murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

eer and listened to her sing and kept an eye on the fire. It flared up
and died down several times. People were yelling and giving orders. A
newspaper helicopter clattered overhead, took photographs and flew
away. I worried that we might be in the picture. A policeman
screamed through a loudspeaker for bystanders to get back. A little kid
was crying for his mother. Glass shattered somewhere. Before long
the wind began shifting unpredictably, and white ash flakes fell out of
the air around us, but Midori went on sipping and singing. After she
had gone through most of the songs she knew, she sang an odd one
that she said she had written herself:
I'd love to cook a stew for you,
But I have no pot.
I'd love to knit a scarf for you,
But I have no wool.
I'd love to write a poem for you,
But I have no pen.
"It's called "I Have Nothing'," Midori announced. It was a truly
terrible song, both words and music.
I listened to this musical mess thinking that the house would blow
apart in the explosion if the petrol station caught fire. Tired of singing,
Midori put down her guitar and slumped against my shoulder like a
cat in the sun.
"How did you like my song?" she asked.
I answered cautiously, "It was unique and original and very expressive
of your personality."
"Thanks," she said. "The theme is that I have nothing." "Yeah, I kind
of thought so."
"You know," she said, "when my mother died. .." "Yeah?"
"I didn't feel the least bit sad."
"Oh."
"And I didn't feel sad when my father left, either." "Really?"
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