After Dark by Haruki Murakami
“Right on,” says Kaoru with a vigorous nod. “But he’d never be stupid enough to show his face here again. Not for a while, at least. And who’s got time to go looking for him?”
“So what’re ya gonna do?” Komugi asks.
“Like I said, I’ll think about that when the time comes.”
All but punching the mouse in desperation, Kaoru double-clicks on a random icon, and a few seconds later the screen for 10:48 appears on the monitor.
“At last.”
Komugi: “If at first you don’t succeed…”
Korogi: “Betcha scared the computer.”
The three of them stare at the screen in silence, holding their breath. A young couple come in at 10:50. Students, probably. Both are obviously tense. They stand in front of the room photos, settling first on one, then another, and finally choosing room 302. They push the button, take the key, and after wandering in search of the elevator, they get on.
Kaoru: “So these’re the guests in room three-oh-two.”
Komugi: “Three-oh-two, huh? They look innocent enough, but they went wild in there. You shoulda seen the place after they were through with it.”
Korogi: “So what? They’re young. They pay to come to a place like this so they can go wild.”
Komugi: “Well, I’m still young, but you don’t see me goin’ wild.”
Korogi: “That’s ’cause you’re not horny enough.”
Komugi: “Think so? I wonder…”
Kaoru: “Hey, here comes number four-oh-four. Shut up and watch.”
A man appears on the screen. The time is 10:52.
He wears a light gray trench coat, is in his late thirties, maybe close to forty. He has on a tie and dress shoes like a typical company man. Small wire-frame glasses. He is not carrying anything; his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his trench coat. Everything about him is ordinary—height, build, hairstyle. If you passed him on the street, he would leave no impression.
“Looks like a totally ordinary guy,” says Komugi.
“The ordinary-looking ones are the most dangerous,” says Kaoru, rubbing her chin. “They carry around a shit-load of stress.”
The man glances at his watch and, without hesitation, takes the key to 404. He strides swiftly toward the elevator, disappearing from the monitor.
Kaoru pauses the image and asks the girls, “So what does this tell us?”
“Looks like a guy from some company,” says Komugi.
Kaoru shakes her head, looking at Komugi with apparent disgust. “I don’t need you to tell me that a guy in a business suit and tie at this time of day has got to be a company guy on his way home from work.”
“Sorrreeee,” says Komugi.
Korogi offers her opinion: “I’d say he’s done this kind of thing a lot. Knows his way around. No hesitation.”
“Right on,” says Kaoru. “Grabs the key right away and heads straight for the elevator. No wasted motion. No looking around.”
Komugi: “You mean this ain’t his first time here?”
Korogi: “One of our regular customers, in other words.”
Kaoru: “Probably. And he’s probably bought his women the same way before, too.”
Komugi: “Some guys like to specialize in Chinese women.”
Kaoru: “Lots of guys. So think about it: he’s an office worker and he’s been here a few times. There’s a good possibility he works in a company around here.”
Komugi: “Hey, you’re right…”
Korogi: “And he works the night shift a lot?”
Kaoru scowls at Korogi. “What gives you that idea? He puts in a day’s work, stops off for a beer, starts feelin’ good, gets hungry for a woman. That could happen.”
Korogi: “Yeah, but this guy wasn’t carrying anything. Left his stuff in the office. He’d be carrying something if he was going home—a briefcase or a manila envelope or something. None of these company guys commute empty-handed. Which means this guy was going back to the office for more work. That’s what I think.”
Komugi: “So he works all night?”
Korogi: “There’s a bunch of people like that. They stay at the office and work till morning. Especially computer-software guys. They start messing around with the system after everybody else goes home and there’s nobody around. They can’t shut the system down while everybody’s working, so they stay till two or three in the morning and take a taxi home. The company pays for the cabs with vouchers.”
Komugi: “Hey, come to think of it, the guy really looks like a computer geek. But how come you know so much, Korogi?”
