Free Pinball, 1973 by Haruki Murakami Page B

anyone could expect.”
    So saying, J blew cigarette smoke out into the dark emptiness beyond the bar. He followed the white smoke with his eyes until it completely vanished in the air.
    A long silence passed between the two of them. The Rat gazing at his glass, lost in thought, J running his finger back and forth along the counter top as usual. The jukebox began to play the last record. A soul ballad in falsetto.
    “Say J,” said the Rat, eyes still on the glass, “I’ve lived here for twenty-five years, and it seems to me I haven’t really learned a thing.”
    J said nothing, but just stared at his fingers. Then he gave a little shrug. “Me, I’ve seen forty-five years, and I’ve only figured out one thing. That’s this: if a person would just make the effort, there’s something to be learned from everything. From even the most ordinary, commonplace things, there’s always something you can learn. I read somewhere that they say there’s even different philosophies in razors. Fact is, if it weren’t for that, nobody’d survive.”
    The Rat nodded, then finished off the last inch of beer in his glass. The record ended, the jukebox clicked off, and the premises fell quiet again.
    “I think I see what you’re getting at, but” the Rat began, then swallowed the thought. But
    – the word was on his lips, there wasn’t anything more he could say. So he smiled and stood up, thanked J and said, “Can I give you a lift home?”
    “Nah, it’s okay. My place is close by, and besides I like to walk.” “Well, now, you get some shut-eye. Regards to your cat.” “Thanks.”
    Climbing the stairs, he stepped out into the crisp autumn air. The Rat made his way to the parking lot, tapping the trees along the roadside lightly with his fist as he walked. He came to a halt in front of the parking meter, stared at it for no reason at all, then got in the car. After a few wrong turns, he found himself cruising toward the ocean. He stopped the car along the shore road in view of her apartment building. Half the apartments were still lit. In a few, shadows moved behind the curtains.
    The woman’s apartment was dark. Even her bedside lamp was out. Probably asleep. It was a terribly lonely feeling.
    The sound of the waves seemed to be growing louder. Almost as if any minute now they would break over the seawall and wash the Rat – car and all – somewhere faraway. He switched on the car radio and let back the reclining seat, eyes closed, hands behind his head, half-listening to some deejay’s drivel. He was dead tired, thanks to which, whatever emotions he might have had, simply came and went without gaining a foothold. The Rat began to relax and lay down his empty head on the mingled sounds of the waves and the deejay until sleep crept over him.

Chapter 11
    Thursday morning, the twins woke me up. Little did I notice that it was fifteen minutes earlier than usual as I shaved, drank my coffee, and read through the morning paper, still sticky with fresh ink.
    “There’s a favor we have to ask,” said one of the twins.
    “Do you think you could borrow a car this Sunday?” said the other.
    “Perhaps,” I said, “but where do you want to go?”
    “The reservoir.”
    “The reservoir?”
    They both nodded.
    “What do you want to do at the reservoir?”
    “Last rites.”
    “Whose?”
    “The switch-panel’s.”
    “I see,” said I, and returned to the paper.
    Unfortunately, on Sunday it began drizzling from the morning. To be sure, I had no way of knowing what kind of weather was most appropriate for a switch-panel’s funeral. The twins didn’t broach the subject of the rain, so I kept quiet.
    Saturday night I borrowed my business partner’s light blue Volkswagen. He insinuated that maybe I’d found myself a woman, to which I merely said
    Umm.
    The back seat of the bug was stained across one side, probably milk chocolate rubbed in by his kid, though it looked like bloodstains from a machine gun battle. My