murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

tears, trembling all over. Slumping forward, she buried her face in her
hands and sobbed with the same suffocating violence as she had that
night with me. Reiko laid down her guitar and sat by Naoko, caressing
her back. When she put an arm across Naoko's shoulders, she pressed
her face against Reiko's chest like a baby.
"You know," Reiko said to me, "it might be a good idea for you to go
out for a little walk. Maybe 20 minutes. Sorry, but I think that would
help."
I nodded and stood, pulling a jumper on over my shirt. "Thanks for
stepping in," I said to Reiko.
"Don't mention it," she said with a wink. "This is not your fault. Don't
worry, by the time you come back she'll be OK."
My feet carried me down the road, which was illuminated by the
oddly unreal light of the moon, and into the woods.
Beneath that moonlight, all sounds bore a strange reverberation. The
hollow sound of my own footsteps seemed to come from another
direction as though I were hearing someone walking on the bottom of
the sea. Behind me, every now and then, I would hear a crack or a
rustle. A heavy pall hung over the forest, as if the animals of the night
were holding their breath, waiting for me to pass.
Where the road sloped upwards beyond the trees, I sat and looked
towards the building where Naoko lived. It was easy to tell her room.
All I had to do was find the one window towards the back where a
faint light trembled. I focused on that point of light for a long, long
time. It made me think of something like the final pulse of a soul's
dying embers. I wanted to cup my hands over what was left and keep
it alive. I went on watching it the way Jay Gatsby watched that tiny
light on the opposite shore night after night.
When I walked back to the front entrance of the building half an hour
later, I could hear Reiko practising the guitar. I padded up the stairs
and tapped on the door to the flat. Inside there was no sign of Naoko.
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