murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

the world - as if some special kind of fruit juice had splashed down on
everything. In the midst of this overwhelming sunset, the image of
Hatsumi flashed into my mind, and in that moment I understood what
that tremor of the heart had been. It was a kind of childhood longing
that had always remained - and would for ever remain - unfulfilled. I
had forgotten the existence of such innocent, almost burnt-in longing:
forgotten for years that such feelings had ever existed inside me. What
Hatsumi had stirred in me was a part of my very self that had long lain
dormant. And when the realization struck me, it aroused such sorrow I
almost burst into tears. She had been an absolutely special woman.
Someone should have done something - anything - to save her.
But neither Nagasawa nor I could have managed that. As so many of
those I knew had done, Hatsumi reached a certain stage in life and
decided - almost on the spur of the moment - to end it. Two years after
Nagasawa left for Germany, she married, and two years after that she
slashed her wrists with a razor blade.
It was Nagasawa, of course, who told me what had
happened. His letter from Bonn said this: "Hatsumi's death has
extinguished something. This is unbearably sad and painful, even to
me." I ripped his letter to shreds and threw it away. I never wrote to
him again.
Hatsumi and I went to a small bar and downed several drinks. Neither
of us said much. Like a bored, old married couple, we sat opposite
each other, drinking in silence and munching peanuts. When the place
began to fill up, we went for a walk. Hatsumi said she would pay the
bill, but I insisted on paying because the drinks had been my idea.
There was a deep chill in the night air. Hatsumi wrapped herself in her
pale grey cardigan and walked by my side in silence. I had no
destination in mind as we ambled through the nighttime streets, my
hands shoved deep into my pockets. This was just like walking with
Naoko, it occurred to me.
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