Chapter One
11:56 p.m.
Eyes mark the shape of the city.
Through the eyes of a high-flying night bird, we take in the scene from midair.
In our broad sweep, the city looks like a single gigantic creature-or more like
a single collective entity created by many intertwining organisms. Countless
arteries stretch to the ends of its elusive body, circulating a continuous
supply of fresh blood cells, sending out new data and collecting the old,
sending out new consumables and collecting the old, sending out new
contradictions and collecting the old. To the rhythm of its pulsing, all parts
of the body flicker and flare up and squirm. Midnight is approaching, and while
the peak of activity has passed, the basal metabolism that maintains life
continues undiminished, producing the basso continuo of the city’s moan, a
monotonous sound that neither rises nor falls but is pregnant with foreboding.
Our line of sight chooses an area of concentrated brightness and, focusing
there, silently descends to it-a sea of neon colors. They call this place an
“amusement district.” The giant digital screens fastened to the sides of
buildings fall silent as midnight approaches, but loudspeakers on storefronts
keep pumping out exaggerated hip-hop bass lines. A large game center crammed
with young people; wild electronic sounds; a group of college students spilling
out from a bar; teenage girls with brilliant bleached hair, healthy legs
thrusting out from micromini skirts; dark-suited men racing across diagonal
crosswalks for the last trains to the suburbs. Even at this hour, the karaoke
club pitchmen keep shouting for customers. A flashy black station wagon drifts
down the street as if taking stock of the district through its black-tinted
windows. The car looks like a deep-sea creature with specialized skin and
organs. Two young policemen patrol the street with tense expressions, but no one
seems to notice them. The district plays by its own rules at a time like this.
The season is late autumn. No wind is blowing, but the air carries a chill. The
date is just about to change.
We are inside a Denny’s.
Unremarkable but adequate lighting; expressionless decor and dinnerware; floor
plan designed to the last detail by management engineers; innocuous background
music at low volume; staff meticulously trained to deal with customers by the
book: “Welcome to Denny’s.” Everything about the restaurant is anonymous and
interchangeable. And almost every seat is filled.
After a quick survey of the interior, our eyes come to rest on a girl sitting by
the front window. Why her? Why not someone else? Hard to say. But, for some
reason, she attracts our attention-very naturally. She sits at a four-person
table, reading a book. Hooded gray parka, blue jeans, yellow sneakers faded from
repeated washing. On the back of the chair next to her hangs a varsity jacket.
This, too, is far from new. She is probably college freshman age, though an air
of high school still clings to her. Hair black, short, and straight. Little
makeup, no jewelry. Small, slender face. Black-rimmed glasses. Every now and
then, an earnest wrinkle forms between her brows.
She reads with great concentration. Her eyes rarely move from the pages of her
book-a thick hardback. A bookstore wrapper hides the title from us. Judging from
her intent expression, the book might contain challenging subject matter. Far
from skimming, she seems to be biting off and chewing it one line at a time.
On her table is a coffee cup. And an ashtray. Next to the ashtray, a navy blue
baseball cap with a Boston Red Sox “B.” It might be a little too large for her
head. A brown leather shoulder bag rests on the seat next to her. It bulges as
if its contents had been thrown in on the spur of the moment. She reaches out at
regular intervals and brings the coffee cup to her mouth, but she doesn’t appear
to be enjoying the flavor. She drinks because she has a cup of coffee in front
of her: that is her role as a customer. At odd moments, she puts a cigarette
between her lips and lights it with a plastic lighter. She narrows her eyes,
releases an easy puff of smoke into the air, puts the cigarette into the
ashtray, and then, as if to soothe an approaching headache, she strokes her
temples with her fingertips.
