First Person Singular

by Haruki Murakami

  Katsuya Nomura was the Swallows’ manager back then. This was when players like Furuta, Ikeyama, Miyamoto, and Inaba were at their peak (a happy time for the team, now that I think of it). So, naturally, the following poem wasn’t included in the original Yakult Swallows Poetry Collection. I wrote it long after that collection was published.

  I didn’t have a pen or any paper on me that day, so as soon as I got back to the hotel, I used the stationery in the room to scribble down this (sort of) poem. A memo that just happened to take the form of a poem, I suppose you could call it. My desk drawer is full of memos and fragments of writing like that. They don’t actually serve much purpose, but I keep them nonetheless.

  An Island in the Ocean Current

  That summer afternoon

  I searched for the Yakult Swallows fans’ section

  In the left-field bleachers at Koshien Stadium.

  It took a long time to find it,

  Since the section for the Yakult fans was a tiny area

  only five yards square.

  All around, on every side, were crowds of Tigers fans.

  It reminded me of the John Ford movie Fort Apache.

  The small troop of cavalry led by the obstinate Henry Fonda

  Were surrounded by a huge mass of Indians that blanketed the ground.

  The cavalry was cornered, backs to the wall.

  Like a small island in an ocean current

  They bravely raised a single flag in their midst.

  Now that I think of it, when I was in elementary school

  I sat in these very seats, watching Sadaharu Oh, a high schooler then, play.

  This was the spring national high school baseball tournament

  When his school, Waseda Jitsugyo High School, won.

  He was their star, batting fourth.

  The memory of that day is so very clear in my mind,

  As if watching it from a backward telescope.

  So far away, yet so very close.

  And right now I am surrounded by fierce Indians in pinstripes,

  And under the Yakult Swallows’ flag I raise my plaintive cheer.

  I’ve been away from my hometown for such a long time, and

  My heart aches here

  On this tiny, solitary island in the ocean current.

  * * *

  .

  At any rate, of all the baseball stadiums in the world, I like being in Jingu Stadium the best of all. In an infield seat behind first base, or in the right-field bleachers. I love all the sounds, the smells, the way I can sit there, just gazing up at the sky. I love the breeze caressing my skin, I love sipping an ice-cold beer, observing the people around me. Whether the team wins or loses, I love the time spent there most of all.

  Of course, winning is much better than losing. No argument there. But winning or losing doesn’t affect the weight and value of the time. It’s the same time, either way. A minute is a minute, an hour is an hour. We need to cherish it. We need to deftly reconcile ourselves with time, and leave behind as many precious memories as we can—that’s what’s the most valuable.

  The first thing I like to do when I take my seat at the stadium is have a dark beer—a stout. But there aren’t many vendors selling dark beer at the stadium. It takes time to locate one. When I finally locate one, I raise my hand and call out. The vendor makes his way over. A skinny young guy, undernourished looking. He has longish hair. Probably a high school student doing this as a part-time job. He comes over, and the first thing he does is apologize. “I’m sorry, but all I have is dark beer,” he says.

  “No need to apologize,” I say, reassuring him. “I mean, I’ve been waiting a long time for someone selling dark beer to come by.”

  “Thank you,” he says. And cracks a cheerful smile.

  I imagine this young vendor will have to apologize to lots of people this evening. “I’m sorry, but all I have is dark beer,” since most people at the stadium probably wanted regular lager. I pay him for the beer and leave him with a small word of encouragement: “Good luck to you!”

  When I write novels, I often experience the same feeling as that young man. I want to face people in the world and apologize to each and every one. “I’m sorry, but all I have is dark beer.”

  But no matter. Let’s not get into novels here. Tonight’s game is about to begin. I’m praying that our team wins. But at the same time quietly steeling myself for the possibility of yet another loss.

  Skip Notes

  *1 John Scott played outfield for the Swallows from 1979 to 1981. He once hit four home runs in a double header. Twice he won the Diamond Glove Award, Japan’s equivalent of the Gold Glove.

  *2 Mike Reinbach played outfield for the Hanshin Tigers from 1976 to 1980. Along with Hal Breeden he was one of their cleanup hitters. He was a gutsy player who was very popular with fans.

  *3 Richard Alan Scheinblum played outfield for the Hiroshima Carp from 1975 to 1976. He also played in an All Star game in the Major Leagues. His name was shortened to “Shane” in Japan. “I don’t mind,” he commented. “Though I can’t ride a horse.”

  FIRST PERSON SINGULAR

  I hardly ever wear suits. At most, maybe two or three times a year, since there are rarely any situations where I need to get dressed up. I may wear a casual jacket on occasion, but no tie, or leather shoes. That’s the type of life I chose for myself, so that’s how things have worked out.

  Sometimes, though, even when there’s no need for it, I do decide to wear a suit and tie. Why? When I open my closet and check out what kind of clothes are there (I have to do that or else I don’t know what kind of clothes I own), and gaze at the suits I’ve hardly ever worn, the dress shirts still in the dry cleaner’s plastic garment bags, and the ties that look brand new, no trace of ever having been used, I start to feel apologetic toward these clothes. Then I try them on just to see how they look. I experiment with various tie knots to see if I still remember how to do them. Including one making a proper dimple. The only time I do all this is when I’m home alone. If someone else is here, I’d have to explain what I’m up to.

