Sinister: a short story for you

[Cassell Professional Publishing]

I hope you all like this. It only takes a few minutes to read.



*On Seeing the 100 percent Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning* by
Haruki Murakami


One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable
Harajuku neighbourhood, I walk past the 100 percent perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in
any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent
out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not
even close to a 'girl', properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty
yards away: She's the 100 percent perfect girl for me. The moment I see her,
there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favourite type of girl - one with slim
ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good
reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own
preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring
at the girl at the table next to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100 percent perfect girl correspond to some
preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers -
or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great
beauty. It's weird.

- Yesterday on the street I passed the 100 percent perfect girl, I tell
someone.

- Yeah? he says. Good looking?

- Not really.

- Your favourite type, then?

- I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of
her eyes or the size of her breasts.

- Strange.

- Yeah. Strange.

- So anyhow, he says, already bored, what did you do? Talk to her? Follow
her?

- Nah. Just passed her on the street.

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April
morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about
herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain
to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a
side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was
something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock
built when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie,
stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in
bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

- Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little
conversation?

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

- Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners
in the neighbourhood?

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing.
Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do.

- Good morning. You are the 100 percent perfect girl for me.

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk
to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100 percent perfect girl for
you, but you're not the 100 percent perfect boy for me. It could happen. And
if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never
recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all
about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin.
The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to
speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a
crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: she's written somebody a
letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look
in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have
been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it
properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh well. It would have started: Once upon a time, and ended: A sad story,
don't you think?


Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the
girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially
beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely
girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that
somewhere in the world there lived the 100 percent perfect boy and the 100
percent perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that
miracle actually happened.

One day, the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

- This is amazing, he said. I've been looking for you all my life. You may
not believe this, but you are the 100 percent perfect girl for me.

- And you, she said to him, are the 100 percent perfect boy for me, exactly
as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream.

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour
after hour. They were not lonely any more. They had found and been found by
their 100 percent perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be
found by your 100 percent perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in
their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so
easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said
to the girl:

- Let's test ourselves, just once. If we really are each other's 100 percent
perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail.
And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100 percent perfect ones,
we'll marry then and there. What do you think?

- Yes, she said, that is exactly what we should do.

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should
never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's
100 percent perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But
it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold,
indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible
influenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all
memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as
the young DH Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined people, however, and through their
unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and
feeling that qualified them to return as fully-fledged members of society.
Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to
transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending
a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced
love again, sometimes as much as 75 percent or even 85 percent love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the
girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day,
the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a
special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, both along the same
narrow street in the Harajuku neighbourhood of Tokyo. They passed each other
in the very centre of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories
glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in
their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100 percent perfect girl for me.
He is the 100 percent perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no
longer had the clarity of fourteen years earlier. Without a word, they
passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?


Yes, that's it. That is what I should have said to her.




****************************************************************************
*******************************


Take care,

DAVID

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