Authors: Haruki Murakami
Norwegian Wood (30 page)
B
ACK IN THE HOSPITAL ROOM
, Midori aimed a stream of talk at her father again, and he would either grunt in response or say nothing. Around eleven the wife of the man in the other bed came to change her husband’s pajamas and peel fruit for him and such. She had a round face and seemed like a nice person, and she and Midori shared a lot of small talk. A nurse showed up with a new intravenous feeding bottle and talked a little while with Midori and the wife before she left. I let my eyes wander around the room and out the window to the power lines. Sparrows would show up every now and then and perch on the lines. Midori talked to her father and wiped the sweat from his brow and let him spit phlegm into a tissue and chatted with the neighbor’s wife and the nurse and sent an occasional remark my way and checked the intravenous contraption.
The doctor came on rounds at eleven-thirty, so Midori and I stepped outside to wait in the corridor. When he came out, Midori asked him how her father was doing.
“Well, he’s just come out of surgery, and we’ve got him on painkillers so, well, he’s pretty drained,” said the doctor. “I’ll need another two or three days to evaluate the results of the operation. If it went well, he’ll be O.K., and if it didn’t, we’ll have to make some decisions at that point.”
“You’re not going to open his head up again, are you?”
“I really can’t say until the time comes,” said the doctor. “Wow, that’s some short skirt you’re wearing!”
“Nice, huh?”
“What do you do on stairways?” the doctor asked.
“Nothing special. I let it all hang out,” said Midori. The nurse chuckled behind the doctor.
“Incredible. You ought to come and let us open
your
head one of these days to see what’s going on in there. Do me a favor and use the elevators while you’re in the hospital. I can’t afford to have any more patients. I’m way too busy as it is.”
Soon after the doctor’s rounds it was lunchtime. A nurse pushing a cart loaded with meals was circulating from room to room. Midori’s father was given potage, fruit, boiled deboned fish, and vegetables that had been ground into some kind of jelly. Midori turned him on his back and raised him up using the crank at the foot of the bed. She fed him the soup with a spoon. After five or six swallows, he turned his face aside and said,
“You’ve got to eat at least this much,” Midori said.
“You’re hopeless—if you don’t eat properly, you’ll never get your strength back,” she said. “Don’t you have to pee yet?”
“Hey, Watanabe, let’s go down to the cafeteria.”
I agreed to go, but in fact I didn’t feel much like eating. The cafeteria was crammed with doctors and nurses and visitors. Long lines of chairs and tables filled the huge, windowless underground cavern where every mouth seemed to be eating and talking—about sickness, no doubt, the voices echoing and reechoing as in a tunnel. Now and then the P. A. system would break through the reverberation with calls for a doctor or nurse. While I laid claim to a table, Midori bought two set meals and carried them over on an aluminum tray. Croquettes with cream sauce, potato salad, shredded cabbage, boiled vegetables, rice, and miso soup: these were lined up in the tray in the same white plastic dishes they used for patients. I ate about half of mine and left the rest. Midori seemed to enjoy her meal to the last mouthful.
“You’re not too hungry?” she asked, sipping hot tea.
“Not really,” I said.
“It’s the hospital,” she said, scanning the cafeteria. “This always happens when people aren’t used to the place. The smells, the sounds, the stale air, patients’ faces, stress, irritation, disappointment, pain, fatigue—
all those things are what do it. They grab you in the stomach and kill your appetite. Once you get used to them, though, they’re no problem at all. Plus, you can’t really take care of a sick person unless you eat right. It’s true. I know what I’m talking about because I’ve done it with my grandfather, my grandmother, my mother, and now my father. You never know when you’re going to have to miss your next meal, so it’s important to eat when you can.”
“I see what you mean,” I said.
“Relatives come to visit and they eat with me here, and they always leave half their food, just like you. And they always say, ‘Oh, Midori, it’s wonderful you’ve got such a healthy appetite. I’m too upset to eat.’ But get serious,
I’m
the one who’s actually here taking care of the patient! They just have to stop by and show a little sympathy.
