Read Online Pinball, 1973 by Haruki Murakami - Free Book Online Page B

you almost had to dog-ear to keep from getting it mixed up with the rest.
    All day long it smelled like autumn. I finished work at the usual time, but when I got home there was no sign of the twins. I tumbled onto the bed still wearing my socks, and lounged about smoking a cigarette. I tried thinking of different things, but nothing came to mind. I sighed, sat up in bed, and stared a while at the white blank of the opposite wall. I didn’t have the vaguest idea of what to do – I couldn’t keep staring at the wall forever, I told myself. But even that admonition didn’t work. A faculty advisor reviewing a graduation thesis would have had the perfect comment: you write well, you argue clearly, but you don’t have anything to say.
    That pretty well summed it up. The first chance to be alone in a long time, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do with myself.
    It’s so strange. For years and years I’d lived all by myself, and I’d managed well enough, hadn’t I? Why wouldn’t it all come back to me? You don’t forget twenty-four years just like that. I felt as if I was in the middle of looking for something, but had lost track of what it was I’d been trying to find.
    What was it now? A bottle opener? An old letter, a receipt, something to clean my ears with?
    On the verge of utter distraction, I reached for my bedside Kant, and what should fall out from between the pages but a note. Written in the twins’ script, it read, “Gone to the golf course.” That’s when I really started to worry. Hadn’t I warned them never to go onto the golf course without me?
    * * *
    A golf course can be a risky place in the early evening for those who aren’t aware of the dangers. Who knows when a golf ball might come flying out of nowhere?
    I slipped on my tennis shoes, wrapped a sweatshirt around my shoulders on my way out of the apartment, and climbed over the chainlink fence onto the course. Over a gentle rise, past the twelfth hole, past the rest house, through some woods, I walked and walked. The setting sun spilled across the turf from between the trees along the western fringe. In a dumbbell-shaped sand trap I found an empty coffee-cream cookie box, obviously left there by the twins. I crumpled it up and crammed it into my pocket, taking the trouble to erase our three sets of footprints even though it meant falling further behind. Then I crossed a small wooden foot¬bridge over a brook before finally encountering the twins on a nearby hill. They were sitting side-by-side midway up an outdoor escalator built into the slope on the far side of the hill, thoroughly absorbed in a game of backgammon.
    “Didn’t I tell you two it was dangerous to come here on your own?”
    “The sunset was so beautiful,” pleaded one of them.
    We walked down the escalator, and stretched ourselves out on a knoll covered with susuki grass for a clear view of the sunset. The view was gorgeous.
    “You shouldn’t leave trash in the sand traps, you know,” I scolded.
    “Sorry,” the two of them apologized.
    “A long time ago, I got hurt in a sandbox. Back when I was in elementary school.” I
    showed them the tip of my left index finger where you could still make out a tiny white thread of a scar a third of an inch long. “Somebody’d buried a broken pop bottle.”
    The two of them nodded.
    “Of course, no one gets cut on an empty cookie box. But still, you mustn’t leave things lying around in the sand. Sandy places are sacred and not to be defiled.”
    “We understand,” said one of them.
    “We’ll be more careful,” said the other. “Got any other scars?”
    “Well, now that you ask...” And I proceeded to show the two of them every scar on my body. A regular catalog of scars. First, my left eye, where I got hit by the ball in a soccer match. To this day, I still have a small scar on my retina. Then there’s my nose, again thanks to soccer. I was going to head the ball, when I met up with another player’s teeth on the