By Haruki Murakami
This wildly propulsive novel through the acclaimed writer of A Wild Sheep Chase makes a speciality of a guy trying to find a former lover who vanished mysteriously from a seedy lodge. yet every one new clue to Kiki's whereabouts leads him deeper right into a labryrinth of actual violence and metaphysical dread. "A world-class writer."--Washington put up e-book international
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Turn here, and there was this or that. The old Dolphin hadn't had a dining room—if it had, I doubt I would have been inclined to eat there—so we, Kiki and I, would always go someplace nearby for meals. Now I felt like I was visiting an old neighborhood and was content just to wander about, taking in familiar sights. When the sun went down, the air grew cold. The streets echoed with the wet sounds of slush underfoot. There was no wind, so walking was not at all unpleasant. It was still crisp and clear.
Not one thing left for you. I clamped my lips tight and stared at the bottle of soy sauce on the counter. You live by yourself for a stretch of time and you get to staring at different objects. Sometimes you talk to yourself. You take meals in 33 crowded joints. You develop an intimate relationship with your used Subaru. You slowly but surely become a has-been. I left the bar and headed back to the hotel. I'd walked a fair bit, but it wasn't hard finding my way back. I had only to look up to see the new Dolphin Hotel towering above everything else.
Our air is like natural air. So the stale, moldy air was really a shock. And it smelled like it was . . old— you know, like when you go to visit your grandparents in the country and you open up the old family storehouse—like that. Stagnant and musty. «I turned around and now even the elevator call buttons had gone out. I couldn't see a thing. Everything was out, completely, which was really frightening. I mean, I was entirely alone in total darkness, and it was utterly quiet. Utterly. There wasn't a single sound.