Haruki Murakami - The Elephant Vanishes: Stories

Charming, humorous and frequently puzzling The Elephant Vanishes [is] fun to read.

The New York Times

These stories show us Japan as its experienced from the inside. [They] take place in parallel worlds not so much remote from ordinary life as hidden within its surfaces. Even in the slipperiest of Mr. Murakamis stories, pinpoints of detail flash out warm with life, hopelessly and wonderfully unstable.

The New York Times Book Review

A stunning writer at work in an era of international literature.

Newsday

Murakami is one of the great Japanese masters, and his style is sexy, funny, mysterious, and always coolly deadpan.

Details

Enchanting intriguing all of these tales have a wonderfully surreal quality and a hip, witty tone. Mr. Murakami has pulled off a tricky feat, writing stories about people who are bored but never boring. He left me lying awake at night, hungry for more.

Wall Street Journal

Whats unique to Murakamis stories is that they manage to kindle up all sorts of feelings at once. Reading The Elephant Vanishes leaves you wanting more.

Philadelphia Inquirer

The Elephant Vanishes, through [its] bold originality and charming surrealism, should win the author new readers in this country.

Detroit Free Press

I M IN THE KITCHEN cooking spaghetti when the woman calls. Another moment until the spaghetti is done; there I am, whistling the prelude to Rossinis La Gazza Ladra along with the FM radio. Perfect spaghetti-cooking music.

I hear the telephone ring but tell myself, Ignore it. Let the spaghetti finish cooking. Its almost done, and besides, Claudio Abbado and the London Symphony Orchestra are coming to a crescendo. Still, on second thought, I figure I might as well turn down the flame and head into the living room, cooking chopsticks in hand, to pick up the receiver. It might be a friend, it occurs to me, possibly with word of a new job.

I want ten minutes of your time, comes a womans voice out of the blue.

Excuse me? I blurt back in surprise. Hows that again?

I said, just ten minutes of your time, thats all I want, the woman repeats.

I have absolutely no recollection of ever hearing this womans voice before. And I pride myself on a near-perfect ear for voices, so Im sure theres no mistake. This is the voice of a woman I dont know. A soft, low, nondescript voice.

Pardon me, but what number might you have been calling? I put on my most polite language.

What difference does that make? All I want is ten minutes of your time. Ten minutes to come to an understanding. She cinches the matter quick and neat.

Come to an understanding?

Of our feelings, says the woman succinctly.

I crane my neck back through the door Ive left open to peer into the kitchen. A plume of white steam rising cheerfully from the spaghetti pot, and Abbado is still conducting his Gazza.

If you dont mind, Ive got spaghetti on right now. Its almost done, and itll be ruined if I talk with you for ten minutes. So Im going to hang up, all right?

Spaghetti? the woman sputters in disbelief. Its only ten-thirty in the morning. What are you doing cooking spaghetti at ten-thirty in the morning? Kind of strange, dont you think?

Strange or not, whats it to you? I say. I hardly had any breakfast, so I was getting hungry right about now. And as long as I do the cooking, when and what I eat is my own business, is it not?

Well, whatever you say. Hang up, then, says the woman in a slow, sappy trickle of a voice. A peculiar voice. The slightest emotional shift and her tone switches to another frequency. Ill call back later.

Now, wait just one minute, I stammer. If youre selling something, you can forget right now about calling back. Im unemployed at present and cant afford to buy anything.

I know that, so dont give it another thought, says the woman.

You know that? You know what?

That youre unemployed, of course. That much I knew. So cook your spaghetti and lets get on with it, okay?

Hey, who the I launch forth, when suddenly the phone goes dead. Cut me off. Too abruptly to have set down the receiver; she must have pressed the button with her finger.

Im left hanging. I stare blankly at the receiver in my hand and only then remember the spaghetti. I put down the receiver and return to the kitchen. Turn off the gas, empty the spaghetti into a colander, top it with tomato sauce Ive heated in a saucepan, then eat. Its overcooked, thanks to that pointless telephone call. No matter of life-and-death, nor am I in any mood to fuss over the subtleties of cooking spaghettiIm too hungry. I simply listen to the radio playing send-off music for two hundred fifty grams of spaghetti as I eagerly dispatch every last strand to my stomach.

I wash up plate and pans while boiling a kettle of water, then pour a cup for a tea bag. As I drink my tea, I think about that phone call.

So we could come to an understanding?

What on earth did that woman mean, calling me up like that? And who on earth was she?

The whole thing is a mystery. I cant recall any woman ever telephoning me before without identifying herself, nor do I have the slightest clue what she could have wanted to talk about.

What the hell, I tell myself, what do I care about understanding some strange womans feelings, anyway? What possible good could come of it? What matters now is that I find a job. Then I can settle into a new life cycle.

Yet even as I return to the sofa to resume the Len Deighton novel I took out of the library, the mere glimpse out of the corner of my eye of the telephone sets my mind going. Just what were those feelings that would take ten minutes to come to an understanding about? I mean, really, ten minutes to come to an understanding of our feelings?

Come to think of it, the woman specified precisely ten minutes right from the start. Seems she was quite certain about that exact amount of time. As if nine minutes would have been too short, eleven minutes maybe too long. Just like for spaghetti al dente.

What with these thoughts running through my head, I lose track of the plot of the novel. So I decide to do a few quick exercises, perhaps iron a shirt or two. Whenever things get in a muddle, I always iron shirts. A habit of long standing with me.

I divide the shirt-ironing process into twelve steps total: from (1) Collar , to (12) Cuff . Absolutely no deviation from that order. One by one, I count off the steps. The ironing doesnt go right if I dont.

So there I am, ironing my third shirt, enjoying the hiss of the steam iron and the distinctive smell of hot cotton, checking for wrinkles before hanging up each shirt in the wardrobe. I switch off the iron and put it away in the closet with the ironing board.

Im getting thirsty by now and am heading to the kitchen for some water when once more the telephone rings. Here we go again, I think. And for a moment I wonder whether I shouldnt just ignore it and keep on going into the kitchen. But you never know, so I retrace my steps back to the living room and pick up the receiver. If its that woman again, Ill say Im in the middle of ironing and hang up.