murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

Italian. You think things like that happen without hard work?"
Nagasawa puffed on his cigarette while I thought about Midori's
father. There was one man who had probably never even thought
about starting Spanish lessons on TV He had probably never thought
about the difference between hard work and manual labour, either. He
was probably too busy to think about such things - busy with work,
and busy bringing home a daughter who had run away to Fukushima.
"So, about that dinner of ours," said Nagasawa. "Would this Saturday
be OK for you?"
"Fine," I said.
Nagasawa picked a fancy French restaurant in a quiet backstreet of
Azabu. He gave his name at the door and the two of us were shown to
a secluded private room. Some 15 prints hung on the walls of the
small chamber. While we waited for Hatsumi to arrive, Nagasawa and
I sipped a delicious wine and chatted about the novels of Joseph
Conrad. He wore an expensive-looking grey suit. I had on an ordinary
blue blazer.
Hatsumi arrived 15 minutes later. She was carefully made up and
wore gold earrings, a beautiful deep blue dress, and tasteful red court
shoes. When I complimented her on the colour of her dress, she told
me it was called midnight blue.
"What an elegant restaurant!" she said.
"My old man always eats here when he comes to Tokyo," said
Nagasawa. "I came here with him once. I'm not crazy about these
snooty places."
"It doesn't hurt to eat in a place like this once in a while," said
Hatsumi. Turning to me, she asked, "Don't you agree?" "I guess so. As
long as I'm not paying."
"My old man usually brings his mistress here," said Nagasawa. "He's
got one in Tokyo, you know." "Really?" asked Hatsumi. I took a sip of
wine, as if I had heard nothing.
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