murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

09.01.2013 Views

make people get really vicious all of a sudden. It was the same with my mother. What do you think she said to me? "You're not my daughter! I hate your guts!' The whole world turned black for me for a second when she said that. But that kind of thing is one of the features of this particular sickness. Something presses on a part of the brain and makes people say all kinds of nasty things. You know it's just part of the sickness, but still, it hurts. What do you expect? Here I am, working my fingers to the bone for them, and they're saying all this terrible stuff to me-" "I know what you mean," I said. Then I remembered the strange fragments that Midori's father had mumbled to me. "Ticket? Ueno Station?" Midori said. "I wonder what that's all about?" "And then he said, Please, and Midori.", "Please take care of Midori?"' "Or maybe he wants you to go to Ueno and buy a ticket. The order of the four words is such a mess, who knows what he means? Does Ueno Station mean anything special to you?" "Hmm, Ueno Station." Midori thought about it for a while. "The only thing I can think of is the two times I ran away, when I was eight and when I was ten. Both times I took a train from Ueno to Fukushima. Bought the tickets with money I took from the till. Somebody at home made me really angry, and I did it to get even. I had an aunt in Fukushima, I kind of liked her, so I went to her house. My father was the one who brought me home. Came all the way to Fukushima to get me - a hundred miles! We ate boxed lunches on the train to Ueno. My father told me all kinds of stuff while we were travelling, just little bits and pieces with long spaces in between. Like about the big earthquake of 1923 or about the war or about the time I was born, stuff he didn't usually talk about. Come to think of it, those were the only times my father and I had something like a good, long talk, just the two of us. Hey, can you believe this? - my father was smack bang in the middle of Tokyo during one of the biggest earthquakes in history and he 232

didn't even notice it!" "No way!" "It's true! He was riding through Koishikawa with a cart on the back of his bike, and he didn't feel a thing. When he got home, all the tiles had fallen off the roofs in the neighbourhood, and everyone in the family was hugging pillars and quaking in their boots. He still didn't get it and, the way he tells it, he asked, "What the hell's going on here?' That's my father's "fond recollection' of the Great Kanto Earthquake!" Midori laughed. "All his stories of the old days are like that. No drama whatsoever. They're all just a little bit off-centre. I don't know, when he tells those stories, you kind of get the feeling like nothing important has happened in Japan for the past 50 or 60 years. The young officers' uprising of 1936, the Pacific War, they're all kind of "Oh yeah, now that you mention it, I guess something like that once happened' kind of things. It's so funny! "So, anyway, on the train, he'd tell me these stories in bits and pieces while we were riding from Fukushima to Ueno. And at the end, he'd always say, "So that goes to show you, Midori, it's the same wherever you go.' I was young enough to be impressed by stuff like that." "So is that your "fond recollection' of Ueno Station?" I asked. "Yeah," said Midori. "Did you ever run away from home, Watanabe?" "Never." "Why not?" "Lack of imagination. It never occurred to me to run away." "You are so weird!" Midori said, cocking her head as though truly impressed. "I wonder," I said. "Well, anyway, I think my father was trying to say he wanted you to look after me." "Really?" "Really! I understand things like that. Intuitively. So tell me, what was your answer to him?" "Well, I didn't understand what he was saying, so I just said OK, don't 233

didn't even notice it!"<br />

"No way!"<br />

"It's true! He was riding through Koishikawa with a cart on the back<br />

of his bike, and he didn't feel a thing. When he got home, all the tiles<br />

had fallen off the roofs in the neighbourhood, and everyone in the<br />

family was hugging pillars and quaking in their boots. He still didn't<br />

get it and, the way he tells it, he asked, "What the hell's going on<br />

here?' That's my father's "fond recollection' of the Great Kanto<br />

Earthquake!" Midori laughed. "All his stories of the old days are like<br />

that. No drama whatsoever. They're all just a little bit off-centre. I<br />

don't know, when he tells those stories, you kind of get the feeling like<br />

nothing important has happened in Japan for the past 50 or 60 years.<br />

The young officers' uprising of 1936, the Pacific War, they're all kind<br />

of "Oh yeah, now that you mention it, I guess something like that once<br />

happened' kind of things. It's so funny!<br />

"So, anyway, on the train, he'd tell me these stories in bits and pieces<br />

while we were riding from Fukushima to Ueno. And at the end, he'd<br />

always say, "So that goes to show you, Midori, it's the same wherever<br />

you go.' I was young enough to be impressed by stuff like that."<br />

"So is that your "fond recollection' of Ueno Station?" I asked. "Yeah,"<br />

said Midori. "Did you ever run away from home, Watanabe?"<br />

"Never."<br />

"Why not?"<br />

"Lack of imagination. It never occurred to me to run away." "You are<br />

so weird!" Midori said, cocking her head as though truly impressed.<br />

"I wonder," I said.<br />

"Well, anyway, I think my father was trying to say he wanted you to<br />

look after me."<br />

"Really?"<br />

"Really! I understand things like that. Intuitively. So tell me, what was<br />

your answer to him?"<br />

"Well, I didn't understand what he was saying, so I just said OK, don't<br />

233

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