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.
一個美妙的四月春晨，在東京原宿時尚區的一條狹窄的路邊，我與一位100%完美的女孩擦肩而過。
實話說，她并不那么漂亮，哪方面也不怎么突出，平常的衣著，睡翹的發梢。她也不年輕——估計得有30歲，嚴格講甚至不能叫她“女孩兒”。但是，在我離她還有50碼的時候我就確定了：她就是我的100%完美女孩。看到她的瞬間，我的胸中“咯噔”一顫，口中如沙漠一樣干涸。
也許對女孩你有自己的特殊口味——比如細細的腳踝，或者大大的眼睛、優雅的玉指，抑或你就喜歡那種吃飯細嚼慢咽的女孩，又說不清到底為什么。我當然有我個人的偏好。有時在飯館里我會意識到我在盯著旁邊一桌的姑娘，就因為我喜歡她鼻子的形狀。
但是沒人能斷言，對于他的100%完美女孩就是某些預想的類型。盡管我說我喜歡她鼻子的形狀，我也記不起那究竟是怎么一種形狀——甚至不能確定她是不是真的有讓我心動的鼻子。我只能確定，她不是個大美女。怪哉。
“昨天在路上我看見了我的真命天女，”我跟人說。
“哦？”他說道，“美女？”
“不算是。”
“那是你喜歡的類型咯？”
“我也不知道。其實我一點也想不起來了——她眼睛什么樣，胸有多大，都不記得。”
“那就奇了。”
“是啊，挺奇怪的。”
“那，”他已經覺得無趣，說，“到底你干嘛了啊？跟她說話了？還是跟蹤她了？”
“都沒，就那么擦肩而過。”
她自東向西走，我自西向東走。那真是個美妙的四月春晨。
真希望我跟她說了話，半小時就夠，就問問她關于她的事，跟她講講關于我的事，然后——我的重點——解釋給她聽：我們能在1981年4月的一個美麗的清晨，在原宿的街邊相遇，其實是一種宿命，是命運的精心安排。這肯定充滿了溫暖人心的秘密，就如同和平世界里的一座古鐘。
聊完了，我們就會去什么地方吃個午飯，或許再看個Woody Allen的電影，在一家旅館的酒吧喝杯雞尾酒。真的走運的話，我們有可能會上床也說不定呢。
無數可能性敲開我的心扉。
現在我們之間的距離已經縮短到15碼了。
我該怎么接近她？我該怎么說才好？
“早上好，小姐。你覺得花半小時咱們聊聊如何？”
可笑啊。聽上去就像推銷保險的。
“不好意思，請問你知不知道附近哪有通宵洗衣店？”
不，這同樣可笑。首先，我又沒拿什么要洗的東西，再說了，誰會吃我這套啊。
沒準簡單說實話就行。“早上好。對我來說你就是100%完美的女孩。”
不行，她不會相信的。就算信了，她也很可能不想跟我說話。對不起，她會說，對我來說你不是100%完美的男孩。可能會是這樣。要真是那樣，我肯定會心碎的，而且再也不會復原。我已經32了。這就是變老所意味的殘酷現實。
我們走過一家花店。一股細細的暖流拂過我的皮膚。我聞到路上瀝青的潮味，還有一陣玫瑰的香氣。我還是不能過去跟她說話。她穿著一件白色毛衣，右手拿著一個整潔的白信封，就缺一張郵票了。因此我想：她給誰寫了信，也許寫了一晚上——從她睡意惺忪的外表就能看出來。那個信封里沒準包含了她所有的秘密。
我走了幾大步然后拐彎，她就消失在人海中了。
現在，當然，我已經確切地知道我該跟她說些什么了。雖然要說很多，多到我沒法合適地把它說出來——我的點子總是很不實際。
嗯，開場白應該是“很久很久以前”，然后以此結尾“一個傷心的故事，不是么？”
很久很久以前，有個男孩和一個女孩。男孩18歲，女孩16。他不是個美男子，她也不是國色天香。他們很尋常，只不過是一個寂寞的男生和一個寂寞的女生，和所有其他人一樣。但是，他們都真心地相信，對自己來說在世界上的某個地方有著100%完美的情人。是的，他們相信奇跡。奇跡，也確實出現了。
有一天他們在一個街角相遇了。
“這真神了，”他說，“我一輩子都在尋找你。你也許不信，但是你真的是我心中100%完美女孩。”
“你，”她說，“也是我心中的100%完美男孩，連細節都和我設想的完全一樣。這就像做夢一樣。”
他們一起坐在公園里的長凳上，手牽著手，給對方講各自的故事，任時間流逝。他們不再寂寞。他們找到了對自己來說100%完美的另一半。能找到自己的另一半，同時被自己的另一半找到，是多么美妙的事啊！這是個奇跡，天大的奇跡。
他們坐在那里說啊說，忽然，有一絲絲疑慮在他們心中生根：夢想成真該不該如此容易呢？
于是他們的對話出現了短暫的冷場，男孩對女孩說：“咱們來試一試，就試一次。如果我們真的是對方100%完美的愛人，那某時，某地，我們一定會再次相遇。到那時，我們就真的確定了，我們就馬上結婚。你覺得呢？”
“好，”她說，“我也是這么想的。”
于是他們分開了，她向東，他向西。
這個他倆都同意的測試，其實是完完全全不必要的。他們從來都不該這么干，因為他們本來就真的是對方100%完美的另一半，而他們相遇就已經是奇跡了。然而，他們怎么會懂得這些呢，他們還那么年輕。一如往常，冰冷而平淡的命運繼續無情地戲弄著他們。
一年冬天，男孩和女孩都得了可怕的季節性流感。在生死邊緣掙扎了幾周后，他們都失憶了。當再度醒來時，他們的頭腦都空空如也。
他們倆都是既聰明又有毅力的年輕人，在不懈的努力下，他們再次獲得了知識和良好的自我感覺，夠格成為社會中的骨干。感謝上帝，他們成為了真正誠實而正直的市民，一個懂得如何換乘地鐵，一個完全可以自己到郵局寄走一封快遞郵件。甚至，他們又經歷了戀愛，有幾次居然有75%或85%的真愛。
光陰似箭，日月如梭。不久男孩就32了，女孩也年至30。
一個美妙的四月春晨，在去找杯咖啡來開始新的一天的路上，男孩自西向東走，而女孩呢，正要去寄特快專遞，自東向西走。他們恰巧走在東京原宿區的同一條路上。他們在路中間擦肩而過，心中那失去的記憶的火花極其微弱地一閃，轉瞬即逝。各自胸中一顫，于是他們就知道了：
她是他的100%完美女孩。
他是她的100%完美男孩。
但是，他們記憶的星星之火實在太微弱了，他們的思想也不似14年前那么明晰。沒說一個字，他們錯過了對方，消失在茫茫人海。永遠。
一個傷心的故事，不是么？
是的，就是這樣。這就是我該和她說的。
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