After Dark

by Haruki Murakami

  Scan lines appear, flicker, break up, and vanish. Then the lines come to the surface of the screen again. The faint crackling continues without letup. Eventually the screen begins to display something. An image begins taking shape. Soon, however, it becomes diagonally deformed, like italics, and disappears like a flame blown out. Then the whole process starts again. The image strains to right itself. Trembling, it tries to give concrete form to something. But the image will not come together. It distorts as if the TV’s antenna is being blown by a strong wind. Then it breaks apart and scatters. Every phase of this turmoil is conveyed to us by the camera.

  The sleeping woman appears to be totally unaware of these events occurring in her room. She evidences no response to the outpouring of light and sound from the TV set but goes on sleeping soundly amid an established completeness. For now, nothing can disturb her deep sleep. The television is a new intruder into the room. We, too, are intruders, of course, but unlike us, the new intruder is neither quiet nor transparent. Nor is it neutral. It is undoubtedly trying to intervene. We sense its intention intuitively.

  The TV image comes and goes, but its stability slowly increases. On-screen is the interior of a room. A fairly big room. It could be a space in an office building, or some kind of classroom. It has a large plate-glass window; banks of fluorescent lights line the ceiling. There is no sign of furniture, however. No, on closer inspection there is exactly one chair set in the middle of the room. An old wooden chair, it has a back but no arms. It is a practical chair, and very plain. Someone is sitting in it. The picture has not stabilized entirely, and so we can make out the person in the chair only as a vague silhouette with blurred outlines. The room has the chilling air of a place that has been long abandoned.

  The camera that seems to be conveying this image to the television cautiously approaches the chair. The build of the person in the chair seems to be that of a man. He is leaning forward slightly. He faces the camera and appears to be deep in thought. He wears dark clothing and leather shoes. We can’t see his face, but he seems to be a rather thin man of medium height. It is impossible to tell his age. As we gather these fragments of information from the unclear screen, the image breaks up every now and then. The interference undulates and rises. Not for long, however: the image soon recovers. The static also quiets down. Without a doubt the screen is moving toward stability.

  Something is about to happen in this room. Something of great significance.

  3

  The interior of the same Denny’s as before. Martin Denny’s “More” is playing in the background. The number of customers has decreased markedly from thirty minutes earlier, and there are no more voices raised in conversation. The atmosphere suggests a deeper stage of night.

  Mari is still at her table, reading her thick book. In front of her sits a plate containing a vegetable sandwich, virtually untouched. She seems to have ordered it less out of hunger than as a means to buy herself more time at the restaurant. Now and then she changes the position in which she reads her book—resting her elbows on the table, or settling farther back into her seat. Sometimes she raises her face, takes a deep breath, and checks out the restaurant’s dwindling occupancy, but aside from this she maintains her concentration on her book. Her ability to concentrate seems to be one of her most important personal assets.

  There are more single customers to be seen now: someone writing on a laptop, someone text-messaging on a cell phone, another absorbed in reading like Mari, another doing nothing but staring thoughtfully out the window. Maybe they can’t sleep. Maybe they don’t want to sleep. A family restaurant provides such people with a place to park themselves late at night.

  A large woman charges in as if she could hardly wait for the restaurant’s automatic glass door to open. She is solidly constructed, not fat. Her shoulders are broad and strong-looking. She wears a black woolen hat pulled down to the eyes, a big leather jacket, and orange pants. Her hands are empty. Her powerful appearance draws people’s attention. As soon as she comes in, a waitress asks her, “Table for one, ma’am?” but the woman ignores her and casts anxious eyes around the restaurant. Spotting Mari, she takes long strides in her direction.

  When she arrives at Mari’s table, she says nothing but immediately lowers herself into the seat across from Mari. For a woman so large, her movements are quick and efficient.

  “Uh…mind?” she asks.

  Mari, who has been concentrating on her book, looks up. Finding this large stranger sitting opposite her, she is startled.

