Jan 5, 2026
my translation of the twenty-sixth 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!
In 1806, when my Grape Drop father died, I was only ten. I became an orphan.
You’d think I’d have gotten sympathy, but no. This was a time many orphans, Grape Drops or not. Anywhere I went, with any person, one question hovered in the air: does tis world have any place for a Grape Drop orphan?
Even at the local orphanage I was bullied. There, Orange Drops and Lemon Drops held sway.
So we’ve got us a Grape Drop, huh? those types would say. Not heard of that one.
Soon enough, I ran away to the circus. I became a cowpuncher for them. The docile cattle there treated me nicely. The oldest fed me leftovers and heard out my Grape Drop woe.
I’m sure to have a mother somewhere, I told him. I’m certain she’s the best Grape Drop there is.
Ah, so you’d like some milk? said Papa Cattle. He was old for a cow, so his hearing had worn down.
Unfortunately, life wouldn’t stay easy so long. Papa Cattle was slaughtered soon and partitioned into cutlets. These cutlets were fed to the terrible lion. Perhaps you’d rather call him the great persnickety lion, as to all but beef he’d turn his head and growl. Anyhow, I was shattered and so I fled the circus. I joined the army, became a calvary dog. In 1889, versus Apache in battle, I tore three adult Indians to death with my teeth only, thus was given the sobriquet “White Fang”. The President invited me to the White House, but I politely declined. I had decided I had to find my mother.
The first I even heard of another Grape Drop was 1936, in the Spanish Civil War. I was in Madrid with Ernest Hemingway, drinking sherry.
Hey Ernest, I asked him. Can we talk?
He was dead drunk, head on table, face turned down. Therefore I smacked his head with my revolver, splashed ice water where the bruise would form.
Grapefruit! he attempted.
Wrong! I called. I smacked him one more time.
It would be three days before he sobered.
Grape Drops, he said. So you’re the Grape Drop child, huh.
Tell me, I demanded. Who’s the Grape Drop mom?
You shouldn’t ask. You don’t wanna know.
I pulled my revolver out again and clocked him.
Fine, he said. Oh fine. Your mother last summer, some revolutionary guys. They kidnapped her and used her for her body. It wasn’t nice. She fled and hid away as a tire repairman.
So I spent the next three years all the country, begging clues from every mechanic’s shop I found. I turned up nothing.
Dear Ernest, I wrote to Ernest Hemingway. Please, just tell me anything you can.
He didn’t know a thing. He said I’d have to ask John Steinbeck. So there I was, crashing the Nobel banquet in Stockholm. Afterwards, I waylaid him outside.
John, please tell me anything about Grape Drops.
Grape Drops, huh, he sighed. You know, I met one two years back, in a hamlet in Texas. I think she’d worn a hernia belt.
In order to cut back smoking, I recently tried sucking on grape drops. I wrote this story in their honor.
translator note: this ones an odd one. to try and recreate the zany tone, i went with a more orginal english voice, but i didn't change any details. give or take a thing, the story's this