Pinball, 1973 by Haruki Murakami Read Free Book Online Page A

clear light into every corner of my tiny room. I vaguely heard it ringing in my head as I lazed about, absently gazing down on the field of cabbages outside my bedside window. Patches of snow here and there on the dark black soil glistened like mirror-bright pockets of water. The last snow left by the last cold wave of the season.
    Ten rings and no takers. The ringing stopped. Then not five minutes later it started again. Disgruntled, I threw on a cardigan over my pajamas, opened the door, and picked up the receiver.
    “Miss ______, please,” came a male voice. A flat, unmodulated voice; an utterly featureless voice you couldn’t pin down if you tried. I improvised some reply, then slowly climbed the stairs to knock on her door.
    “Telephone!”
    “..... Thanks.”
    I returned to my room, stretched out on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I heard her come downstairs and start talking in her usual dry whisper. It was a short call as hers went. Maybe fifteen seconds. There was the sound of her hanging up, then silence. Not even any footsteps.
    Finally, after a longish pause, I heard the slow approach of footsteps, followed by a knocking on my door. Two knocks, time for one deep breath, then twice again.
    On opening the door, I found her standing there in a bulky white sweater and jeans. For a second I thought I’d given her someone else’s call, but she didn’t say a word. She just stood there, arms folded tightly across her chest, shivering. She gave me this look – she might have been watching from a lifeboat as the ship went down. Or maybe it was the other way around.
    “Can I come in? I could catch my death of cold out here.”
    Not knowing what to expect, I ushered her in and shut the door. She sat down in front of the heater, warming her hands as she gave the room the once-over.
    “Awful empty room you’ve got here.”
    I nodded. It was practically empty. Just a bed by the window. Too big for a single, too small for a semi-double. Whatever it was, the bed wasn’t something I’d bought for myself. A friend gave it to me. I really couldn’t imagine why he’d give me a bed; I wasn’t even that close to him. Hardly ever spoke to the guy. The son of a rich family from somewhere, he was beaten up in the school court-yard by louts from some other political faction, had his face kicked in with work boots, almost lost an eye, and withdrew from school. He was in convulsions the whole time I was walking him to the university infirmary, a real sorry sight. Some days later he said it was back home for him, and he gave me the bed.
    “I bet you can’t even fix yourself anything hot to drink,” she said. I shook my head. I didn’t have a thing. No coffee, no tea, no bancha. I didn’t even have a kettle. Just one small saucepan I used every morning to heat water for shaving. She sighed and stood-up saying wait there, she’d be right back. She left the room, and five minutes later returned with a cardboard box under each arm. In the boxes were a half-year’s supply of teabags and green tea, two boxes of biscuits, granulated sugar, a thermos pot, and a complete set of dishes, plus two Snoopy tumblers to boot. She plunked the boxes down on the bed, and boiled water for the thermos.
    “How on earth do you manage to survive? You’re practically Robinson Crusoe here!”
    “No, it’s not as much fun as that.”
    “I should think not.”
    I shut up and drank my hot tea.
    “I’m giving you all this.”
    I choked on the tea. “You’re what?”
    “You had to answer so many of my phone calls. This is thanks.”
    “But what about you, don’t you need this stuff?”
    She shook her head repeatedly. “I’m moving tomorrow, so I won’t be needing anything.”
    I gave the situation a silent moment’s thought, but couldn’t imagine what had happened.
    “Good news? Bad news?”
    “None too good, I’m afraid. I’m going to have to quit school and return to the old homefront.”
    The roomful of winter sunshine