Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami Page A

any chairs. We sat on piles of books.
    It was the Sheep Man's room.
    Narrow and cramped. The walls and ceiling had the feel-ing of the old Dolphin Hotel, but it wasn't the old hotel either. At the far end of the room was a window, boarded up from inside. Boarded up a long time ago, if the rusty nails and gray dust in the cracks of the boards were any indica-tion. The room was a rectangular box. No lights. No closet. No bath. No bed. He must've slept on the floor, wrapped in his sheep costume.
    There was barely enough room to walk. The floor was lit-tered with yellowing old books and newspapers and scrap-books filled with clippings. Some were worm-eaten, falling apart at their bindings. All, from what I could tell, having to do with the history of sheep in Hokkaido. All, probably, from the archive at the old Dolphin Hotel. The sheep refer-ence room, which the owner's father, the Sheep Professor, pretty much lived in. What ever became of him?
    The Sheep Man looked at me across the flickering candle flame. Behind him, his disproportionately enormous shadow played over a grimy wall.
    "Beenalongtime," he spoke from behind his mask. "Let's-ussee, youthinnerorwhat?"
    "Yeah, I might have lost some weight."
    "Sotellus, what'stheworldoutside? Wedon'tgetmuchnews, notinhere."
    I crossed my legs and shook my head. "Same as ever. Nothing worth mentioning. Everything's getting more com-plicated. Everything's speeding up. No, nothing's really new."
    The Sheep Man nodded. "Nextwarhasn'tbegunyet, we-takeit?"
    Which was the Sheep Man's last war? I wasn't sure. "Not yet," I said.
    "Butsoonerorlateritwill," he voiced, uninflected, folding his mitted hands. "Youbetterwatchout. War'sgonnacome, nothreewaysaboutit. Markourwords. Can'ttrustpeople. Won'tdoanygood. They'llkillyoueverytime. They'llkilleach-other. They'llkilleveryone."
    The Sheep Man's fleece was dingy, the wool stiff and greasy. His mask looked bad too, like something patched together at the last minute. The poor light in the damp room didn't help and maybe my memory was wrong, but it wasn't just the costume. The Sheep Man was worn-out. Since the last time I'd seen him four years ago, he'd shrunk. His breathing came harder, more disturbing to the ears, like a stopped-up pipe.
    "Thoughtyou'dgetheresooner," said the Sheep Man. "Webeenwaiting, allthistime. Meanwhile, somebodyelsecame-'round. Wethought, maybe, butwasn'tyou. Howdoyoulike-that? Justanybody, comewanderinginhere. But anyway, was-expectingyousooner."
    I shrugged my shoulders. "I always thought I would come back, I guess. I knew I had to, but I didn't have it together. I dreamed about it. About the Dolphin Hotel, I mean. Dreamed about it all the time. But it took a while to make up my mind to come back."
    "Triedtoputitoutofmind?"
    "I guess so, yes," I said. Then I looked at my hands in the flickering candlelight. A draft was coming in from somewhere. "In the beginning I thought I should try to forget what I could forget. I wanted a life completely dissociated from this place."
    "Becauseyourfrienddied?"
    "Yes. Because my friend died."
    "Butyoucameback," said the Sheep Man.
    "Yes, I came back," I said. "I couldn't get this place out of my mind. I tried to forget things, but then something else would pop up. So it didn't matter whether I liked it or not, I sort of knew I belonged here. I didn't really know what that meant either, but I knew it anyway. In my dreams about this place, I was . . . part of every thing. Someone was crying for me here. Someone wanted me. That's why I came back. What is this place anyway?"
    The Sheep Man looked me hard in the face and shook his head. "'Fraidwedon'tknowmuch. It'srealbig, it'srealdark. All-weknow'sthisroom. Beyondhere, wedon'tknow. Butanyway, you'rehere, somust'vebeentime. Timeyoufoundyourwayhere. Wayweseeit, atleast. ..." The Sheep Man paused to rumi-nate. "Maybesomebody'scryingforyou, throughthisplace. Somebodywhoknewyou, knewyou'dbeheadinghereanyway. Likeabird, comingbacktothenest. . . .