I’m
the one who wipes the shit and takes the phlegm and dries the bodies off. If sympathy was all it took to clean up shit, I’d have fifty times as much sympathy as anybody else! Instead, they see me eating all my food and they give me this look and say, ‘Oh, Midori, you’ve got such a healthy appetite.’ What do they think I am, a donkey pulling a cart? They’re old enough to know how the world really works, so why are they so stupid? It’s easy to talk big, but the important thing is whether or not you clean up the shit. I can be hurt, you know. I can get as exhausted as anybody else. I can feel so bad I want to cry, too. I mean,
you
try watching a gang of doctors get together and cut open somebody’s head when there’s no hope of saving them, and stirring things up in there, and doing it again and again, and every time they do it it makes the person worse and a little bit crazier, and see how
you
like it! And on top of it, you see your savings go to hell. I don’t know if I can keep going to school another three and a half years, and there’s no way my sister can afford a wedding ceremony at this rate.”
“How many days do you come here in a week?” I asked.
“Usually four,” said Midori. “This place claims they offer total nursing care, and the nurses themselves are great, but there’s just too much for them to do. Some member of the family has to be around to take up the slack. My sister’s watching the store, and I’ve got my classes. Still, she manages to get here three days a week, and I come four. And we sneak in a little time for a date now and then. Believe me, it’s a full schedule!”
“How can you spend time with me if you’re so busy?”
“I like spending time with you,” said Midori, playing with a plastic teacup.
“Get out of here for a couple of hours and go take a walk,” I said. “I’ll take care of your father for a while.”
“Why?”
“You need to get away from the hospital and relax by yourself—not talk to anybody, just clear your mind out.”
Midori thought about it for a minute and nodded. “Hmm, you may be right. But do you know what to do? How to take care of him?”
“I’ve been watching. I’ve pretty much got it. You check the intravenous thing, give him water, wipe the sweat off, and help him spit phlegm. The bedpan’s under the bed, and if he gets hungry I feed him the rest of his lunch. Anything I can’t figure out I’ll ask the nurse.”
“I think that should do it,” Midori said with a smile. “There’s just one thing, though. He’s starting to get a little funny in the head, so he says weird things once in a while—things that nobody can understand. Don’t let it bother you if he does that.”
“I’ll be fine.” I said.
B
ACK IN THE ROOM
, Midori told her father she had some business to take care of and that I would be watching him while she was out. He seemed to have nothing to say to this. It might have meant nothing to him. He just lay there on his back, staring at the ceiling. If he hadn’t been blinking every once in a while, he could have passed for dead. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he had been drinking, and each time he took a deep breath his nose swelled the slightest bit. Otherwise, he didn’t move a muscle, and he made no effort to reply to Midori. I couldn’t begin to grasp what he might be thinking or feeling in the murky depths of his consciousness.
After Midori left, I thought about trying to speak to her father, but I had no idea what to say to him or how to say it, and so I just kept quiet. Before long, he closed his eyes and went to sleep. I sat on the stool by the head of the bed and studied the occasional twitching of his nose, hoping all the while that he might not die on the spot. How strange it would be, I thought, if this man were to breathe his last with me by his side. After all, I had just met him for the first time in my life, and the only thing binding us together was Midori, a girl I happened to know from my History of Drama class.
He was not dying, though, just sleeping soundly. Bringing my ear close
to his face, I could hear his faint breathing. This allowed me to relax and chat with the wife of the man in the next bed. She talked of nothing but Midori on the assumption that I was her boyfriend.
“She’s really a wonderful girl,” she said. “She takes wonderful care of her father; she’s kind and gentle and sensitive and solid, and on top of all that, she’s pretty. You’d better treat her right. Don’t ever let her go. You won’t find another one like her.”
“I’ll treat her right,” I said without elaborating.
“I have a son and daughter at home. He’s seventeen and she’s twenty-one, and neither of them would ever think of coming to the hospital. The minute school lets out, they’re off surfing or dating or whatever. They’re terrible. They squeeze me for all the pocket money they can get and then they disappear.”
