The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

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When the phone rang I was in the kitchen, boiling a potrul of spaghetti and whistling along with an FM broadcast of the overture to Rossini's The Thieving Magpie, which has to be the perfect music for cooking pasta.

I wanted to ignore the phone, not only because the spaghetti was nearly done, but because Claudio Abbado was bringing the London Symphony to its musical climax. Finally, though, I had to give in. It could have been somebody with news of a job opening. I lowered the flame, went to the living room, and picked up the receiver.

Ten minutes, please, said a woman on the other end.

I'm good at recognizing peoples voices, but this was not one I knew.

Excuse me? To whom did you wish to speak?

To you, of course. Ten minutes, please. That's all we need to understand each other. Her voice was low and soft but otherwise nondescript.

Understand each other?

Each others feelings.

I leaned over and peeked through the kitchen door. The spaghetti pot was steaming nicely, and Claudio Abbado was still conducting The Thieving Magpie.

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