Free Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami

Lenin made?”
    “Those are called kolkhoz. There aren’t any left, though.”
    “It’s not like I want to give up writing,” Sumire said. She thought for a moment. “It’s just that when I try to write, I can’t. I sit down at my desk and nothing comes—no ideas, no words, no scenes.
Zip.
Not too long ago I had a million things to write about. What in the world’s happening to me?”
    “You’re asking me?”
    Sumire nodded.
    I took a sip of my cold beer and gathered my thoughts. “I think right now it’s like you’re positioning yourself in a newfictional framework. You’re preoccupied with that, so there’s no need to put your feelings into writing. Besides, you’re too busy to.”
    “Do
you
do that? Put yourself inside a fictional framework?”
    “I think most people live in a fiction. I’m no exception. Think of it in terms of a car’s transmission. It’s like a transmission that stands between you and the harsh realities of life. You take the raw power from outside and use gears to adjust it so everything’s all nicely in sync. That’s how you keep your fragile body intact. Does this make any sense?”
    Sumire gave a small nod. “And I’m still not completely adjusted to that new framework. That’s what you’re saying?”
    “The biggest problem right now is that you don’t know what sort of fiction you’re dealing with. You don’t know the plot; the style’s still not set. The only thing you do know is the main character’s name. Nevertheless, this new fiction is reinventing who you are. Give it time, it’ll take you under its wing, and you may very well catch a glimpse of a brand-new world. But you’re not there yet. Which leaves you in a precarious position.”
    “You mean I’ve taken out the old transmission but haven’t quite finished bolting down the new one. And the engine’s still running. Right?”
    “You could put it that way.”
    Sumire made her usual sullen face and tapped her straw on the hapless ice in her drink. Finally she looked up.
    “I understand what you mean by
precarious.
Sometimes I feel so—I don’t know—lonely. The kind of helpless feeling when everything you’re used to has been ripped away. Like there’s no more gravity, and I’m left to drift in outer space. With no idea where I’m headed.”
    “Like a little lost Sputnik?”
    “I guess so.”
    “But you do have Miu,” I said.
    “At least for now.”
    For a while silence reigned.
    “Do you think Miu is seeking that, too?” I asked.
    Sumire nodded. “I believe she is. Probably as much as I am.”
    “Physical aspects included?”
    “It’s a tough call. I can’t get a handle on it yet. What her feelings are, I mean. Which makes me feel lost and confused.”
    “A classical conundrum,” I said.
    In place of an answer, Sumire screwed up her lips again.
    “But as far as you’re concerned,” I said, “you’re ready to go.”
    Sumire nodded once, unequivocally. She couldn’t have been more serious. I sank back deep into my chair and clasped my hands behind my head.
    “After all this, don’t start to hate me, OK?” Sumire said. Her voice was like a line from an old black-and-white Jean-Luc Godard movie, filtering in just beyond the frame of my consciousness.
    “After all this, I won’t start to hate you,” I replied.
    T he next time I saw Sumire was two weeks later, on a Sunday, when I helped her move. She’d decided to move all of a sudden, and I was the only one who came to help. Other than books, she owned very little, and the whole procedure was over before we knew it. One good thing about being poor, at least.
    I borrowed a friend’s Toyota minivan and transported her things over to her new place in Yoyogi-Uehara. The apartment wasn’t so new or much to look at, but compared with her old wooden building in Kichijoji—a place that should be on a list of designated historical sites—it was definitely a step up. A real-estate-agent friend of Miu’s had located the place