Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami Page B

were unloaded and roared off into the distance. Even the cats and dogs that had assembled out of curiosity were gone before long. The only ones left were a group of sunburned old folks with time on their hands. And me, gym bag in hand, thoroughly out of place.
    I took a seat at the café and ordered an iced tea, wondering what I should do next. There wasn’t much I could do. Night was fast approaching, and I knew nothing about the island and the layout of the land. If nobody came after a while, I’d get a room somewhere and the next morning come back to the harbor, hopefully to meet up with Miu. According to Sumire, Miu was a methodical woman, so I couldn’t believe she’d stand me up. If she couldn’t make it to the harbor, there must be some very good explanation. Maybe Miu didn’t think I’d get here so quickly.
    I was starving. A feeling of such extreme hunger I felt sure you could see through me. All the fresh sea air must have made my body realize it hadn’t had any nourishment since morning. I didn’t want to miss Miu, though, so I decided to wait some more in the café. Every so often a local would pass by and give me a curious glance.
    At the kiosk next to the café I bought a small pamphlet in English about the history and geography of the island. I leafed through it as I sipped the incredibly tasteless iced tea. The island’s population ranged from three thousand to six thousand, depending on the season. The population went up in the summer with the number of tourists, down in winter when people went elsewhere in search of work. The island had no industry to speak of, and agriculture was pretty limited—olives and a couple of varieties of fruit. And there was fishing and sponge diving. Which is why since the beginning of the twentieth century most of the islanders had immigrated to America. The majority moved to Florida, where they could put their fishing and sponging skills to good use. There was even a town in Florida with the same name as the island.
    On top of the hills was a military radar installation. Near the civilian harbor was a second, smaller harbor where military patrol ships docked. With the Turkish border nearby, the Greeks wanted to prevent illegal border crossings and smuggling. Which is why there were soldiers in the town. Whenever there was a dispute with Turkey—in fact small-scale skirmishes broke out often—traffic in and out of the harbor picked up.
    More than two thousand years ago, when Greek civilization was at its peak, this island, situated along the main route to Asia, flourished as a trading hub. Back then the hills were still covered with green trees, used in a thriving shipbuilding industry. When Greek civilization declined, though, and all the trees had been cut down (an abundant greenery never to return again), the island quickly slid downhill economically. Finally, the Turks came in. Their rule was draconian, according to the pamphlet. If something wasn’t to their liking, they’d lop off people’s ears and noses as easily as pruning trees. At the end of the nineteenth century, after countless bloody battles, the island finally won its independence from Turkey, and the blue-and-white Greek flag fluttered over the harbor. Next came Hitler. The Germans built a radar and weather station on top of the hills to monitor the nearby sea, since the hills provided the best possible view. An English bombing force from Malta bombed the station. It bombed the harbor as well as the hilltop, sinking a number of innocent fishing boats and killing some hapless fishermen. More Greeks died in the attack than did Germans, and some old-timers still bore a grudge over the incident.
    L ike most Greek islands there was little flat space here, mostly steep, unforgiving hills, with only one town along the shore, just south of the harbor. Far from the town was a beautiful, quiet beach, but to get to it you had to climb over a steep hill. The easily accessible places didn’t have such nice