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“You’re not in love, are you?”
Tengo shook his head. “No, I’m not in love.”
“Your writing’s not going well, then?”
“No, it’s moving along—where to, I’m not sure.”
“But still, something’s bothering you.”
“I wonder. I just can’t sleep very well. That rarely happens to me. I’ve always been
a sound sleeper.”
“Poor Tengo!” she said, caressing his testicles with the palm of the ringless hand.
“Are you having nightmares?”
“I almost never dream,” Tengo said, which was true.
“I dream a lot. Some dreams I have over and over—so much so that I realize in the
dream, ‘Hey, I’ve had this one before.’ Strange, huh?”
“What kind of dreams do you have? Tell me one.”
“Well, there’s my dream of a cottage in a forest.”
“A cottage in a forest,” Tengo said. He thought about people in forests: the
Gilyaks, the Little People, and Fuka-Eri. “What kind of cottage?”
“You really want to know? Don’t you find other people’s dreams boring?”
“No, not at all. Tell me, if you don’t mind,” Tengo said honestly.
“I’m walking alone in the forest—not the thick, ominous forest that Hansel and
Gretel got lost in, but more of a brightish, lightweight sort of forest. It’s a nice, warm
afternoon, and I’m walking along without a care in the world. So then, up ahead, I see
this little house. It’s got a chimney and a little porch, and gingham-check curtains in
the windows. It’s friendly looking. I knock on the door and say, ‘Hello.’ There’s no
answer. I try knocking again a little harder and the door opens by itself. It wasn’t
completely closed, you see. I walk in yelling, ‘Hello! Is anybody home? I’m coming
in!’ ”
She looked at Tengo, gently stroking his testicles. “Do you get the mood so far?”
“Sure, I do.”
“It’s just a one-room cottage. Very simply built. It has a little kitchen, beds, and a
dining area. There’s a woodstove in the middle, and dinner for four has been neatly
set out on the table. Steam is rising from the dishes. But there’s nobody inside. It’s as
if they were all set to start eating when something strange happened—like, a monster
showed up or something, and everybody ran out. But the chairs are not in disarray.
Everything is peaceful and almost strangely ordinary. There just aren’t any people
there.”
“What kind of food is on the table?”
She had to think about that for a moment, cocking her head to one side. “I can’t
remember. Good question: what kind of food is it? I guess the question isn’t so much
what
they’re eating as that it’s freshly cooked and still hot. So anyhow, I sit in one of
the chairs and wait for the family that lives there to come back. That’s what I’m
supposed to do: just wait for them to come home. I don’t know why I’m
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