  The woman pulls off her woolen hat. Her hair is an intense blond, and it is cut as short as a well-trimmed lawn. Her face wears an open expression, but the skin has a tough, weathered look, like long-used rainwear, and although the features are not exactly symmetrical, there is something reassuring about them that seems to come from an innate fondness for people. Instead of introducing herself, she gives Mari a lopsided smile and rubs her thick palm over her short blond hair.

  The waitress comes and tries to set a glass of water and a menu on the table as called for in the Denny’s training manual, but the woman waves her away. “Never mind, I’m getting outta here right away. Sorry, hon.”

  The waitress responds with a nervous smile and leaves.

  “You’re Mari Asai, right?” the woman asks.

  “Well, yes…”

  “Takahashi said you’d probably still be here.”

  “Takahashi?”

  “Tetsuya Takahashi. Tall guy, long hair, skinny. Plays trombone.”

  Mari nods. “Oh, him.”

  “Yeah. He says you speak fluent Chinese.”

  “Well,” Mari answers cautiously, “I’m okay with everyday conversation. I’m not exactly fluent.”

  “That’s fine. Can I getcha to come with me? I’ve got this Chinese girl in a mess. She can’t speak Japanese, so I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  Mari had no idea what the woman was talking about, but she set a bookmark in place, closed the book, and pushed it aside.

  “What kind of mess?”

  “She’s kinda hurt. Close by. An easy walk. I won’t take much of your time. I just need you to translate for her and give me some idea what happened. I’d really appreciate it.”

  Mari has a moment of hesitation, but, looking at her face, she guesses that the woman is not a bad person. She slips her book into her shoulder bag and puts on her jacket. She reaches for the bill on the table, but the woman beats her to it.

  “I’ll pay this.”

  “That’s all right. It’s stuff I ordered.”

  “Never mind, it’s the least I can do. Just shut up and let me pay.”

  When they stand up, the difference in their sizes becomes obvious. Mari is a tiny girl, and the woman is built like a barn, maybe two or three inches shy of six feet. Mari gives up and lets the woman pay for her.

  They step outside. The street is as busy as ever despite the time. Electronic sounds from the game center. Shouts of karaoke club barkers. Motorcycle engines roaring. Three young men sit on the pavement outside a shuttered shop doing nothing in particular. When Mari and the woman pass by, the three look up and follow them with their eyes, probably wondering about this odd couple, but saying nothing, just staring. The shutter is covered with spray-painted graffiti.

  “My name’s Kaoru,” the woman says. “Yeah, I know, you’re thinking, ‘How did this big hunk of a woman get a pretty little name like that?’ But I’ve been Kaoru ever since I was born.”

  “Glad to meet you,” Mari says.

  “Sorry for dragging you out like this. Bet I threw you for a loop.”

  Mari doesn’t know how to respond, and so she says nothing.

  “Want me to carry your bag? Looks heavy,” Kaoru says.

  “I’m okay.”

  “What’s in there?”

  “Books, a change of clothes…”

  “You’re not a runaway, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” says Mari.

  “Okay. Good.”


  The two keep walking. From the brightly lighted avenue they turn into a narrow lane and head uphill. Kaoru walks quickly and Mari hurries to keep pace with her. They climb a gloomy, deserted stairway and come out to a different street. The stairs seem to be a shortcut between the two streets. Several snack bars on this street still have their signs lighted, but none of them suggests a human presence.

  “It’s that love ho over there.”

  “Love ho?”

  “Love hotel. For couples. By the hour. See the neon sign, ‘Alphaville’? That’s it.”

  When she hears the name, Mari can’t help staring at Kaoru. “Alphaville?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s okay. I’m the manager.”

  “The injured woman is in there?”

  Walking on, Kaoru turns and says, “Uh-huh. It’s kinda hard to explain.”

  “Is Takahashi in there, too?”

  “No, he’s in another building near here. In the basement. His band’s practicing all night. Students have it easy.”