The music playing at low volume is “Go Away Little Girl” by Percy Faith and His
Orchestra. No one is listening, of course. Many different kinds of people are
taking meals and drinking coffee in this late-night Denny’s, but she is the only
female there alone. She raises her face from her book now and then to glance at
her watch, but she seems dissatisfied with the slow passage of time. Not that
she appears to be waiting for anyone: she doesn’t look around the restaurant or
train her eyes on the front door. She just keeps reading her book, lighting an
occasional cigarette, mechanically tipping back her coffee cup, and hoping for
the time to pass a little faster. Needless to say, dawn will not be here for
hours.
She breaks off her reading and looks outside. From this second-story window she
can look down on the busy street. Even at a time like this, the street is bright
enough and filled with people coming and going-people with places to go and
people with no place to go; people with a purpose and people with no purpose;
people trying to hold time back and people trying to urge it forward. After a
long, steady look at this jumbled street scene, she holds her breath for a
moment and turns her eyes once again toward her book. She reaches for her coffee
cup. Puffed no more than two or three times, her cigarette turns into a
perfectly formed column of ash in the ashtray.
The electric door slides open and a lanky young man walks in. Short black
leather coat, wrinkled olive-green chinos, brown work boots. Hair fairly long
and tangled in places. Perhaps he has had no chance to wash it in some days.
Perhaps he has just crawled out of the underbrush somewhere. Or perhaps he just
finds it more natural and comfortable to have messy hair. His thinness makes him
look less elegant than malnourished. A big black instrument case hangs from his
shoulder. Wind instrument. He also holds a dirty tote bag at his side. It seems
to be stuffed with sheet music and other assorted things. His right cheek bears
an eye-catching scar. It is short and deep, as if the flesh has been gouged out
by something sharp. Nothing else about him stands out. He is a very ordinary
young man with the air of a nice-but not very clever-stray mutt.
The waitress on hostess duty shows him to a seat at the back of the restaurant.
He passes the table of the girl with the book. A few steps beyond it, he comes
to a halt as if a thought has struck him. He begins moving slowly backward as in
a rewinding film, stopping at her table. He cocks his head and studies her face.
He is trying to remember something, and much time goes by until he gets it. He
seems like the type for whom everything takes time.
The girl senses his presence and raises her face from her book. She narrows her
eyes and looks at the young man standing there. He is so tall, she seems to be
looking far overhead. Their eyes meet. The young man smiles. His smile is meant
to show he means no harm.
Sorry if I’ve got the wrong person,” he says, “but aren’t you Eri Asai’s little
sister?”
She does not answer. She looks at him with eyes that could be looking at an
overgrown bush in the corner of a garden.
“We met once,” he continues. “Your name is … Yuri … sort of like your
sister Eri’s except the first syllable.”
Keeping a cautious gaze fixed on him, she executes a concise factual correction:
“Mari.”
He raises his index finger and says, “That’s it! Mari. Eri and Mari. Different
first syllables. You don’t remember me, do you?”
Mari inclines her head slightly. This could mean either yes or no. She takes off
her glasses and sets them down beside her coffee cup.
The waitress retraces her steps and asks, “Are you together?”
“Uh-huh,” he answers. “We are.”
She sets his menu on the table. He takes the seat across from Mari and puts his
case on the seat next to his. A moment later he thinks to ask Mari, “Mind if I
sit here a while? I’ll get out as soon as I’m finished eating. I have to meet
somebody.”
Mari gives him a slight frown. “Aren’t you supposed to say that before you sit
down?”
He thinks about the meaning of her words. “That I have to meet somebody?”
“No …,” Mari says.
“Oh, you mean as a matter of politeness.”
“Uh-huh.”
He nods. “You’re right. I should have asked if it’s okay to sit at your table.
I’m sorry. But the place is crowded, and I won’t bother you for long. Do you
mind?”
Mari gives her shoulders a little shrug that seems to mean “As you wish.” He
opens his menu and studies it.
“Are you through eating?” he asks.
“I’m not hungry.”
