murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

"No, thanks, I must get going. Thanks for the bandage and beer."
As I was standing in the hallway putting on my shoes, the telephone
rang. Hatsumi looked at me, looked at the phone,
and looked at me again.
"Good night," I said, stepping outside. As I shut the door, I caught a
glimpse of Hatsumi picking up the receiver. It was the last time I ever
saw her.
It was 11.30 by the time I got back to the dorm. I went straight to
Nagasawa's room and knocked on his door. After the tenth knock it
occurred to me that this was Saturday night. Nagasawa always got
overnight permission on Saturday nights, supposedly to stay at his
relatives' house.
I went back to my room, took off my tie, put my jacket and trousers
on a hanger, changed into my pyjamas, and brushed my teeth. Oh no, I
thought, tomorrow is Sunday again! Sundays seemed to be rolling
around every four days. Another two Sundays and I would be 20 years
old. I stretched out in bed and stared at my calendar as dark feelings
washed over me.
I sat at my desk to write my Sunday morning letter to Naoko, drinking
coffee from a big cup and listening to old Miles Davis albums. A fine
rain was falling outside, while my room had the chill of an aquarium.
The smell of mothballs lingered in the thick jumper I had just taken
out of a storage box. High up on the window-pane clung a huge, fat
fly, unmoving. With no wind to stir it, the Rising Sun standard hung
limp against the flagpole like the toga of a Roman senator. A skinny,
timid-looking brown dog that had wandered into the quadrangle was
sniffing every blossom in the flowerbed. I couldn't begin to imagine
why any dog would have to go around sniffing flowers on a rainy day.
My letter was a long one, and whenever my cut right palm began to
hurt from holding the pen, I would let my eyes wander out to the rainy
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