Korogi: “Well, I wasn’t always doing this stuff. I used to work at a company. A pretty good one, too.”
Komugi: “Seriously?”
Korogi: “Of course I worked seriously. That’s what you have to do at a company.”
Komugi: “So why did you—”
Kaoru snaps at them: “Hey, gimme a break, will ya? You’re supposed to be talking about this stuff. You can yap about that shit somewhere else.”
Komugi: “Sorry.”
Kaoru reverses the video to 10:52 and sets it to play frame by frame, pausing it at one point and enlarging the man’s image in stages. Then she prints the image, producing a fairly good-size color photograph of the man’s face.
Komugi: “Fantastic!”
Korogi: “Wow! Look what you can do! Like Blade Runner!”
Komugi: “I guess it’s handy, but the world’s a pretty scary place now if you stop and think about it. You can’t just walk into a love ho any time you feel like it.”
Kaoru: “So you guys better not do anything bad when you go out. You never know when there’s a camera watching these days.”
Komugi: “The walls have ears—and digital cameras.”
Korogi: “Yeah, you gotta watch what you’re doing.”
Kaoru makes five prints in all. Each woman studies the man’s face.
Kaoru: “The enlargement is grainy, but you can pretty much tell what he looks like, right?”
Komugi: “I’d definitely recognize him on the street.”
Kaoru twists her neck, cracking and popping the bones, as she sits there, thinking. Finally, an idea comes to her: “Did either of you guys use this office phone after I went out?”
Both women shake their heads.
Komugi: “Not me.”
Korogi: “Or me.”
Kaoru: “Which means nobody dialed any numbers after the Chinese girl used the phone?”
Komugi: “Never touched it.”
Korogi: “Not a finger.”
Kaoru picks up the receiver, takes a breath, and hits the redial button.
After two rings, a man picks up the other phone and rattles off something in Chinese.
Kaoru says, “Hello, I’m calling from the Hotel Alphaville. You know: a guest of ours beat up one of your girls around eleven o’clock? Well, we’ve got the guy’s photo. From the security camera. I thought you might want one.”
A few moments of silence follow. Then the man says in Japanese, “Wait a minute.”
“I’ll wait,” says Kaoru. “Till I turn blue.”
Some kind of discussion goes on at the other end. Ear on the receiver, Kaoru twiddles a ballpoint pen between her fingers. Komugi belts out a song using the tip of her broomstick as her mike: “The snow is fa-a-a-a-lling…But where are yo-o-o-o-o-u?…I’ll go on wa-a-a-a-iting…Till I turn blu-u-u-u-e…”
The man comes back to the telephone. “You got the picture there now?”
“Hot off the press,” says Kaoru.
“How’d you get this number?”
“They put all kinds of convenient features into these modern gizmos.”
A few more seconds of silence follow. The man says, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be at the front door.”
The connection is cut. Kaoru frowns and hangs up. Again she pops the bones in her thick neck. The room falls silent.
Komugi speaks hesitantly. “Umm…K
“What?”
“Are you really gonna give those guys the picture?”
“You heard what I said before: I’m not gonna let that bastard get away with beating up an innocent girl. And it pisses me off he skipped out on his hotel bill. Plus, look at this pasty-faced salaryman son-of-a-bitch: I can’t stand him.”
Komugi: “Yeah, but if they find him, they might hang a rock on him and toss him into Tokyo Bay. If you got mixed up in something like that, there’d be hell to pay.”
Kaoru is still frowning. “Nah, they’re not gonna kill him. The police don’t give a shit when those Chinese guys kill each other, but it’s a different story when they start bumping off respectable Japanese. That’s when the trouble starts. Nah, they’ll just grab him and teach him a lesson, and maybe cut off an ear.”
Komugi: “Ow!”
Korogi: “Kinda like van Gogh.”
Komugi: “But really, Kaoru, d’you think they can find the guy with just a photo to go on? I mean, it’s a big town!”
