murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

"It's lovely, though," said Naoko. "Reiko, do we still have those
candles from the last power cut?"
"Probably, in a kitchen drawer."
Naoko brought a large, white candle from the kitchen. I lit it, dripped
a little wax into a plate, and stood it up. Reiko used the flame to light a
cigarette. As the three of us sat facing the candle amid these hushed
surroundings, it began to seem as if we were the only ones left on
some far edge of the world. The still shadows of the moonlight and the
swaying shadows of the candlelight met and melded on the white
walls of the flat. Naoko and I sat next to each other on the sofa, and
Reiko settled into the rocking chair facing us.
"How about some wine?" Reiko asked me.
"You're allowed to drink?" I asked with some surprise.
"Well, not really," said Reiko, scratching an earlobe with a hint of
embarrassment. "But they pretty much let it go. If it's just wine or beer
and you don't drink too much. I've got a friend on the staff who buys
me a little now and then."
"We have our drinking parties," said Naoko with a mischievous air.
"Just the two of us."
"That's nice," I said.
Reiko took a bottle of white wine from the fridge, opened it with a
corkscrew and brought three glasses. The wine had a clear, delicious
flavour that seemed almost homemade. When the record ended, Reiko
brought out a guitar from under her bed, and after tuning it with a look
of fondness for the instrument, she began to play a slow Bach fugue.
She missed her fingering every now and then, but it was real Bach,
with real feeling - warm, intimate, and filled with the joy of
performance.
"I started playing the guitar here," said Reiko. "There are no pianos in
the rooms, of course. I'm self-taught, and I don't have guitar hands, so
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