  The two walk in through the front door of the Alphaville. Guests at this hotel choose their room from large photos on display in the foyer, press the corresponding numbered button, receive their key, and take the elevator straight to the room. No need to meet or talk to anyone. Room charges come in two types: “rest” and “overnight.” Gloomy blue illumination. Mari takes in all these new sights. Kaoru says a quiet hello to the woman at the reception desk in back.

  Then she says to Mari, “You’ve probably never been in a place like this before.”

  “No, this is the first time for me.”

  “Oh, well, there are lots of different businesses in the world.”

  Kaoru and Mari take the elevator to the top floor. Down a short, narrow corridor they come to a door numbered 404. Kaoru gives two soft knocks and the door opens instantly inward. A young woman with hair dyed a bright red nervously pokes her head out. She is thin and pale. She wears an oversize pink T-shirt and jeans with holes. Large earrings hang from her pierced ears.

  “Oh, cool, it’s you, Kaoru!” says the red-haired young woman. “Took you long enough. I was going crazy.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Same old same old.”

  “The bleeding stop?”

  “Pretty much. I used a ton of paper towels, though.”

  Kaoru lets Mari in and closes the door. Besides the red-haired woman there is another employee in the room, a small woman who wears her hair up and is mopping the floor. Kaoru does a quick introduction.

  “This is Mari. The one who can speak Chinese. The redhead here is Komugi. Yeah, I know it sounds like ‘Wheat,’ but it’s the name her parents gave her, so what’re ya gonna do? She’s been working for me forever.”

  Komugi produces a nice smile for Mari and says, “Glad to meet ya.”

  “Glad to meet you,” says Mari.

  “The other one over there is Korogi. Now, that’s not her real name. You’ll have to ask her why she wants to be known as ‘Cricket.’”

  “Sorry about that,” says Korogi in the soft tones of the Kansai region around Osaka. “I got rid of my real name.” Korogi looks a few years older than Komugi.

  “Glad to meet you,” says Mari.

  The room is windowless and stuffy and all but filled with the oversize bed and TV. Crouching on the floor in one corner is a naked woman in a bath towel. She hides her face in her hands and cries soundlessly. Blood-soaked towels lie on the floor. The bedsheets are also bloody. A floor lamp lies where it was knocked down. On the table is a half-empty bottle of beer and one glass. The TV is on and tuned to a comedy show. The audience laughs. Kaoru picks up the remote and switches it off.

  “Looks like he beat the crap out of her,” she says to Mari.

  “The man she was here with?” Mari asks.

  “Uh-huh. Her customer.”

  “Customer? She’s a prostitute?”

  “Yeah, we mostly get pros at this time of night,” Kaoru says. “So sometimes we have problems. Like they fight over the money, or the guy wants some perverted stuff or something.”

  Mari bites her lip and tries to gather her thoughts. “And she only speaks Chinese?”

  “Yeah, she knows like two words of Japanese. I can’t call the cops, though. She’s probably an illegal alien, and I don’t have time to go testify every time something like this comes up.”

  Mari sets her shoulder bag on the table and goes to the crouching woman. She kneels down and speaks to her in Chinese:

  “Ni zenme le?” (What happened?)

  The woman may not have heard her. She doesn’t answer. Shoulders quaking, she sobs uncontrollably.

  Kaoru shakes her head. “She’s in some kind of shock. I bet he really hurt her.”

  Mari speaks to the woman again. “Shi Zhongguoren ma?” (Are you from China?)

  Still the woman does not answer.

  “Fangxin ba, wo gen jingcha mei guanxi.” (Don’t worry, I’m not with the police.)

  Still the woman does not answer.

  “Ni bei ta da le ma?” (Did a man beat you up?)

  The woman finally nods. Her long black hair trembles.

  Mari continues speaking, quietly but persistently, to the woman. She asks the same question several times. Kaoru folds her arms and watches their interaction with a worried look. Komugi and Korogi, meanwhile, share the cleanup duties. They gather the bloody paper towels and stuff them in a vinyl trash bag. They strip the bed and put fresh towels in the bathroom. They raise the lamp from the floor and take away the beer bottle and glass. They check replaceable items and clean the bathroom. The two are obviously accustomed to working together. Their movements are smooth and economical.

