Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami Read Free Book Online Page A

life strange? There’re people who have so many leftover clothes they can’t stuff them all in their closets. And then there’re people like me, whose socks never match. Anyway, I don’t mind. She went over to her friend’s house and came back with an armful of these
leftovers.
They’re just a bit out of fashion if you look carefully, but most people wouldn’t notice.”
    I wouldn’t know no matter how closely I looked, I told her.
    Sumire smiled contentedly. “The clothes fit me like a glove. The dresses, blouses, skirts—everything. I’ll have to take in the waist a bit, but put a belt on and you’d never know the difference. My shoe size, fortunately, is almost the same as Miu’s, so she let me have some pairs she doesn’t need. High heels, low heels, summer sandals. All with Italian names on them. Handbags, too. And a little makeup.”
    “A regular Jane Eyre,” I said.
    All of which explains how Sumire started working three days a week at Miu’s office. Wearing a suit jacket and dress, high heels, and a touch of makeup, riding the morning commuter train from Kichijoji to Harajuku. Somehow I just couldn’t picture it.
    A part from her office at her company in Akasaka, Miu had her own small office at Jingumae. There she had her desk as well as her assistant’s (Sumire’s, in other words), a filing cabinet, a fax, a phone, and a PowerBook. That’s all. It was just one room in an apartment building and came with an afterthought type of tiny kitchen and bathroom. There was a CD player, minispeakers, and a dozen classical CDs. The room was on the third floor, and out the east-facing window, you could see a small park. The first floor of the building was taken up by a showroom selling northern European furniture. The whole building was set back from the main thoroughfare, which kept traffic noise to a minimum.
    As soon as she arrived at the office, Sumire would water the plants and get the coffeemaker going. She’d check phone messages and e-mails on the PowerBook. She’d print out any messages and place them on Miu’s desk. Most of them were from foreign agents, in either English or French. Any regular mail that came she’d open, and pitch whatever was clearly junk mail. A few calls would come in every day, some from abroad. Sumire would take down the person’s name, number, and message and pass these along to Miu on her cell phone.
    Miu usually showed up around one or two in the afternoon. She’d stay an hour or so, give Sumire various instructions, drink coffee, make a few calls. Letters that required a reply she’d dictate to Sumire, who’d type them up on the word processor and either mail or fax them. These were usually quite brief business letters. Sumire also made reservations for Miu at the hairdresser, restaurants, and the squash court. Business out of the way, Miu and Sumire would chat for a bit, and then Miu would leave.
    So Sumire was often alone in the office, talking to no one for hours, but she never felt bored or lonely. She’d review her twice-a-week Italian lessons, memorizing the irregular verbs, checking her pronunciation with a tape recorder. She took some computer classes and got to where she could handle most simple glitches. She opened up the information in the hard drive and learned the general outlines of the projects Miu had going.
    Miu’s main work was as she had described at the wedding reception. She contracted with small wine producers, mostly in France, and wholesaled their wine to restaurants and specialty shops in Tokyo. On occasion she arranged concert trips by musicians to Japan. Agents from large firms handled the complex business angles, with Miu taking care of the overall plan and some of the groundwork. Miu’s specialty was searching out unknown, promising young performers and bringing them to Japan.
    How much profit Miu made from her private business, Sumire had no way of knowing. Accounting records were kept on separate disks and couldn’t be accessed