On Seeing The 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning..
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's
fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the
truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her
clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of
shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even
close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards
away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's
a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have
your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say,
or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to
girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of
course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl
at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can
insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type.
Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she
had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's
weird.
"Yesterday on
the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says.
"Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite
type, then?"
"I don't know.
I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or
the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow,"
he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed
her on the street."
She's walking
east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could
talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself,
tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her
the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side
street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something
sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when
peace filled the world.
After talking,
we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel
bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality
knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance
between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach
her? What should I say?
"Good morning,
miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd
sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but
would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just
as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going
to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple
truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't
believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry,
she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not
the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation,
I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two,
and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front
of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is
damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to
her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp
white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter,
maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her
eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few
more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course,
I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long
speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The
ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It
would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you
think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and
the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially
beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely
girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that
somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect
girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually
happened.
One day the two
came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing,"
he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this,
but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she
said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured
you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a
park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour.
They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100%
perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your
100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and
talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts:
Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when
there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the
girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's
100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without
fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones,
we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said,
"that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted,
she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they
had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have
undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect
lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible
for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves
of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both
the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and
after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of
their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the
young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two
bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting
efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling
that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven
be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer
from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery
letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes
as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with
shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful
April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was
walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery
letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street
in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very
center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered
for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their
chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow
of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the
clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other,
disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it,
that is what I should have said to her. By Murakami Haruki (..check out his other stories in Elephant Vanishes if you like his style!)
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