murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

"We'll be back before lunch."
The two of them went out tittering. I heard the footsteps and voices of
a number of people walking by downstairs.
I went into the bathroom and washed my face again, then borrowed a
nail clipper and trimmed my nails. For a bathroom that was being
shared by two women, its contents were incredibly simple. Aside from
some neatly arranged bottles
of cleansing cream and lip moisturizer and sun block, there was
almost nothing that could be called cosmetics. When I finished
trimming my nails, I made myself some coffee and drank it at the
kitchen table, German book open. Stripping down to a T-shirt in the
sun-filled kitchen, I had set about memorizing all the forms in a
grammar chart when I was struck by an odd feeling. It seemed to me
that the longest imaginable distance separated irregular German verb
forms from this kitchen table.
The two women came back from the farm at 11.30, took turns in the
shower, and changed into fresh clothes. The three of us went to the
dining hall for lunch, then walked to the front gate. This time the
guardhouse had a man on duty. He was sitting at his desk, enjoying a
lunch that must have been brought to him from the dining hall. The
transistor radio on the shelf was playing a sentimental old pop tune.
He waved to us with a friendly "Hi" as we approached, and we
hello'ed him back.
Reiko explained to him that we were going to walk outside the
grounds and return in three hours.
"Great," he said. "You're lucky with the weather. Just stay away from
the valley road, though. It got washed out in that big rain. No problem
anywhere else."
Reiko wrote her name and Naoko's in a register along with the date
and time.
"Enjoy yourselves," said the guard. "And take care."
"Nice guy," I said.
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