murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

me, I said, and sent the letter special delivery.
The answer never came.
This was the beginning of one weird spring. I spent the whole holiday
waiting for letters. I couldn't take a trip, I couldn't go home to see my
parents, I couldn't even take a part-time job because there was no
telling when a letter might arrive from Naoko saying she wanted me to
come and see her on such-and-such a date. Afternoons I would spend
in the nearby shopping district in Kichijoji, watching double bills or
reading in a jazz café. I saw no one and talked to almost no one. And
once a week I would write to Naoko. I never suggested to her that I
was hoping for an answer. I didn't want to pressure her in any way. I
would tell her about my painting job, about Seagull, about the peach
blossom in the garden, about the nice old lady who sold tofu, about
the nasty old lady in the local restaurant, about the meals I was
making for myself. But still, she never wrote.
Whenever I was fed up reading or listening to records, I would work a
little in the garden. From my landlord I borrowed a rake and broom
and pruning shears and spent my time pulling weeds and trimming
bushes. It didn't take much to make the garden look good. Once the
owner invited me to join him for a cup of tea, so we sat on the veranda
of the main house drinking green tea and munching on rice crackers,
sharing small talk. After retirement, he had got a job with an insurance
company, he said, but he had left that,
too, after a couple of years, and now he was taking it easy. The house
and land had been in the family for a long time, his children were
grown-up and independent, and he could manage a comfortable old
age without working. Which is why he and his wife were always
travelling together.
"That's nice," I said.
"No it's not," he answered. "Travelling is no fun. I'd much rather be
working."
He let the garden grow wild, he said, because there were no decent
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