With a scowl, he scans the menu, snaps it shut, and lays it on the table. “I
really don’t have to open the menu,” he says. “I’m just faking it.”
Mari doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t eat anything but chicken salad here. Ever. If you ask me, the only
thing worth eating at Denny’s is the chicken salad. I’ve had just about
everything on the menu. Have you ever tried their chicken salad?”
Mari shakes her head.
“It’s not bad. Chicken salad and crispy toast. That’s all I ever eat at
Denny’s.”
“So why do you even bother looking at the menu?”
He pulls at the wrinkles in the corner of one eye with his pinky finger. “Just
think about it. Wouldn’t it be too sad to walk into Denny’s and order chicken
salad without looking at the menu? It’s like telling the world, ‘I come to
Denny’s all the time because I love the chicken salad.’ So I always go through
the motion of opening the menu and pretending I picked the chicken salad after
considering other things.”
The waitress brings him water and he orders chicken salad and crispy toast.
“Make it really crispy,” he says with conviction. “Almost burnt.” He also orders
coffee for afterwards. The waitress inputs his order using a hand-held device
and confirms it by reading it aloud.
“And I think the young lady needs a refill,” he says, pointing at Mari’s cup.
“Thank you, sir. I will bring the coffee right away.”
He watches her go off.
“You don’t like chicken?” he asks.
“It’s not that,” Mari says. “But I make a point of not eating chicken out.”
“Why not?”
“Especially the chicken they serve in chain restaurants- they’re full of weird
drugs. Growth hormones and stuff. The chickens are locked in these dark, narrow
cages, and given all these shots, and their feed is full of chemicals, and
they’re put on conveyor belts, and machines cut their heads off and pluck them …”
“Whoa!” he says with a smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen.
“Chicken salad à la George Orwell!”
Mari narrows her eyes and looks at him. She can’t tell if he is making fun of
her.
“Anyhow,” he says, “the chicken salad here is not bad. Really.”
As if suddenly recalling that he is wearing it, he takes off his leather coat,
folds it, and lays it on the seat next to his. Then he rubs his hands together
atop the table. He has on a green, coarse-knit crew-neck sweater. Like his hair,
the wool of the sweater is tangled in places. He is obviously not the sort who
pays a lot of attention to his appearance.
“We met at a hotel swimming pool in Shinagawa. Two summers ago. Remember?”
“Sort of.”
“My buddy was there, your sister was there, you were there, and I was there.
Four of us all together. We had just entered college, and I’m pretty sure you
were in your second year of high school. Right?”
Mari nods without much apparent interest.
“My friend was kinda dating your sister then. He brought me along on like a
double date. He dug up four free tickets to the pool, and your sister brought
you along. You hardly said a word, though. You spent the whole time in the pool,
swimming like a young dolphin. We went to the hotel tea room for ice cream
afterwards. You ordered a peach melba.”
Mari frowns. “How come you remember stuff like that?”
“I never dated a girl who ate peach melba before. And you were cute, of course.”
Mari looks at him blankly. “Liar. You were staring at my sister the whole time.”
“I was?”
Mari answers with silence.
“Maybe I was,” he says. “For some reason I remember her bikini was really tiny.”
Mari pulls out a cigarette, puts it between her lips, and lights it with her
lighter.
“Let me tell you something,” he says. “I’m not trying to defend Denny’s or
anything, but I’m pretty sure that smoking a whole pack of cigarettes is way
worse for you than eating a plate of chicken salad that might have some problems
with it. Don’t you think so?”
Mari ignores his question.
“Another girl was supposed to go with my sister that time, but she got sick at
the last minute and my sister forced me to go with her. To keep the numbers
right.”
“So you were in a bad mood.”
“I remember you, though.”
“Really?”
Mari puts her finger on her right cheek.
The young man touches the deep scar on his own cheek. “Oh, this. When I was a
kid, I was going too fast on my bike and couldn’t make the turn at the bottom of
the hill. Another inch and I would have lost my right eye. My earlobe’s
deformed, too. Wanna see it?”
