He would've easily gone swimming every day, early in the morning, at the hotel's indoor swimming pool on the basement, had he been a character in a Murakami's book, so familiar it is to find them going about their leisurely crawl or backstroke swimming in many a novel by the popular Japanese writer. You open his books and you know that chances are high to come across such a passage at any given time, a distinctive signature of his peculiar universe, a recurrent handy trick to guide his readers along, to make them feel they tread on known territory. A common writing practice, a trademark almost, reminding him of examples alike as when in his youth he read Robert Arthur's Three Investigators mistery books, waiting to run into the bit where the main characters sneaked through Green Gate One into Jones Salvage Yard, the junk yard where they had their hidden-from-view headquarters. Or suddenly finding the Famous Five (all but Tim, sure enough) sipping their inevitable ginger beer to quench their thirst, as good old Enid Blyton used to happily remind her readers time and again.
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