murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

However I might phrase it, though, the facts were the same: Naoko
was dead, and Midori was still here. Naoko was a mound of white ash,
and Midori was a living, breathing human being.
I was overcome with a sense of my own defilement. Though I
returned to Tokyo I did nothing for days but shut myself up in my
room. My memory remained fixed on the dead rather than the living.
The rooms I had set aside in there for Naoko were shuttered, the
furniture draped in white, the windowsills dusty. I spent the better part
of each day in those rooms. And I thought about Kizuki. "So you
finally made Naoko yours," I heard myself telling him. "Oh, well, she
was yours to begin with. Now, maybe, she's where she belongs. But in
this world, in this imperfect world of the living, I did the best I could
for Naoko. I tried to establish a new life for the two of us. But forget
it, Kizuki. I'm giving her to you. You're the one she chose, after all. In
woods as dark as the depths of her own heart, she hanged herself.
Once upon a time, you dragged a part of me into the world of the
dead, and now Naoko has dragged another part of me into that world.
Sometimes I feel like the caretaker of a museum - a huge, empty
museum where no one ever comes, and I'm watching over it for no
one but myself."
The fourth day after my return to Tokyo, a letter came from Reiko.
Special delivery. It was a simple note: I haven't been able
to get in touch with you for weeks, and I'm worried. Please call me. At
9 a.m. and 9 p.m. I will be waiting by the telephone.
I called her at nine o'clock that night. Reiko picked up after one ring.
"Are you OK?" she asked.
"More or less," I said.
"Do you mind if I come and visit you the day after tomorrow?"
"Visit me? You mean here in Tokyo?"
"That's exactly what I mean. I want to have a good, long talk with
you."
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