Mari frowns and shakes her head.
The waitress brings the chicken salad and toast to the table. She pours fresh
coffee into Mari’s cup and checks to make sure she has brought all the ordered
items to the table. He picks up his knife and fork and, with practiced
movements, begins eating his chicken salad. Then he picks up a piece of toast,
stares at it, and wrinkles his brow.
“No matter how much I scream at them to make my toast as crispy as possible, I
have never once gotten it the way I want it. I can’t imagine why. What with
Japanese industriousness and high-tech culture and the market principles that
the Denny’s chain is always pursuing, it shouldn’t be that hard to get crispy
toast, don’t you think? So, why can’t they do it? Of what value is a
civilization that can’t toast a piece of bread as ordered?”
Mari doesn’t take him up on this.
“But anyhow, your sister was a real beauty,” the young man says, as if talking
to himself.
Mari looks up. “Why do you say that in the past tense?”
“Why do I …? I mean, I’m talking about something that happened a long time
ago, so I used the past tense, that’s all. I’m not saying she isn’t a beauty now
or anything.”
“She’s still pretty, I think.”
“Well, that’s just dandy. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t know Eri Asai all
that well. We were in the same class for a year in high school, but I hardly
said two words to her. It might be more accurate to say she wouldn’t give me the
time of day.”
“You’re still interested in her, right?”
The young man stops his knife and fork in midair and thinks for a moment.
“Interested. Hmm. Maybe as a kind of intellectual curiosity.”
“Intellectual curiosity?”
“Yeah, like, what would it feel like to go out on a date with a beautiful girl
like Eri Asai? I mean, she’s an absolute cover girl.”
“You call that intellectual curiosity?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
“But back then, your friend was the one going out with her, and you were the
other guy on a double date.”
He nods with a mouthful of food, which he then takes all the time he needs to
chew.
“I’m kind of a low-key guy. The spotlight doesn’t suit me. I’m more of a side
dish-cole slaw or French fries or a Wham! backup singer.”
“Which is why you were paired with me.”
“But still, you were pretty damn cute.”
“Is there something about your personality that makes you prefer the past
tense?”
The young man smiles. “No, I was just directly expressing how I felt back then
from the perspective of the present. You were very cute. Really. You hardly
talked to me, though.”
He rests his knife and fork on his plate, takes a drink of water, and wipes his
mouth with a paper napkin. “So, while you were swimming, I asked Eri Asai, ‘Why
won’t your little sister talk to me? Is there something wrong with me?'”
“What’d she say?”
“That you never take the initiative to talk to anybody. That you’re kinda
different, and that even though you’re Japanese you speak more often in Chinese
than Japanese. So I shouldn’t worry. She didn’t think there was anything
especially wrong with me.”
Mari silently crushes her cigarette out in the ashtray.
“It’s true, isn’t it? There wasn’t anything especially wrong with me, was
there?”
Mari thinks for a moment. “I don’t remember all that well, but I don’t think
there was anything wrong with you.”
“That’s good. I was worried. Of course, I do have a few things wrong with me,
but those are strictly problems I keep inside. I’d hate to think they were
obvious to anybody else. Especially at a swimming pool in the summer.”
Mari looks at him again as if to confirm the accuracy of his statement. “I don’t
think I was aware of any problems you had inside.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I can’t remember your name, though,” Mari says.
“My name?”
“Your name.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t mind if you forgot my name. It’s about as ordinary
as a name can be. Even I feel like forgetting it sometimes. It’s not that easy,
though, to forget your own name. Other people’s names-even ones I have to
remember-I’m always forgetting.”
(Continues
Excerpted from After Dark
by Haruki Murakami
Copyright © 2007 by Haruki Murakami.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Knopf
Copyright © 2007
Haruki Murakami
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-307-26583-8
