Free The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami Page A

care of the company in the form of a complaint. If not a complaint, then whatever you come up with.
    That’s about it.
    I LISTENED to the tape this far on playback just now. To be honest, I’m very dissatisfied with it. I feel like an aquarium trainer who’s let a seal die out of negligence. It made me worry whether I should even send you this tape or not, blowing this thing all out of proportion even by my standards.
    And now that I’ve decided to send it, I’m still worried.
    But what the hell, I’m striving for imperfection, so I’ve got to live happily by my choice. It was you and the four kangaroos who got me into this imperfection, after all.
    S IGNING OFF .
    —translated by Alfred Birnbaum

O NE BEAUTIFUL APRIL MORNING , on a narrow side street in Tokyo’s fashionable Harajuku neighborhood, I walk past the 100% perfect girl.
    Tell you the truth, she’s not that good-looking. She doesn’t stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn’t young, either—must be near thirty, not even close to a “girl,” properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She’s the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there’s a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
    Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl—one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you’re drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I’ll catch myself staring at the girl at the table next to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
    But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can’t recall the shape of hers—or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It’s weird.
    “Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% perfect girl,” I tell someone.
    “Yeah?” he says. “Good-looking?”
    “Not really.”
    “Your favorite type, then?”
    “I don’t know. I can’t seem to remember anything about her—the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts.”
    “Strange.”
    “Yeah. Strange.”
    “So anyhow,” he says, already bored, “what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?”
    “Nah. Just passed her on the street.”
    She’s walking east to west, and I west to east. It’s a really nice April morning.
    Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and—what I’d really like to do—explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock built when peace filled the world.
    After talking, we’d have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
    Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
    Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
    How can I approach her? What should I say?
    “Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?”
    Ridiculous. I’d sound like an insurance salesman.
    “Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?”
    No, this is just as ridiculous. I’m not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who’s going to buy a line like that?
    Maybe the simple truth would do. “Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me.”
    No, she wouldn’t believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you’re not the 100% perfect boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I’d probably go to pieces. I’d never recover from the shock. I’m thirty-two, and