  Mari goes on kneeling in the corner, speaking to the woman, who seems to have calmed down somewhat at the sound of the familiar language. Haltingly, she explains the situation to Mari in Chinese. Her voice is so faint, Mari has to lean close to her in order to hear. She listens intently, nodding. Now and then she says a phrase or two as if to encourage the woman.

  Kaoru gives Mari’s shoulder a little tap from behind. “Sorry, but we need this room for the next customer. We’re gonna take her to the office downstairs. Come along, okay?”

  “But she’s completely naked! She says he took everything she had on. Shoes, underwear, everything.”

  Kaoru shakes her head. “He stripped her clean so she couldn’t report him right away. What a bastard!”

  Kaoru takes a thin bathrobe from the closet and hands it to Mari. “Just get her to put this on for now.”

  The woman rises weakly to her feet and, looking half-stunned, drops the towel, exposing her nakedness as she puts on the robe, her stance unsteady. Mari quickly averts her gaze. The woman’s body is small but beautiful: well-shaped breasts, smooth skin, a shadowy hint of pubic hair. She is probably the same age as Mari, her build still girlish. Her steps are uncertain. Kaoru puts a supporting arm around her shoulders and leads her from the room. They take a service elevator down, Mari following with her bag. Komugi and Korogi stay behind to clean the room.

  The three women enter the hotel office. Cardboard cartons are piled along the walls. One steel desk and a simple reception area with couch and armchair. On the desk are a computer keyboard and a glowing liquid crystal monitor. On the walls hang a calendar, a framed piece of pop calligraphy by Mitsuo Aida, and an electric clock. There is a portable TV, and on top of a small refrigerator stands a microwave oven. The room feels cramped with three people in it. Kaoru guides the bathrobed Chinese prostitute to the couch. The woman seems cold as she clutches at the bathrobe, drawing it closed.

  Kaoru aims the light of the floor lamp at the prostitute’s face and examines her wounds more closely. She brings over a first-aid kit and carefully wipes away the dried blood with alcohol and cotton swabs. She puts Band-Aids on the cuts. She feels the woman’s nose to see if it is broken. She lifts her eyelids and checks to see how badly bloodshot the eyes are. She runs her fingers over the woman’s he
ad, feeling for bumps. She performs these tasks with amazing deftness, as if she does them all the time. She takes some kind of cold pack from the refrigerator, wraps it in a small towel, and hands it to the woman.

  “Here, press this against your face for a while.”

  Recalling that her listener understands no Japanese, Kaoru shows her with gestures where to put it. The woman nods and presses the cold pack under her eyes.

  Kaoru turns to Mari and says, “That was some pretty spectacular bleeding, but it was mostly from the nose. Luckily, she doesn’t have any big wounds, no bumps on her head, and I don’t think her nose is broken. She’s cut at the corner of her eye and on the lip, but nothing that needs stitches. She’ll probably be out of business for a week with black eyes.”

  Mari nods.

  “The guy was strong, but he’s obviously a total amateur when it comes to beating somebody up. He just threw a lot of wild punches. I’ll bet his hands are killing him now, the bastard. He swung so hard he dented the wall in a few places. He really lost it. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

  Komugi comes in and takes something from one of the cartons piled against the wall—a fresh bathrobe to replace the one from room 404.

  Mari says, “She told me he took everything—her pocketbook, her money, her cell phone.”

  “Just so he could skip out without paying her?” Komugi interjects.

  “No, not that. I mean…her, uh, period started all of a sudden before they could do anything. It was early. So he got mad and…”

  “Well, she couldn’t help it,” says Komugi. “When it starts, it starts—bang!”

  Kaoru clucks and says, “Okay, that’s enough from you, Komugi. Go finish cleaning 404.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry,” Komugi says and leaves the office.

  “So he’s all set to do it, the woman gets her period, he goes crazy, beats the shit out of her, grabs her money and clothes, and gets the hell out of there,” Kaoru says. “That guy’s got problems.”