  Once I go to the trouble of getting the outfit on, it seems a waste to take it all off right away, so I go out for a while dressed up like that. Strolling around town in a suit and tie. And it feels pretty good. I get the sense that even my facial expression and gait are transformed. It’s an invigorating sensation, as if I’ve temporarily stepped away from the everyday. But after an hour or so of roaming, this newness fades. I get tired of wearing a suit and tie, the tie starts to feel itchy and too tight, like it’s choking me. The leather shoes click too hard and loud as they strike the pavement. So I go home, slip off the leather shoes, peel off the suit and tie, change into a worn-out set of sweatpants and sweatshirt, plop down on the sofa, and feel relaxed and at peace. This is my little one-hour secret ceremony, entirely harmless—or at least not something I need to feel guilty about.

  * * *

  —

  I was alone in the house that day. My wife had gone out to eat Chinese food. I never eat Chinese food (I think I’m allergic to some of the spices they use), so she goes with a close girlfriend of hers whenever she has a craving.

  After a quick dinner, I put on an old Joni Mitchell album and settled down in my special reading chair and read a mystery. I loved this album, and the novel was the very latest by one of my favorite authors. But for some reason I couldn’t settle down, couldn’t focus on either the music or the book. I considered watching a movie I’d recorded, but couldn’t find one I really wanted to see. Some days are like that. You have time on your hands, and you try to decide what you want to do, but can’t come up with a thing. There should have been tons of things I wanted to do…As I wandered aimlessly around the room an idea struck me: I haven’t tried on a suit in ages, so why not?


  I laid out a Paul Smith suit on the bed (one I’d bought out of necessity but had only worn twice), and picked out a tie and shirt that would go well with it. A light gray, widespread-collar shirt and an Ermenegildo Zegna tie with an elaborate paisley pattern that I’d bought at the Rome airport. I stood in front of the full-length mirror and checked how I looked. Not bad, I concluded. At least nothing was obviously wrong with the outfit.

  But on that particular day as I stood in front of the mirror, an uncomfortable feeling came over me, a twinge of remorse. Remorse? How should I put it?…I imagine it was like the guilty conscience someone feels who goes through life having embellished a resumé. It might not be illegal, but it’s a misrepresentation that raises a lot of ethical issues. You know it’s wrong, you know nothing good will come of it, yet you can’t help yourself. There’s a certain kind of uneasiness that those kinds of actions engender. I’m just imagining this, but it might be similar to the feeling of men who secretly dress up as women.

  But it’s weird that I should feel this way. I’ve been an upstanding adult for years now, I pay what I owe for my taxes on time, I’ve never broken the law, other than a few traffic tickets, and I might not be the most cultured person around, but I’m refined enough. I even know who was older—Bartók or Stravinsky. (I doubt few other people do.) And these clothes I had on were items I’d paid for with income acquired by working every day, legally. Or at least not illegally. There was nothing anyone could blame me for. Okay—then why this guilty conscience? Why this edgy feeling that, ethically, something was amiss?

  Well, everyone has days like that, I told myself. I would think even Django Reinhardt had nights when he flubbed a chord or two, and Niki Lauda some afternoons when he messed up changing gears. So I decided not to think any more deeply about it. Decked out in the suit and tie, I slipped on a pair of leather cordovan shoes and went out. I should have followed my gut and stayed at home and watched movies, but that was something I only realized after the fact.

  * * *

  —

  It was a pleasant spring evening. A bright, full moon hung in the sky, and there were young green buds just appearing on the trees lining the streets. Perfect weather for a walk. I strolled around for a while, then decided to stop in a bar and have a cocktail. Not the neighborhood bar I frequented, but one a little farther away that I’d never been to before. If I went to my usual bar, I could count on the bartender asking me, “Why the suit and necktie today? Pretty unusual getup for you, isn’t it?” It was too much trouble to explain the reason. I mean, to begin with, there wasn’t any reason.

  It was still early evening, and I went downstairs to a basement-level bar. The only customers were two men in their forties seated across from each other at a table. Company employees on their way home from work, by the look of it, in dark suits and forgettable ties. The two of them were leaning forward, heads close together, discussing something in low voices. There was a pile of what looked like documents of some sort on the table. Must have been going over business, I figured. Or else predicting horse race results. Either way, nothing to do with me. I sat down away from them at the bar counter, choosing the stool with the best lighting, since I was planning to read, and ordered a vodka gimlet from the bow-tied, middle-aged bartender.

  In a little while, a chilled drink was served on a paper coaster in front of me, and I pulled out the mystery novel from my pocket and continued reading. I had about a third of the way to go to the end. As I said, it was by a writer I’m pretty fond of, but sadly the plot of this newest book just didn’t do it for me. On top of which, halfway through, I lost track of how the characters were related to each other. But I read on nonetheless, partly out of duty, partly out of habit. I’ve never liked giving up on a book once I’ve started it. I always hold out hope that there will be some riveting development toward the end, though the chances of that are pretty slim.

