Condor, by Haruki Murakami
my translation of the 32th story (of 99) of 夢で会いましょう [Meet Me in a Dream] by Haruki Murakami and Shigesato Itoi, not guaranteed to be accurate. see the intro post to read more!
—July 26th, you shall not step outside, the fortune teller told me.
—How about an arm? I asked, my terror mounting.
—An arm?
—Yeah, say I want to get the morning paper? Can I reach for something?
—I guess an arm won’t matter. As long as you keep your legs in.
—If I do step out though… Well, what happens?
—The unimaginable.
—Unimaginable?
—Yes.
—As in… Will a giant ant-eater come eat me?
—No, of course not.
—Why not?
—Because. You’ve already imagined it.
Of course…
I didn’t especially believe what the fortune teller told me, but come July 26th I locked my door and kept inside, drank a few beers, listened to a few Doors records. Unimaginable nightmares ran through my imagination like wild. The more I imagined, the less was unimaginable.
In the end though, after all, such thought was pointless. No matter how many terrors I imagined, as soon as I thought one up is was by definition imaginable.
Fair enough.
July 26th had to be a beautiful day. Sun spread across the surface of the earth, or blessed it, warming people out of doors down to their metaphysical depths. Children’s voices carried from the pool around the corner.
The pool: a full twenty-five meters… wonderfully cold…
No—there could be an anaconda in it.
Anaconda, I wrote in my notebook.
Thus the anaconda was no longer possible. I’d imagined it.
Time went on, shadows grew long, then evening happened. Seventeen empty beer cans on the table, twenty-one records listened to then put away. I’d become immensely bored.
Seven o’clock, the phone rang.
—Wanna come get drinks? so and so asked me.
—I can’t, I said.
—C’mon, we’ll make it an occasion.
What kind of occasion? I thought.
Acute alcohol poisoning, I wrote.
Eleven-fifty, the phone rang again. This time a woman.
—I’ve been thinking about us, she said. Our break up…
—Uh huh, I said.
—What you said the other night, you know, I’ve just been going over it over and over again, she said.
—Uh huh.
—Please… let’s meet tonight.
STDs, pregnancy, I wrote.
Eleven-fifty-five, another call—the fortune teller.
—I see you haven’t left the house, she said.
—Of course, I said. But tell me, what was this unimaginable danger I had to hide from. What was this for?
—What about a condor?
—A condor? I said.
—Did you ever think about a condor?
—No, I answered.
—Well then, it was a condor. It swooped down and grabbed you by the spine then dropped you off, oh, in the ocean, far away.
A condor, huh?
The clock struck midnight.
translator's note: i've missed the murakami ones, his voice fits well with mine. if i were trying to imitate itoi in english (as he does here in japanese), id sound like this
Coin, by Shigesato Ito
my translation of the 28th story (of 99) of 夢で会いましょう [Meet Me in a Dream] by Haruki Murakami and Shigesato Itoi, not guaranteed to be accurate. see the intro post to read more!
This woman was kicking a soda machine hard with her left foot.
“What’s going on?” I asked her.
“I put in money but nothing’s coming out.”
Her boot hit the machine over and over, like it were trendy. Her manic attacks echoed about the alley behind the club. Inside of the machine, bottles rattled.
She never gave up blaming the machine. Instead, eventually, she went inside the green room.
Guess she was a groupie.
Once she was out of the alley, the machine spoke.
“One day I’m gonna get her back for this,” it said.
“You tryna ask me for my help?” I asked.
“See that box down there, on my right haunch? I think it’s locked but go ahead, jimmy it open. I wanna hire you.”
I opened it as asked, but it was empty.
“Damn, of course,” the machine said. “She didn’t pay. I’ll tell you what, that grinds my gears.”
“So you can’t pay? You haven’t had a single other customer?”
“Shit. The guy who collects the money—come to think of it, he’s just come by. That’s just my luck—depressing.”
“So really it’s a volunteer you’re after.”
“Would you be so kind?”
“I guess I could be.”
For a little while then I looked for her. I never found her.
“Even if it takes a lifetime, search the word,” the soda machine’d said. “Kick her sides in for me, whether or not you get a coin.”
Years have passed since then, but I have yet to find the girl.
Sometimes I wonder: does the machine who hired me exist in this world still? Yet I keep on for its revenge.
translator's note: by random chance (don't judge me, i'm indecisive, i've been ordering this by the literal roll of a literal dice) i've been on a long-ass streak of Itoi stories. they're fun, but i gotta say his terseness really conflicts with my own style. i wrestle myself fortnightly not to add additional details into this. as you can see, remnants exist of my struggle NOT to give the machine a silly voice. after all, shouldn't automatons talk like clowns?
Taxi, by Shigesto Itoi
my translation of the 56th story (out of 99) of 夢で会いましょう [Meet Me in a Dream] by Haruki Murakami and Shigesato Itoi, not guaranteed to be accurate. see the intro post to read more!
—What am I, a rat? You trying to smoke me out? The cigarette!
—Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll put it out. [huun]
—Window! You gotta open the window. The car’s gone all fogged up. How’m I supposed to see ahead to merge? [skriiii]
—Ain’t that a bit dangerous there?
—Ah, come on. I’m running a business here. Don’t I got mouths to feed? [huuuu-huun]
—I guess the AC’s got me a bit cold. On edge, whatever.
