After dark - By Haruki Murakami Page 0,13

an Adidas logo on the chest. The bruises remain distinct on the woman’s face, but her hair is now more neatly combed. Even in this well-worn outfit and with her lips swollen and face bruised, she is a beautiful woman.

Kaoru asks her in Japanese, “I’ll bet you want to use the phone, right?”

Mari translates into Chinese. “Yao da dianhua ma?” Would you like to use the telephone?

The prostitute answers in fragmented Japanese. “Hai. Arigato.”

Kaoru hands her a white cordless phone. She presses the buttons and, speaking softly in Chinese, she makes a report to the person on the other end, who responds with an angry outburst. She gives a short answer and hangs up. With a grim expression, she hands the phone back to Kaoru.

The prostitute thanks Kaoru in Japanese: “Domo arigato.” Then she turns to Mari and says, “Mashang you ren lai jie wo.” (Someone is coming to pick me up. Right away.)

Mari explains to Kaoru: “I think they’re coming to get her now.”

Kaoru frowns. “Come to think of it, the hotel bill hasn’t been paid, either. Usually the man pays, but this particular son-of-a-bitch left without paying. He owes us for a beer, too.”

“Are you going to get it from the one who picks her up?”

“Hmm.” Kaoru stops to think this over. “I hope it’s that simple.”

Kaoru puts tea leaves in a pot followed by hot water from a thermos jar. She pours the tea into three cups and hands one to the Chinese prostitute. The woman thanks her and takes a drink. The hot tea hurts her cut lip. She takes one sip and furrows her brow.

Kaoru drinks some tea and says to the prostitute in Japanese, “But it’s hard for you, isn’t it? You come all the way from China, sneak into Japan, and you end up with those goons sucking the life outta you. I don’t know what it was like for you back home, but you probably would’ve been better off not coming here, don’t you think?”

“You want me to translate that?” Mari asks.

Kaoru shakes her head. “Nah, why bother? I’m just talking to myself.”

Mari engages the prostitute in conversation. “Ni ji sui le?” (How old are you?)

“Shijiu.” (Nineteen.)

“Wo ye shi. Jiao shenme mingzi?” (Same as me. What’s your name?)

The prostitute hesitates a moment and answers, “Guo Dongli.”

“Wo jiao Mali.” (My name is Mari.)

Mari offers the woman a little smile—her first since midnight.

A motorcycle comes to a halt at the front entrance of the Alphaville: a big, tough-looking Honda sports bike. The man driving it wears a full-face helmet. He leaves the engine running as though he wants to be ready to get out fast if he has to. He wears a tight-fitting black leather jacket and blue jeans. High-top basketball shoes. Thick gloves. The man takes off his helmet and sets it on the gas tank. After a careful scan of his surroundings, he takes off one glove, pulls a cell phone from his pocket, and punches in a number. He is around thirty. Reddish dyed hair, ponytail. Broad forehead, sunken cheeks, sharp eyes. After a short conversation, the man hangs up and puts the phone back into his pocket. He pulls his glove back on and waits.

Soon Kaoru, the prostitute, and Mari step outside. Rubber sandals flapping, the prostitute drags herself toward the motorcycle. The temperature has fallen, and she seems cold in her jersey outfit. The motorcycle man barks something at the prostitute, who responds softly.

Kaoru says to the motorcycle man, “Ya know, fella, I still haven’t been paid for my hotel room.”

The man stares hard at Kaoru, then says, “I don’t pay hotel bills. The john pays.” His speech is flat, unaccented, expressionless.

“I know that,” Kaoru says in a hoarse voice. She clears her throat. “But think about it. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. That’s how we do business. This has been a drag for us, too. I mean, this was a case of assault with bodily injury. We could’ve called the cops. But then you guys would’ve had a little explaining to do, right? So just pay us our sixty-eight hundred yen and we’ll be satisfied. Won’t even charge you for the beer. Call it even.”

The man stares at Kaoru with expressionless eyes. He looks up at the neon sign: Alphaville. He takes off a glove again, pulls a leather billfold from his jacket pocket, counts out seven thousand-yen bills, and lets them drop to his feet. There is no wind: the bills lie flat on the