  I slowly sipped my vodka gimlet and forged ahead another twenty pages in the book. For some reason, though, I still couldn’t concentrate. And it wasn’t simply because the novel wasn’t the most riveting. It wasn’t like the bar was noisy. (The background music was subdued, the lighting fine, almost the perfect atmosphere for enjoying a book.) I think it was due to that vague sense of unease I’d been feeling, that something just wasn’t quite right, was slightly out of joint. Like the contents didn’t fit the container, like the integrity of it all had been lost. I get that feeling from time to time.

  In back of the bar was a shelf with an impressive lineup of bottles. And behind that was a large mirror, in which I was reflected. I stared at it for a while, and as you might expect, the me in the mirror stared back. A sudden thought hit me, that somewhere I’d taken a wrong turn in life. And the longer I stared at my image decked out in a suit and tie, this sensation only intensified. The more I stared at my image, the more it seemed less like me and more like someone I’d never seen before. But if this isn’t me in the mirror, I thought, then who is it?

  As is true of most people, I imagine, I had experienced a number of turning points in my life, where I could go either left or right. And each time I chose one, right or left. (There were times when there was a clear-cut reason, but most of the time there wasn’t. And it wasn’t always like I was making a choice, but more like the choice itself chose me.) And now here I was, a first person singular. If I’d chosen a different direction, most likely I wouldn’t be here. But still—who is that in the mirror?

  * * *

  —

  I closed my book for a moment, looked away from the mirror, and took a couple of deep breaths.

  The bar was starting to fill up. A woman was seated on my right, two empty stools away. She was drinking a pale green cocktail, but I didn’t have a clue what it was called. She seemed to be alone, or maybe she was waiting for a friend to show up. I pretended to read and checked her out in the mirror. She wasn’t young, probably fifty or so. She didn’t seem to be making an effort to look younger than her age. She seemed pretty self-confident. She was petite, and slim, her hair cut just the right length. Her clothes were pretty chic—a striped dress in a soft-looking material, and a beige cashmere cardigan. She didn’t have particularly beautiful features, but there was a kind of overall elegance to her. When she was a young woman, she must have been striking. Men must have always been flirting with her. I could sense memories of those days by the the way she held herself.

  I called the bartender over, ordered a second vodka gimlet, munched on a few cashews, and went back to reading. Occasionally I touched the knot of my tie. Checking to make sure it was still neatly tied.

  About fifteen minutes later, she was seated on the stool beside me. The bar was getting crowded, and she’d slid over to accommodate some newly arrived customers. I was sure now that she was alone. Under the recessed lighting, I read on until I had only a few pages left. The story still showed no signs of picking up.

  “Excuse me,” the woman suddenly said.

  I raised my head and looked at her.

  “You seem so into your book, but I wonder if you’d mind me asking you a question?” For such a petite woman, she had a low, deep voice. Not a cold voice, but certainly not one that sounded friendly, or inviting.

  “Of course. This book isn’t exactly spellbinding or anything,” I said. I placed a bookmark inside the novel and shut it.

  “What’s so enjoyable about doing things like that?” she asked.

  I couldn’t understand what she was getting at. I twisted around to face her directly. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her before. I’m not that great at remembering faces, but I was fairly certain we’d never met. I’d remember meeting her, for sure, if I had. She was that kind of woman.

  “Things like that?” I repeated.

  “All dressed up, alone at a bar, drinking a gimlet, quietly into your reading.”

  Like before, I still had no idea what she was trying to t
ell me. Though I could sense a kind of malice, an enmity in her tone. I gazed at her, waiting for her to go on. Her face was oddly expressionless. It was like she was determined to conceal any emotion on her face. She was silent for a long time. About a minute, I’d say.

  “A vodka gimlet,” I said to break the silence.

  “What did you say?”

  “It’s not a gimlet, but a vodka gimlet.” A pointless remark, perhaps, but there was a difference.

  She gave a small, compact shake of her head, as if flitting away a tiny fly buzzing around her.

  “Whatever. But do you think that’s all pretty fantastic? Urbane, stylish, and smart and all?”

  I probably should have paid my bill and left as soon as I could. That was the best reaction in a situation like this. The woman, for some reason, was picking a fight. Challenging me. What compelled her to do that, I had no idea. She might have just been in a foul mood. Or else something about me struck her the wrong way, jangled her nerves, irritated her. The chance of anything good coming from an encounter with someone like that was next to zero. The wise choice would have been to politely excuse myself, smile and stand up (the smile was optional), quickly pay my bill, and get as far away as I could. And I couldn’t think of any reason not to. I’m not the type who can’t stand to lose, and I don’t like to fight when I can’t see the justice in it. I’m more into silent, strategic withdrawals.

  But for whatever reason, that’s not what I did. Something stopped me. Curiosity, perhaps.