First Person Singular by Haruki Murakami (best books for 8th graders .TXT) 📗

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