Kaoru: “Yeah, but once those guys make up their minds, they never let go. That’s the way they are with stuff like this. If some guy off the street gets away with making them look bad, they can’t keep their women in line, and they lose face with the other gangs. They can’t survive in that world if they lose face.”
Kaoru takes a cigarette from the desktop, puts it in her mouth, and lights it with a match. Pursing her lips, she slowly releases a long stream of smoke at the computer screen.
On the paused screen the enlarged face of the man.
Ten minutes later. Kaoru and Komugi wait near the hotel’s front door. Kaoru wears the same leather jacket as before, her woolen hat pulled down almost to her eyes. Komugi wears a big, thick sweater. She clutches herself across the chest to ward off the cold. Soon, the man who came to pick up the woman arrives on his big motorcycle. He stops the bike a few paces away from the women. Again he keeps the engine running. He takes off his helmet, rests it on the gas tank, and deliberately removes his right glove. He stuffs the glove into his jacket pocket and stands his ground. He is obviously not going to move. Kaoru strides toward him and holds out three copies of the photo.
“He probably works in a company near here,” she says. “I think he works nights a lot, and I’m pretty sure he’s ordered women here before. Maybe he’s one of your regulars.”
The man takes the photos and stares at them for a few seconds. They don’t seem to interest him especially.
“So?” he asks, looking at Kaoru.
“Whaddya mean, ‘So?’”
“Why are you giving me these?”
“I kinda figured you’d wanna have ’em. You don’t?”
Instead of replying, the man unzips his jacket and puts the photos, folded in half, into a kind of document sack hanging across his chest. Then he raises the zipper to the base of his neck. He keeps his eyes fixed on Kaoru the whole time.
The man is trying to find out what Kaoru wants in return for supplying him with this information, but he refuses to ask the question. He holds his pose, mouth shut, and waits for the answer to come to him. But Kaoru faces him with arms folded like his, aiming her cold stare at him. She is not going to back down, either. This suffocating stare-down goes on for some time. Finally Kaoru breaks the silence with a well-timed clearing of her throat.
“Just let me know if you find him, okay?”
The man grips the handlebar with his left hand and rests his right hand lightly on his helmet.
“Just let you know if we find him,” he echoes mechanically.
“That’s right.”
“Just let you know?”
Kaoru nods. “Just a little whisper in my ear. I don’t need to know what you do to him.”
The man is thinking hard. He gives the crown of his helmet two light taps with his fist. “If we find him, I’ll let you know.”
“I look forward to the news,” Kaoru says. “Do you guys still cut ears off?”
The man’s lips twitched slightly. “A man has only one life. Ears, he has two.”
“Maybe so, but if he loses an ear, he’s got nothing to hang his glasses on.”
“Most inconvenient,” the man says.
This brings their conversation to an end. The man puts his helmet on, gives his pedal a big kick, turns the bike, and speeds off.
Kaoru and Komugi silently watch the motorcycle go, standing in the street long after it has disappeared.
When she speaks finally, Komugi says, “I don’t know, he’s kind of like a ghost.”
“Well, it is the right time of day for ghosts, you know,” Kaoru says.
“Scary.”
“Yeah, really.”
The two walk into the hotel.
Kaoru is alone in the office. Her feet are on the desk. She picks up the photo and studies it again. Close-up of the man. Kaoru lets out a quiet moan and raises her eyes toward the ceiling.
7
A man is working at a computer. This is the man who was photographed by the surveillance camera at the Hotel Alphaville—the man in the light gray trench coat who took the key to room 404. He is a touch typist of awesome speed. Still, his fingers can barely keep up with his thoughts. His lips are tightly pursed. His face remains expressionless, neither breaking into a smile of satisfaction nor frowning with disappointment at the results of his work. The cuffs of his white shirt are rolled up to the elbows. His collar button is open, his tie loosened. Now and then he has to stop typing to scribble notes and symbols on a scratch pad next to the keyboard. He uses a long, silver-colored eraser pencil stamped with the company name: veritech. Six more of these silver pencils are neatly lined up in a nearby tray. All are of roughly the same length and sharpened to perfection.
