoucanseeus.”
“Do you mean …?” And bracing myself, I asked the big question: “Is this the world of the dead?”
“No,” replied the Sheep Man. His shoulders swayed as he took a breath. “Youandus, we’reliving. Breathing. Talking.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Dance,” he said. “It’stheonlyway. Wishwecouldexplainthingsbetter. Butwetoldyouallwecould. Dance. Don’tthink. Dance. Danceyourbest, likeyourlifedependedonit. Yougottadance.”
The temperature was falling. I suddenly seemed to remember this chill. A bone-piercing, damp chill. Long ago and far away. But where? My mind was paralyzed. Fixed and rigid.
Fixed and rigid.
“Youbettergo,” urged the Sheep Man. “Stayhere, you’llfreeze. Butifyouneedus, we’rehere. Youknowwheretofind us.”
The Sheep Man escorted me out to the bend in the hallway, dragging his feet along, shuffle … shuffle … shuffle. We said good-bye. No handshake, no special salutations. Just good-bye, and then we parted into the darkness. He returned to his tiny room and I continued to the elevator. I pressed the call button. When the elevator arrived, the door opened without a sound. Bright light spilled out over me into the hallway. I got in and collapsed against the wall. The door closed. I did not move.
Well …, I thought to myself. Well what? Nothing came after. My mind was a huge vacuum. A vacuum that went on and on endlessly nowhere. Like the Sheep Man said, I was tired and scared. And alone. And lost.
“Yougottadance,” the Sheep Man said.
You gotta dance, echoed my mind.
“Gotta dance,” I repeated out loud.
I pressed the button for the fifteenth floor.
When the elevator got there, “Moon River” greeted me from the ceiling speakers. The real world—where I probably could never be happy, and never get anywhere.
I glanced at my watch. Return time, three-twenty A.M.
Well now, I thought. Well now well now well now well now well now well now …, echoed my mind.
Back in my room, I ran a bath. I undressed, then slowly sank in. But strangely, I couldn’t get warm. My body was so chilled, sitting in the hot water only made me shiver. I considered staying in the tub until I stopped shivering, but before that happened, the steam made me woozy, so I climbed out. I pressed my forehead against the window to clear my head, then poured myself a brandy which I downed in one gulp before dropping into bed. I wanted to sleep without the taint of a thought in my head, but no such luck. I lay in bed, conscious beyond control. Eventually morning came, heavy, overcast. It wasn’t snowing, but clouds filled the sky, thick and seamless, turning the whole town gray. All I saw was gray. A sump of a city slushed with sunken souls.
Thinking wasn’t what kept me awake. I hadn’t been thinking at all. I was too tired to think. Except that one hardened corner of my head insisted on pushing my psyche into high gear. I was on edge, irritable, as if trying to read station signs from a speeding train. A station approaches. The letters blur past. You can almost read something, but you’re traveling too fast. You try again, when the next station careens into view, but you fly by before you can make anything out. And then the next station … Backwater flags in the middle of nowhere. The train sounds its whistle. High, shrill, piercing.
This routine went on until nine, when I got out of bed. I shaved, but had to keep telling myself I’m shaving now to get me through. I dressed and brushed my hair and went down to the hotel restaurant. I sat at a table by the window and ordered coffee and toast. It took me an eternity to get through the toast, which tasted like lint and was gray from the sky. The sky foretold the end of the world. I drank my coffee and read and reread and reread the menu. My head was too hard. Nothing would register. The train raced on. The whistle screamed. I felt like a dried lump of toothpaste. All around me, people were devouring their breakfasts, stirring their coffee, buttering their toast, forking up their ham and eggs. Plates and cutlery clink-clink-clinking. A regular train yard.
I thought about the Sheep Man. He existed at this very moment. Somewhere, in a small time-space warp of this hotel. Yes, he was here. And he was trying to tell me something. But it was no good. I couldn’t read it. I was speeding by too fast for the message to register. My head was too thick to make out the words. I could only read what wasn’t moving: (A) Continental Breakfast—Juice (choice of orange, grapefruit, or tomato), Toast or …
Someone was talking to me. Seeking my response. But who? I looked up. It was the waiter. Immaculate in his white uniform, coffee pot in both hands, like a trophy. “Care for more coffee, sir?” he asked politely. I shook my head. He moved on and I got up to go. Leaving the train yard behind.
