Free Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami Page B

doesn’t know anything. That’s why she’s in love with me.’ ”
    Sumire laughed.
    “I hope things work out,” I said. “But try your best to stay alert. You’re still vulnerable. Remember that.”
    W ithout a word, Sumire took my hand and gently squeezed it. Her small, soft hand had a faint sheen of sweat. I imagined her hand stroking my rock-hard penis. I tried not to think that but couldn’t help it. As Sumire had said, there were no other choices. I imagined taking off her T-shirt, her shorts, her panties. Feeling her tight, taut nipples under my tongue. Spreading her legs wide, entering that wetness. Slowly, into the deep darkness within. It enticed me in, enfolded me, then pushed me out. . . . The illusion grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I closed my eyes tight again and let a concentrated clump of time wash over me. My face turned down, I waited patiently for the overheated air to blow above me and away.
    W hy don’t we have dinner together? Sumire asked. But I had to take the minivan I’d borrowed back to Hino by the end of the day. More than anything else, though, I had to be alone with my violent urges. I didn’t want Sumire to get involved any more than she already was. I didn’t know how far I could control myself if she was beside me. Past the point of no return, and I might completely lose control.
    “Well, let me treat you to a nice dinner sometime soon, then. Tablecloths, wine. The works. Maybe next week,” Sumire promised as we said goodbye. “Keep your schedule open for me next week.”
    “OK,” I said.
    I glanced at the full-length mirror as I passed by, at my face reflected in it. A strange expression was on my face. That was my face, all right, but where did that look come from? I didn’t feel like retracing my steps and investigating further.
    Sumire stood at the entrance to her new place to see me off. She waved goodbye, something she rarely did.
    In the end, like so many beautiful promises in our lives, that dinner date never came to be. In the beginning of August I received a long letter from her.

CHAPTER 6
    T he envelope had a large, colorful Italian stamp on it and was postmarked Rome, though I couldn’t make out when it had been sent.
    The day the letter arrived, I’d gone out to Shinjuku for the first time in quite a while, picked up a couple of new books at the Kinokuniya bookstore, and taken in a Luc Besson movie. Afterward I stopped by a beer hall and enjoyed an anchovy pizza and a mug of dark beer. Barely beating the rush hour, I boarded the Chuo Line and read one of my new books until I arrived home at Kunitachi. I planned to make a simple dinner and watch a soccer match on TV. The ideal way to spend a summer vacation. Hot, alone, and free, not bothering anyone, and nobody bothering me.
    When I got back home, there was a letter in the mailbox. The sender’s name wasn’t on the envelope, but one glance at the handwriting told me it was from Sumire. Hieroglyphic writing, compact, hard, uncompromising. Writing that reminded me of the beetles they discovered inside the pyramids of Egypt. Like it’s going to start crawling and disappear back into the darkness of history.
    Rome?
    I put the food I’d bought at a supermarket in the fridge and poured myself a tall glass of iced tea. I sat down in a chair in the kitchen, slit open the envelope with a paring knife, and read the letter. Five pages of stationery, from the Rome Excelsior Hotel, crammed full of tiny writing in blue ink. Must have taken a lot of time to write that much. On the last page, in one corner, was some sort of stain—coffee, perhaps.
    How are you?
    I can imagine how surprised you must be to all of a sudden get a letter from me from Rome. You’re so cool, though, it’d probably take more than Rome to surprise you. Rome’s a bit too touristy. It’d have to be someplace like Greenland, Timbuktu, or the Strait of Magellan, wouldn’t it? Though I can tell you I find it hard to believe that here I am in