j
The
Wind-Up
Bird
Chronicle
HARUKI MURAKAMI
Translated from the Japanese by J A Y R U B I N
HARUKI MURAKAMI
Haruki Murakami was born in Kyoto in 1949 and now lives near Tokyo. The most recent of
his many honors is the Yomiuri Literary Prize, whose previous recipients include Yukio
Mishima, Kenzaburd Oe, and Kdbo Abe. He is the author of the novels Dance Dance
Dance, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, and A Wild Sheep Chase, and
of The Elephant Vanishes, a collection of stories. His latest novel, South of the Border, West
of the Sun, will be published by Knopf in 1999. His work has been translated into fourteen
languages.
B o o k O n e: T h e T h i e v i n g Magpie
June a n d J u l y 1 9 8 4
1
Tuesday's Wind-Up Bird
*
Six Fingers and Four Breasts
When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potrul of spaghetti and whistling along
with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the
perfect music for cooking pasta.
I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because
Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. Finally, though, I
had to give in. It could have been somebody with news of a job opening. I lowered the flame,
went to the living room, and picked up the receiver.
"Ten minutes, please," said a woman on the other end.
I'm good at recognizing people's voices, but this was not one I knew.
"Excuse me? To whom did you wish to speak?"
"To you, of course. Ten minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other." Her
voice was low and soft but otherwise nondescript.
"Understand each other?"
"Each other's feelings."
I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely,
and Claudio Abbado was still conducting The Thieving Magpie.
"Sorry, but you caught me in the middle of making spaghetti. Can I ask you to call back
later?"
"Spaghetti!? What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning?"
"That's none of your business," I said. "I decide what I eat and when I eat it."
"True enough. I'll call back," she said, her voice now flat and expressionless. A little
change in mood can do amazing things to the tone of a person's voice.
"Hold on a minute," I said before she could hang up. "If this is some new sales gimmick,
you can forget it. I'm out of work. I'm not in the market for anything."
"Don't worry. I know."
"You know? You know what?"
"That you're out of work. I know about that. So go cook your precious spaghetti."
"Who the hell-"
She cut the connection.
With no outlet for my feelings, I stared at the phone in my hand until I remembered the
spaghetti. Back in the kitchen, I turned off the gas and poured the contents of the pot into a
colander. Thanks to the phone call, the spaghetti was a little softer than al dente, but it had not
been dealt a mortal blow. I started eating-and thinking.
Understand each other? Understand each other's feelings in ten minutes? What was she
talking about? Maybe it was just a prank call. Or some new sales pitch. In any case, it had
nothing to do with me.
After lunch, I went back to my library novel on the living room sofa, glancing every now
and then at the telephone. What were we supposed to understand about each other in ten
minutes? What can two people understand about each other in ten minutes? Come to think of
it, she seemed awfully sure about those ten minutes: it was the first thing out of her mouth. As
if nine minutes would be too short or eleven minutes too long. Like cooking spaghetti al
dente.
I couldn't read anymore. I decided to iron shirts instead. Which is what I always do when
I'm upset. It's an old habit. I divide the job into twelve precise stages, beginning with the
collar (outer surface) and ending with the left-hand cuff. The order is always the same, and I
count off each stage to myself. Otherwise, it won't come out right.