1Q84 by Haruki Murakami Page B

She found that special sound to be strangely calming. So now she made up her mind: she would go for this man. She was dying to run her fingers through the few strands of hair he had left. So when the bartender brought him his Cutty Sark highball, she said to the bartender loudly enough so the man was sure to hear her, “Cutty Sark on the rocks, please.” “Yes, ma’am, right away,” the bartender replied, his face a blank.
    The man undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie, which was a dark blue with a fine-grained pattern. His suit was also dark blue. He wore a pale blue shirt with a standard collar. She went on reading her book as she waited for her Cutty Sark to come. Discreetly, she undid the top button of her blouse. The jazz duo played “It’s Only a Paper Moon.” The pianist sang a single chorus. Her drink arrived, and she took a sip. She sensed the man glancing in her direction. She raised her head and looked at him. Casually, as if by chance. When their eyes met, she gave him a faint, almost nonexistent smile, and then immediately faced forward again, pretending to look at the nighttime view.
    It was the perfect moment for a man to approach a woman, and she had created it. But this man said nothing.
What the hell is he waiting for?
she wondered.
He’s no kid. He should pick up on these subtle hints. Maybe he hasn’t got the guts. Maybe he’s worried about the age difference. Maybe he thinks I’ll ignore him or put him down: bald old coot of fifty has some nerve approaching a woman in her twenties! Damn, he just doesn’t get it
.
    She closed her book and returned it to her bag. Now she took the initiative.
    “You like Cutty Sark?”
    He looked shocked, as if he could not grasp the meaning of her question. Then he relaxed his expression. “Oh, yes, Cutty Sark,” he said, as if it suddenly came back to him. “I’ve always liked the label, the sailboat.”
    “So you like boats.”
    “Sailboats especially.”
    Aomame raised her glass. The man raised his highball glass slightly. It was almost a toast.
    Aomame slung her bag on her shoulder and, whiskey glass in hand, slipped over two seats to the stool next to his. He seemed a little surprised but struggled not to show it.
    “I was supposed to meet an old high school girlfriend of mine here, but it looks like I’ve been stood up,” Aomame said, glancing at her watch. “She’s not even calling.”
    “Maybe she got the date wrong.”
    “May
be
. She’s always been kind of scatterbrained,” Aomame said. “I guess I’ll wait a little longer. Mind keeping me company? Or would you rather be alone?”
    “No, not at all,” the man said, though he sounded somewhat uncertain. He knit his brows and looked at her carefully, as if assessing an object to be used as collateral. He seemed to suspect her of being a prostitute. But Aomame was clearly not a prostitute. He relaxed and let his guard down a little.
    “Are you staying in this hotel?” he asked.
    “No, I live in Tokyo,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just here to meet my friend. And you?”
    “In town on business,” he said. “From Osaka. For a meeting. A stupid meeting, but the company headquarters are in Osaka, so somebody had to come.”
    Aomame gave him a perfunctory smile.
I don’t give a shit about your business, mister
, she thought,
I just happen to like the shape of your head
.
    “I needed a drink after work. I’ve got one more job to finish up tomorrow morning, and then I head back to Osaka.”
    “I just finished a big job myself,” Aomame said.
    “Oh, really? What kind of work do you do?”
    “I don’t like to talk about my work. It’s a kind of specialized profession.”
    “Specialized profession,” the man responded, repeating her words. “A profession requiring specialized techniques and training.”
    What are you, some kind of walking dictionary?
Silently, she challenged him, but she just kept on smiling and said, “Hmm, I wonder …”
    He took