The room is a large one. The man has stayed late to work in the office after everyone else has gone home. A Bach piano piece flows at moderate volume from a compact CD player on his desk. Ivo Pogorelich performs one of the English Suites. The room is dark. Only the area around the man’s desk receives illumination from fluorescent lights on the ceiling. This could be an Edward Hopper painting titled Loneliness. Not that the man himself feels lonely where he is at the moment: he prefers it this way. With no one else around, he can concentrate. He can listen to his favorite music and get a lot of work done. He doesn’t hate his job. As long as he is able to concentrate on his work, he doesn’t have to be distracted by practical trivia. Unconcerned about the time and effort involved, he can handle all difficulties logically, analytically. He follows the flow of the music half-consciously, staring at the computer screen, moving his fingers at full speed, keeping pace with Pogorelich. There is no wasted motion, just the meticulous eighteenth-century music, the man, and the technical problems he has been given to solve.
His only source of distraction is an apparent pain in his right hand. Now and then he interrupts his work to open and close the hand and flex the wrist. The left hand massages the back of the right hand. He takes a deep breath and glances at his watch. He grimaces ever so slightly. The pain in his right hand is slowing his work.
The man is impeccably dressed. He has exercised a good deal of care in choosing his outfit, though it is neither highly individualized nor especially sophisticated. He does have good taste. His shirt and necktie look expensive—probably name-brand items. His face gives an impression of intelligence and breeding. The watch on his left wrist is elegantly thin, his glasses Armani in style. His hands are large, fingers long, nails well manicured. A narrow wedding band adorns the third finger of his left hand. His facial features are undistinguished, but the details of his expression suggest a strong-willed personality. He is probably just about forty years old, and the flesh of his face and neck, at least, show no trace of sagging. In general appearance, he gives the same impression as a well-ordered room. He does not look like the kind of man who would buy a Chinese prostitute in a love hotel—and certainly not one who would administer an unmerciful pounding to such a woman, strip her clothes off, an
The phone rings, but he doesn’t pick up the receiver. Never changing his expression, he goes on working at the same speed. He lets the phone ring, his line of vision unwavering. After four rings, the answering machine takes over.
“Shirakawa here. Sorry, but I am unable to take your call. Please leave a message after the beep.”
The signal sounds.
“Hello?” says a woman’s voice. It is low and muffled and sleepy-sounding. “It’s me. Are you there? Pick up, will you?”
Still staring at the computer screen, Shirakawa grabs a remote control and pauses the music before switching on the speakerphone.
“Hi, I’m here,” he says.
“You weren’t there when I called before. I thought maybe you’d be coming home early tonight,” the woman says.
“Before? When was that?”
“After eleven. I left a message.”
Shirakawa glances at the telephone. She is right: the red message lamp is blinking.
“Sorry, I didn’t notice. I was concentrating on my work,” Shirakawa says. “After eleven, huh? I went out for a snack. Then I stopped by Starbucks for a macchiato. You been up all this time?”
Shirakawa goes on tapping at the keyboard as he talks.
“I went back to sleep at eleven thirty, but I had a terrible dream and woke up a minute ago. You still weren’t home, so…What was it today?”
Shirakawa doesn’t understand her question. He stops typing and glances at the phone. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes momentarily deepen.
“What was what?”
“Your midnight snack. What’d you eat?”
“Oh. Chinese. Same as always. Keeps me full.”
“Was it good?”
“Not especially.”
He returns his gaze to the computer screen and starts tapping the keys again.
“So, how’s the work going?”
“Tough situation. Guy drove his ball into the rough. If somebody doesn’t fix it before the sun comes up, our morning net meeting’s not gonna happen.”
“And that somebody is you again?”
“None other,” Shirakawa says. “I don’t see anybody else around here.”