At one-thirty the Mrs. left the hospital room to do some shopping. Both men were sound asleep. Gentle afternoon sunlight flooded the room, and I felt as though I might drift off at any moment atop the stool on which I was perched. White and yellow chrysanthemums in a vase on the table by the window announced to people that it was autumn. In the air floated the sweet smell of boiled fish left untouched from lunch. The nurses continued to clip clop up and down the hall, talking to one another in clear, penetrating voices. They would peek into the room now and then and flash me a smile when they saw that both patients were sleeping. I wished I had something to read, but there were no books or magazines or newspapers in the room, just a calendar on the wall.
I thought about Naoko. I thought about her naked, wearing only her barrette. I thought about the curve of her waist and the dark shadow of her pubic hair. Why had she shown herself to me like that? Had she been sleepwalking? Or was it just a fantasy of mine? As time went by and that little world receded into the distance, I grew increasingly unsure that the events of that night had actually happened. If I told myself they were real, I believed they were real, and if I told myself they were a fantasy, they seemed like a fantasy. They were too clear and detailed to have been a fantasy, and too whole and beautiful to have been real: Naoko’s body and the moonlight.
Midori’s father suddenly woke and started coughing, which put a stop to my daydreaming. I let him spit his phlegm into a tissue, and wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel.
“Would you like some water?” I asked, to which he gave a four-millimeter nod. I held the small glass water bottle so that he could sip a little bit at a time, dry lips trembling, throat twitching. He drank every bit of the seemingly lukewarm water in the bottle.
“Would you like some more?” I asked. He seemed to be trying to speak, so I brought my ear close.
“Why don’t you eat something? You must be hungry.” He answered with a slight nod. As Midori had done, I cranked his bed up and started feeding him, alternating spoonfuls of vegetable jelly and boiled fish. It took an incredibly long time to get through half his food, at which point he gave his head a little shake to signal that he had had enough. The movement was almost imperceptible; it apparently hurt him to make larger movements.
“What about the fruit?” I asked him.
“Was that good?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “It looked pretty bad.” Midori’s father could not seem to decide whether to open his eyes further or close them as he lay there silently, staring at me. I wondered if he knew who I was. He seemed more relaxed when alone with me than when Midori was present. He might have been mistaking me for someone else. Or at least that was how I preferred to think of it.
“Beautiful day out there,” I said, perching on the stool and crossing my legs. “It’s autumn, Sunday, great weather, and crowded everywhere you go. Relaxing indoors like this is the best thing you can do on such a nice day. It’s exhausting to get into those crowds. And the air is bad. I mostly do laundry on Sundays—wash the stuff in the morning, hang it out on the roof of my dorm, take it in before the sun goes down, do a good job of ironing it. I don’t mind ironing at all. There’s a special satisfaction in making wrinkled things smooth. And I’m pretty good at it, too. Of course, I was lousy at it at first. I put creases in everything. After a month of practice, though, I knew what I was doing. So Sunday is my day for laundry and ironing. I couldn’t do it today, of course. Too bad: wasted a perfect laundry day.
“That’s O.K., though. I’ll wake up early and take care of it tomorrow. Don’t worry. I’ve got nothing else to do on a Sunday.
“After I do my laundry tomorrow morning and hang it out to dry, I’ll go to my ten o’clock class. It’s the one I’m in with Midori, History of Drama. I’m working on Euripides. Are you familiar with Euripides? He was an ancient Greek—one of the ‘Big Three’ of Greek tragedy along with Aeschylus and Sophocles. He supposedly died when a dog bit him in Macedonia, but not everybody buys this. Anyhow, that’s Euripides. I like Sophocles better, but I suppose it’s a matter of taste. I really can’t say which is better.
“What marks his plays is the way things get so mixed up the characters are trapped. Do you see what I mean? A bunch of different people appear, and they’ve all got their own situations and reasons and excuses, and each one is pursuing his or her own brand of justice or happiness. As a result, nobody can do anything. Obviously. I mean, it’s basically impossible for
everybody’s
justice to prevail or
everybody’s
happiness to triumph, so chaos takes over. And then what do you think happens? Simple—a god appears in the end and starts directing traffic.
‘You
go over
there
, and
you
come
here
, and
you
get together with
her
, and
you
just sit still for a while.’ Like that. He’s kind of a fixer, and in the end everything works out perfectly. They call this ‘deus ex machina.’ There’s almost always a deus ex machina in Euripides, and that’s the point where critical opinion divides over him.
