Read Online Pinball, 1973 by Haruki Murakami - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Haruki Murakami
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of the grounds.
The Rat stopped the car in the woods at the southeast corner of the cemetery and surveyed the night streets below, his arm around her shoulder. All those lights. The whole town looked to have been cast in a single sheet, still glowing warm in the mold. Either that, or a giant moth had just sprinkled its golden dust all over the place.
Dreamily she closed her eyes and pressed against the Rat. From his shoulder on down, the Rat felt the supple weight of her body. An odd sensation, that weight. This being that could love a man, bear children, grow old, and die; to think one whole existence was in this weight. The Rat took a cigarette from his pack and lit up. Every once in a while a sea breeze would sweep up the slope from below and rustle the pine trees. Maybe she had really fallen asleep. The Rat put his hand to her cheek, then touched a fingertip to her lips. He felt her breath, warm and humid.
Somehow the cemetery seemed more like an unfinished housing tract than a graveyard. Over half the plots were empty. That’s because the people slated for those places were still living. Occasionally, on Sunday afternoons, some people would drive up with their families to check out their future resting places. Gazing out over the grounds from the stone base already erected on the spot, Hmmm, nice view from here, flowers of the season, good fresh air, lawn looks well cared for, even got sprinklers. And no wild dogs to get at the offerings.
But above all, they’d be impressed by the bright, healthy atmosphere. Satisfied, they’d sit down on a bench to eat their box lunches, and then return home to the day-to-day bustle of their lives.
Mornings and evenings the caretaker would rake the gravel walkways. Then he’d chase away any kids who might have their eyes on the carp in the central pond. And as if that wasn’t enough, three times a day – at nine, twelve, and six – a music-box rendition of “Old Black Joe” would be piped from speakers around the grounds. The Rat could never figure out what possible meaning there could be in playing music, although he had to admit that “Old Black Joe” playing to a deserted graveyard at six o’clock in the waning light was definitely something to experience.
At six-thirty, the caretaker would return by bus to the realm below, and total silence would fall over the necropolis. Then the couples would begin arriving to make out in their cars. Come summer, the cars would be literally lined up through the woods.
The cemetery thus held a place of profound significance in the Rat’s adolescent years. Even in high school before he could drive, the Rat was ferrying girls up the incline by the stream on the back of a 250-cc bike. Always staring up at the same street lamps, he’d had himself a whole string of girls. Like so many scents briefly enjoyed before they wafted away. So many dreams, so many disappointments, so many promises. And in the end, they all just vanished.
Turn around, and death had put down roots beneath each plot across the extensive grounds. Occasionally, the Rat would take these girls by the hand and wander about on the gravel paths of this pretentious cemetery. All those different names, dates, deaths, each backed with a past life, were like shrubs in an arboretum, spaced out equidistantly as far as the eye could see. No gently swaying breezes for them, no fragrances, no touch of a hand reaching through the darkness. They who seemed like trees lost to time. They to whom no thoughts occurred, nor would ever have words to get them across. They’d left all that to those who still had some living to do. He and his girl would head back to the woods, holding each other tight. And all around there’d be the sea breeze, the leafy scent of the trees, the sounds of crickets, everything of this world that went on living.
“Was I asleep long?” she asked.
“Nah,” said the Rat. “No time at all.”
Chapter 9
It was another rerun of the same old day. One
The Rat stopped the car in the woods at the southeast corner of the cemetery and surveyed the night streets below, his arm around her shoulder. All those lights. The whole town looked to have been cast in a single sheet, still glowing warm in the mold. Either that, or a giant moth had just sprinkled its golden dust all over the place.
Dreamily she closed her eyes and pressed against the Rat. From his shoulder on down, the Rat felt the supple weight of her body. An odd sensation, that weight. This being that could love a man, bear children, grow old, and die; to think one whole existence was in this weight. The Rat took a cigarette from his pack and lit up. Every once in a while a sea breeze would sweep up the slope from below and rustle the pine trees. Maybe she had really fallen asleep. The Rat put his hand to her cheek, then touched a fingertip to her lips. He felt her breath, warm and humid.
Somehow the cemetery seemed more like an unfinished housing tract than a graveyard. Over half the plots were empty. That’s because the people slated for those places were still living. Occasionally, on Sunday afternoons, some people would drive up with their families to check out their future resting places. Gazing out over the grounds from the stone base already erected on the spot, Hmmm, nice view from here, flowers of the season, good fresh air, lawn looks well cared for, even got sprinklers. And no wild dogs to get at the offerings.
But above all, they’d be impressed by the bright, healthy atmosphere. Satisfied, they’d sit down on a bench to eat their box lunches, and then return home to the day-to-day bustle of their lives.
Mornings and evenings the caretaker would rake the gravel walkways. Then he’d chase away any kids who might have their eyes on the carp in the central pond. And as if that wasn’t enough, three times a day – at nine, twelve, and six – a music-box rendition of “Old Black Joe” would be piped from speakers around the grounds. The Rat could never figure out what possible meaning there could be in playing music, although he had to admit that “Old Black Joe” playing to a deserted graveyard at six o’clock in the waning light was definitely something to experience.
At six-thirty, the caretaker would return by bus to the realm below, and total silence would fall over the necropolis. Then the couples would begin arriving to make out in their cars. Come summer, the cars would be literally lined up through the woods.
The cemetery thus held a place of profound significance in the Rat’s adolescent years. Even in high school before he could drive, the Rat was ferrying girls up the incline by the stream on the back of a 250-cc bike. Always staring up at the same street lamps, he’d had himself a whole string of girls. Like so many scents briefly enjoyed before they wafted away. So many dreams, so many disappointments, so many promises. And in the end, they all just vanished.
Turn around, and death had put down roots beneath each plot across the extensive grounds. Occasionally, the Rat would take these girls by the hand and wander about on the gravel paths of this pretentious cemetery. All those different names, dates, deaths, each backed with a past life, were like shrubs in an arboretum, spaced out equidistantly as far as the eye could see. No gently swaying breezes for them, no fragrances, no touch of a hand reaching through the darkness. They who seemed like trees lost to time. They to whom no thoughts occurred, nor would ever have words to get them across. They’d left all that to those who still had some living to do. He and his girl would head back to the woods, holding each other tight. And all around there’d be the sea breeze, the leafy scent of the trees, the sounds of crickets, everything of this world that went on living.
“Was I asleep long?” she asked.
“Nah,” said the Rat. “No time at all.”
Chapter 9
It was another rerun of the same old day. One
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