murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

the shutter and stepped a few paces back to wait. Fifteen seconds went
by without an answer, and I was debating with myself whether to ring
again when I heard a window clatter open above me. I looked up to
see Midori leaning out and waving.
"Come in," she yelled. "Lift the shutter."
"Is it OK? I'm kind of early," I shouted back.
"No problem. Come upstairs. I'm busy in the kitchen." She pulled the
window closed.
The shutter made a terrific grinding noise as I raised it three feet from
the ground, ducked under, and lowered it again. The shop was pitch
black inside. I managed to feel my way to the back stairway, tripping
over bound piles of magazines. I unlaced my shoes and climbed the
stairs to the living area. The interior of the house was dark and
gloomy. The stairs led to a simple parlour with a sofa and easy chairs.
It was a small room with dim light coming in the window, reminiscent
of old Polish films. There was a kind of storage area on the left and
what looked like the door to a bathroom. I had to climb the steep
stairway with care to reach the second floor, but once I got there, it
was so much brighter than the first that I felt greatly relieved.
"Over here," called Midori's voice. To the right at the top of the stairs
was what looked like a dining room, and beyond that a kitchen. The
house itself was old, but the kitchen seemed to have been refitted
recently with new cabinets and a bright, shiny sink and taps. Midori
was preparing food. A pot was bubbling, and the air was filled with
the smell of grilled fish.
"There's beer in the fridge," she said with a glance in my direction.
"Have a seat while I finish this." I took a can and sat at the kitchen
table. The beer was so cold it might have been in the fridge for the
best part of a year. On the table lay a small, white ashtray, a
newspaper, and a soy sauce dispenser. There was also a notepad and
pen, with a phone number and some figures on the pad that seemed to
be calculations connected with shopping.
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