—You’ll be outta here soon enough. Don’t be so selfish. I’m the one in here all day you know, sweating my ass off. [huuuuuun]
—Yeah, fair enough. I’m sorry.
—Sorry, sorry. Again with sorry. Apologies meant anything, we wouldn’t have the cops. [skrriiih] Ok, we’re here.
—Wait. I said Omote-sando. This is Aoyama.
—This is Omote-sando.
—No, I wanted Omote-sando station. This is Omote-sando an Meijidori. Different place. [huuu]
—That’s where we are, Omote-sando. You’re telling me there’s another Omote-sando? [huuuuuun]
—There is! It’s a whole street. Omote-sando. We’re where it crosses Meijidori.
—Then where’s the Meijidori shrine? You see that sign there? What’s it say? [huun]
—Omote-sando, I know, I get it. Just take me to Meijidori shrine, huh. [huuuuuun] I’m keeping the window open, it doesn’t close. Do whatever you want with the air conditioning.
—Sure. 900 yen.
—Here, fine.
—Five thousand? I don’t have change for that. I’m a busy guy. Too many customers, large bills.
—So then I can’t pay? What is it with you?
—Oh, come on. Old cabbie’s joke. Lighten up.
—Is that really how you treat a customer?
—Fall on your principles, huh? Customer’s always right? I know your type.
—God, just go and get my change already.
—Fine, asshole.
—What!? [clink. clink. shkkukkah]
—Ah, ouch, shit, fine. I don’t need change anyway. Stop hitting me.
—No. I got the money. [bwwp. clank. chinkah] Might as well get use of it. Go on, call the police if you so want.
–I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Please. Just stop.
—If you’re apologizing, why stop there? Why not just stop being an asshole? Ain’t that better?
This above may only be a story, but as I’m sure you see, it has a message. I am happy to have shared it.
translator's note: translation? no. localization. more or less. obviously i kept street names and currencies, a bit about tokyo locations as best as i could translate (i dont know tokyo that well), but Itoi really has such fun a voice, i cant resist the urge to americanize. he is voicey, i am voicey. you judge yourself if i changed whos "in the right"
Soft Serve, by Shigesato-Itoi
my translation of the 53rd story (out of 99) of 夢で会いましょう [Meet Me in a Dream] by Haruki Murakami and Shigesato Itoi, not guaranteed to be accurate. see the intro post to read more!
I wonder, are there criminals still who kidnap kids by offering them ice cream?
When I was that precious, young, kidnappable age, I heard the warnings all the time. And it made some sense. Who wouldn’t succumb to ice cream then?
Soft serve ice cream—the only kind a kid could care about—was discovered by artisan mistake. The cone was added after to give the cream a place to rest when your tongue needed a break from the cold. These were things I’d known. I knew that the white ice cream was vanilla, the brown was chocolate, the red was strawberry. I knew you could buy a swirl of any two. I knew if you ate it scrupulously from the top till you hit the cone, you’d condemned yourself to sticky hands. I knew you had to lick around the sides, to make a column.
All I didn’t know then was the taste.
When something tastes bad, it goes, you can’t forget it. When something’s good, the memory won’t stay.
Once I reached the bottom of any cone, its little recesses so much like netting… once I’d ate those last few crunchy bits… The taste of soft serve had already left me.
If only I could have had a cone three whole days in a row—no, even just two cones two days alone—then the taste would stay forever mine.
But no: such a dream was no more than delicious fantasy. The true sweet memory of soft serve ice cream would remain an abstract thing, no more than a tempting topic of discussion between friends.
Translator's Note: again, with Itoi, this: the way he strings his sentences together feels so natural in Japanese, but I can't adapt it to English quite the same, not without altering the casual voice. Instead, as usual, I fall to punctuation. See those ellipses there? I made them up. They're an original. Again, I err on the side of "a casual deal."
Jinxes, by Shigesto Itoi
my translation of the 44th story (out of 99) of 夢で会いましょう [Meet Me in a Dream] by Haruki Murakami and Shigesato Itoi, not guaranteed to be accurate. see the intro post to read more!
Were any black cats to cross my path, I wouldn’t mind. I own a black cat, after all.
No: it’s days I lose the Nobel Prize I consider bad luck. Last year, for example, I put a quarter in a pay phone but my call didn’t go through. Worse, my quarter stuck and never tumbled back to me.
Days when I lose legs in bad car accidents: those are bad luck too. Last time that happened to me I dropped a hot dog not long after. Its meat went rolling down the asphalt.
Rainy days as well are never good—brand new umbrellas soaked right through.
Being mugged at midnight: what a horrible omen it always is! Last time I was robbed, I soon forgot to toss the compost.
What of entering a classroom, say, chock-full of the most beautiful coeds any eye could see? No good! Excitement overwhelms, one wets oneself.
No: but worst of all’s one’s dying day. Mine, for example, I happened to win the lottery, but I had no mortal way remaining to collect it.
translator's note: avid reader's will notice two quirks in my writing here which color the way this reads. 1) my overuse of the otherwise rare colon (punctuation) in these works, as a cheapo way of replicating the Japanese particle は (look it up if you must). I happen to like this construction in English and use it lots in my originals, but it tends to make this sound more Japanese than it would otherwise. 2) Itoi write with tongue-in-cheek indifference (not just here, where thats the joke), and in attempting to match that I go for voicy. Unfortunately, here I betray myself a "country boy", at least in origin. Pretend my slang ain't dated. Pretend its 28 years old and cool.