Back in my room, I took another bath. No shivers this time. I took a long stretch in the tub, softening my stiff joints. I got my fingers moving freely again. Yes, this was my body all right. Here I am now. Back in a real room, in a real tub. Not aboard some superexpress train. No whistle in my ears. No need to read station signs. No need to think at all.
Out of the bath, I crawled into bed. Ten-thirty. Great, just great. I half considered canning the sleep and going out for a walk, but before I could focus, sleep overtook me. The house-lights went down and suddenly everything went dark. It happened quickly. I can remember the instant I fell asleep. As if a giant, gray gorilla had sneaked into the room and whacked me over the head with a sledgehammer. I was out cold.
My sleep was hard, tight. Too dark to see anything. No background Muzak. No “Moon River” or “Love Is Blue.” A simple no-frills sleep. Someone asks me, “What comes after 16?” I answer, “41.” The gray gorilla steps in and says, “He’s out.” That’s right, I was asleep. All rolled up in a tight little squirrel ball inside a steel sphere. A solid steel wrecking ball, fast asleep.
Something is calling me.
A steam whistle?
No, something else, the gulls inform me.
Somebody’s trying to cut open the steel ball with a blowtorch. That’s the sound.
No, not that, chant the gulls. Like a Greek chorus.
It’s the phone, I think.
The gulls vanish.
I reach out and grope for the bedside telephone. “Yes?” I hear myself saying. But all I hear is a dial tone. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, comes a noise from somewhere else. The doorbell! Somebody’s ringing the doorbell! Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
“The doorbell,” I mumbled.
Gone are the gulls. No one applauds. No “bingo,” no nothing.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
I threw on a bathrobe and went to the door. Without asking who it is, I opened up.
My receptionist friend. She slipped inside and shut the door.
The back of my head was numb. Did that ape have to whack me so hard? It feels like there’s a dent in my skull.
She noted my bathrobe, and her brows knitted. “Sleeping at three in the afternoon?” she said in disbelief.
“Three in the afternoon?” I repeated. It didn’t make much sense even to me. “Why?” I asked myself.
“What time did you get to bed? Really!”
I tried to think. It took real effort. Nothing came.
“It’s okay, don’t bother,” she said, shaking her head. Then she plopped down on the sofa, adjusted the frame of her glasses, and looked at me straight in the face. “You look terrible.”
“Yeah, I bet I do,” I said.
“You’re pale and puffed up. Are you okay? Do you have a fever?”
“I’m okay. I just need some sle
“Yes,” she said. “I wanted to see you. I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all,” I said, sitting down on the bed. “I’m zonked, but no, you’re not intruding.”
“You won’t try anything funny?”
“I won’t try anything funny.”
“Everyone says they won’t, but they all do.”
“Maybe everyone does, but I don’t,” I said.
She thought it over and tapped her finger on her temple as if to verify the mental results. “Well, I guess probably not. You’re kind of different from other people.”
“Anyway, I’m too sleepy right now,” I added.
She stood up and peeled off her light blue blazer, draping it over the back of the chair like the day before. This time, though, she didn’t sit next to me. She walked over to the window and stood, gazing out at the sky. Maybe she was surprised to find me in such a haggard state, in only a bathrobe—but you can’t have everything. I don’t make my living looking great all the time.
“Listen,” I spoke up. “I didn’t tell you, but I think we have a few things in common.”
“Oh?” she said without emotion. “For instance?”
“For instance—,” I began, but right then my mental transmission stalled. I couldn’t think of a thing. I couldn’t get words to come. Maybe it was only a feeling. But if it was a feeling between the two of us, however slight, that at least meant something. No for instance or even so. Knowing it was enough.
“I don’t know,” I picked up again. “I need to put my thoughts in order. A method to the madness. First organize, then ascertain.”