After dark

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 head, 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.”

Mari nods. “She says she’s sorry for getting the sheets all bloody.”

“That’s okay, we’re used to it,” Kaoru says. “I don’t know why, but lots of girls’ periods start in love hos. They’re always calling downstairs and asking for napkins ’n’ tampons ’n’ stuff. I wanna say, ‘What are we—a drugstore?’ But anyhow, we’ve gotta get this kid dressed. She’s not goin’ anywhere like this.”

Kaoru searches in another carton and pulls out a pair of panties in a vinyl pack—the kind used in vending machines in the rooms. “These are cheapies for emergencies. They can’t be laundered, but let her put on a pair. We don’t want her to have any drafts down there making her nervous.”

Next Kaoru hunts in the closet and comes out with a faded-green jersey top and bottom she hands to the prostitute.

“These belonged to a girl who used to work here. Don’t worry, they’re clean. She doesn’t have to give them back. All I’ve got is rubber flip-flops for her feet, but that’ll be better than nothing.”

Mari explains this to the woman. Kaoru opens a cabinet and takes out a few sanitary napkins. She hands them to the prostitute.

“Use these, too. You can change in that bathroom.” She motions toward the door with her chin.

The prostitute nods and thanks her in Japanese: “Arigato.” Then she takes the clothing into the bathroom.

Kaoru lowers herself into the desk chair, shakes her head slowly, and says, “You never know what’s gonna happen in this business.”

“She tells me it’s just over two months since she came to Japan,” Mari says.

“She’s here illegally, I suppose?”

“I didn’t ask her about that. Judging from her dialect, she’s from the north.”

“Old Manchuria?”

“Probably.”

“Huh. I suppose somebody’s gonna come and pick her up.”

“I think she’s got a boss of some kind.”

“A Chinese gang,” Kaoru says. “They run prostitution around here. They sneak women in by boat from the mainland and make them pay for it with their bodies. They take phone orders and deliver the women to hotels on motorcycles—hot ’n’ fresh, like pizza. They’re one of our best clients.”

“By ‘gang,’ you mean like yakuza?”

Kaoru shakes her head. “No, no. I was a professional wrestler a long time, and we used to do these national tours, so I got to know a few yakuza. Let me tell you, compared to these Chinese gangsters, Japanese yakuza are sweethearts. I mean, you never know what’s coming with them. But this kid’s got no choice: if she doesn’t go back to them, she’s got no place to go.”

“Do you think they’re going to be hard on her for not making anything this time?”

“Hmm, I wonder. With her face looking like that, it’ll be a while before she can have any customers, and she’s worthless to them if she can’t make money. She’s a pretty thing, though.”

The prostitute comes out of the bathroom wearing the jersey outfit and rubber thongs. The top has 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 ground. The man puts his glove back on. He raises his arm and looks at his watch. He performs each movement with unnatural slowness. He is clearly in no hurry. He seems to be trying to impress the three women with the sheer weight of his presence. He can take as much time as he likes for anything. All the while, the motorcycle engine keeps up its deep rumbling, like a skittish animal.

“You’re pretty gutsy,” the man says to Kaoru.

“Thanks,” Kaoru answers.

“If you call the cops there might be a fire in the neighborhood,” he says.

A deep silence reigns for a time. Arms folded, Kaoru keeps her eyes locked on the man’s face. Her own face marked with cuts, the prostitute looks uneasily from one to the other, unable to comprehend their give-and-take.

Eventually the man picks up his helmet, slips it on, beckons to the woman, and seats her on his motorcycle. She holds on to his jacket with both hands. Turning, she looks back at Mari and at Kaoru. Then she looks at Mari again. She seems to want to speak but finally says nothing. The man gives the pedal a strong kick, revs the engine, and drives off. The sound of his exhaust reverberates heavily through the midnight streets. Kaoru and Mari are left standing there. Kaoru bends over and picks up the thousand-yen bills one at a time. She turns them so they face the same way, folds the wad in half, and stuffs it into her pocket. She takes a deep breath and rubs her palm over her short blond hair.

“Man!” she says.