kafka-24grammata.com-free-e-book.-pdf

the surface. When I tell her, she grabs some tissue from the bedside, and I come,
over and over, like crazy.... A little while later she goes to the kitchen, tosses
away the tissue paper, and rinses her hand.
"Sorry," I say.
"It's all right," she says, snuggling back into bed. "No need to apologize.
It's just a part of your body. So--do you feel better?"
"Definitely."
"I'm glad." She thinks for a while, then says, "I was thinking how nice it'd
be if I was your real sister."
"Me too," I say.
She lightly touches my hair. "I'm going to sleep now, so why don't you go
back to your sleeping bag. I can't sleep well unless I'm alone, and I don't want
your hard-on poking me all night, okay?"
I go back to my sleeping bag and close my eyes. This time I can get to
sleep. A deep, deep sleep, maybe the deepest since I ran away from home. It's like
I'm in some huge elevator that slowly, silently carries me deeper and deeper
underground. Finally all light has disappeared, all sound faded away.
When I wake up, Sakura's gone off to work. It's nine a. m. My shoulder
hardly aches at all anymore. Just like she said. On the kitchen table I find a
folded-up morning paper, a note, and a key.
Her note says: I watched the TV news at seven and looked through the entire
paper, but there weren't any bloody incidents reported around here. So I don't
think that blood was anything. Good news, huh? There isn't much in the fridge, but
help yourself. And make use of whatever you need around the house. If you aren't
planning to go anywhere, feel free to hang out here. Just put the key under the
doormat if you go out.
I grab a carton of milk from the fridge, check the expiration date, and pour
it over some cornflakes, boil some water, and make a cup of Darjeeling tea. Toast
two slices of bread, and eat them with some low-fat margarine. Then I open the
newspaper and scan the local news. Like she said, no violent crimes in the
headlines. I let out a sigh of relief, fold up the paper, and put it back where it
was. At least I won't have to run all over trying to evade the cops. But I decide
it's better not to go back to the hotel, just to play it safe. I still don't know
what happened during those lost four hours.
I call the hotel. A man answers, and I don't recognize his voice. I tell him
something's come up and I have to check out. I try my best to sound grown-up. I've
paid in advance so that shouldn't be a problem. There are some personal effects in
the room, I tell him, but they can be discarded. He checks the computer and sees
that the bill's up-to-date. "Everything's in order, Mr. Tamura," he says. "You're
all checked out." The key's a plastic card, so there's no need to return it. I
thank him and hang up.
I take a shower. Sakura's underwear and stockings are drying out in the
bathroom. I try not to look at them and concentrate on my usual job of thoroughly
scrubbing myself. And I try my best not to think about last night. I brush my
teeth and put on a pair of new shorts, roll up my sleeping bag and stuff it in my
backpack, then wash my dirty clothes in the washer. There's no dryer, so after
they go through the spin cycle I fold them up and put them in a plastic bag and
into my pack. I can always dry them at a coin laundry later on.
I wash all the dishes piled up in the sink, let them drain, dry them, and
place them back in the shelf. Then I straighten up the contents of the fridge and
toss whatever's gone bad. Some of the food stinks--moldy broccoli, an ancient,
rubbery cucumber, a pack of tofu well past its expiration date. I take whatever's
still edible, transfer it to new containers, and wipe up some spilled sauce. I
throw away all the cigarette butts, make a neat stack of the scattered old
newspapers, and run a vacuum around the place. Sakura might be good at giving a
massage, but when it comes to keeping house she's a disaster. I iron the shirts
she's crammed in the dresser, and think about going shopping and making dinner. At
home I tried to take care of household chores myself, so none of this is any