murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

quadrangle.
I began by telling Naoko how I had given my right hand a nasty cut
while working in the record shop, then went on to say that Nagasawa,
Hatsumi and I had had a sort of celebration the night before for
Nagasawa's having passed his Foreign Ministry exam. I described the
restaurant and the food. The meal was great, I said, but the atmosphere
got uncomfortable halfway through.
I wondered if I should write about Kizuki in connection with having
played pool with Hatsumi and decided to go ahead. I felt it was
something I ought to write about.
I still remember the last shot Kizuki took that day - the day he died. It
was a difficult cushion shot that I never expected him to get. Luck
seemed to be with him, though: the shot was absolutely perfect, and
the white and red balls hardly made a sound as they brushed each
other on the green baize for the last score of the game. It was such a
beautiful shot, I still have a vivid image of it to this day. For nearly
two-and-a-half years after that, I never touched a cue.
The night I played pool with Hatsumi, though, the thought of Kizuki
never crossed my mind until the first game ended, and this came as a
real shock to me. I had always assumed that I'd be reminded of Kizuki
whenever I played pool. But not until the first game was over and I
bought a Pepsi from a vending machine and started drinking it did I
even think of him. It was the pool hall we used to play in, and we had
often bet drinks on the outcome of our games.
I felt guilty that I hadn't thought of Kizuki straight away, as if I had
somehow abandoned him. Back in my room, though, I came to think
of it like this: two and-a-half years have gone by since it happened,
and Kizuki is still 17 years old. Not that this means my memory of
him has faded. The things that his death gave rise to are still there,
bright and clear, inside me, some of them even clearer than when they
were new. What I want to say is this: I'm going to turn 20 soon. Part of
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