A Village After Dark by Kazuo Ishiguro

This experimental story was first published in The New Yorker in 2001.

There was a time when I could travel England for weeks on end and remain at my sharpest—when, if anything, the travelling gave me an edge. But now that I am older I become disoriented more easily. So it was that on arriving at the village just after dark I failed to find my bearings at all. I could hardly believe I was in the same village in which not so long ago I had lived and come to exercise such influence.

There was nothing I recognized, and I found myself walking forever around twisting, badly lit streets hemmed in on both sides by the little stone cottages characteristic of the area. The streets often became so narrow I could make no progress without my bag or my elbow scraping one rough wall or another. I persevered nevertheless, stumbling around in the darkness in the hope of coming upon the village square—where I could at least orient myself—or else of encountering one of the villagers. When after a while I had done neither, a weariness came over me, and I decided my best course was just to choose a cottage at random, knock on the door, and hope it would be opened by someone who remembered me.

I stopped by a particularly rickety-looking door, whose upper beam was so low that I could see I would have to crouch right down to enter. A dim light was leaking out around the door’s edges, and I could hear voices and laughter. I knocked loudly to insure that the occupants would hear me over their talk. But just then someone behind me said, “Hello.”

I turned to find a young woman of around twenty, dressed in raggedy jeans and a torn jumper, standing in the darkness a little way away.

“You walked straight past me earlier,” she said, “even though I called to you.”

“Did I really? Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re Fletcher, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, somewhat flattered.

“Wendy thought it was you when you went by our cottage. We all got very excited. You were one of that lot, weren’t you? With David Maggis and all of them.”

“Yes,” I said, “but Maggis was hardly the most important one. I’m surprised you pick him out like that. There were other, far more important figures.” I reeled off a series of names and was interested to see the girl nodding at each one in recognition. “But this must have all been before your time,” I said. “I’m surprised you know about such things.”

“It was before our time, but we’re all experts on your lot. We know more about all that than most of the older ones who were here then. Wendy recognized you instantly just from your photos.”

“I had no idea you young people had taken such an interest in us. I’m sorry I walked past you earlier. But you see, now that I’m older, I get a little disoriented when I travel.”

I could hear some boisterous talk coming from behind the door. I banged on it again, this time rather impatiently, though I was not so eager to bring the encounter with the girl to a close.

She looked at me for a moment, then said, “All of you from those days are like that. David Maggis came here a few years ago. In ’93, or maybe it was ’94. He was like that. A bit vague. It must get to you after a while, travelling all the time.”

“So Maggis was here. How interesting. You know, he wasn’t one of the really important figures. You mustn’t get carried away with such an idea. Incidentally, perhaps you could tell me who lives in this cottage.” I thumped the door again.

“The Petersons,” the girl said. “They’re an old house. They’ll probably remember you.”

“The Petersons,” I repeated, but the name meant nothing to me.

“Why don’t you come to our cottage? Wendy was really excited. So were the rest of us. It’s a real chance for us, actually talking to someone from those days.”

“I’d very much like to do that. But first of all I’d better get myself settled in. The Petersons, you say.”

I thumped the door again, this time quite ferociously. At last it opened, throwing warmth and light out into the street. An old man was standing in the doorway. He looked at me carefully, then asked, “It’s not Fletcher, is it?”

“Yes, and I’ve just got into the village. I’ve been travelling for several days.”

He thought about this for a moment, then said, “Well, you’d better come in.”

I found myself in a cramped, untidy room full of rough wood and broken furniture. A log burning in the fireplace was the only source of light, by which I could make out a number of hunched figures sitting around the room. The old man led me to a chair beside the fire with a grudgingness that suggested it was the very one he had just vacated. Once I sat down, I found I could not easily turn my head to see my surroundings or the others in the room. But the warmth of the fire was very welcome, and for a moment I just stared into its flames, a pleasant grogginess drifting over me. Voices came from behind me, inquiring if I was well, if I had come far, if I was hungry, and I replied as best I could, though I was aware that my answers were barely adequate. Eventually, the questions ceased, and it occurred to me that my presence was creating a heavy awkwardness, but I was so grateful for the warmth and the chance to rest that I hardly cared.

Nonetheless, when the silence behind me had gone unbroken for several minutes, I resolved to address my hosts with a little more civility, and I turned in my chair. It was then, as I did so, that I was suddenly seized by an intense sense of recognition. I had chosen the cottage quite at random, but now I could see that it was none other than the very one in which I had spent my years in this village. My gaze moved immediately to the far corner—at this moment shrouded in darkness—to the spot that had been my corner, where once my mattress had been and where I had spent many tranquil hours browsing through books or conversing with whoever happened to drift in. On summer days, the windows, and often the door, were left open to allow a refreshing breeze to blow right through. Those were the days when the cottage was surrounded by open fields and there would come from outside the voices of my friends, lazing in the long grass, arguing over poetry or philosophy. These precious fragments of the past came back to me so powerfully that it was all I could do not to make straight for my old corner then and there.

Someone was speaking to me again, perhaps asking another question, but I hardly listened. Rising, I peered through the shadows into my corner, and could now make out a narrow bed, covered by an old curtain, occupying more or less the exact space where my mattress had been. The bed looked extremely inviting, and I found myself cutting into something the old man was saying.

“Look,” I said, “I know this is a bit blunt. But, you see, I’ve come such a long way today. I really need to lie down, close my eyes, even if it’s just for a few minutes. After that, I’m happy to talk all you like.”

I could see the figures around the room shifting uneasily. Then a new voice said, rather sullenly, “Go ahead then. Have a nap. Don’t mind us.”

But I was already picking my way through the clutter toward my corner. The bed felt damp, and the springs creaked under my weight, but no sooner had I curled up with my back to the room than my many hours of travelling began to catch up with me. As I was drifting off, I heard the old man saying, “It’s Fletcher, all right. God, he’s aged.”

A woman’s voice said, “Should we let him go to sleep like that? He might wake in a few hours and then we’ll have to stay up with him.”

“Let him sleep for an hour or so,” someone else said. “If he’s still asleep after an hour, we’ll wake him.”

At this point, sheer exhaustion overtook me.

* * * * *

It was not a continuous or comfortable sleep. I drifted between sleep and waking, always conscious of voices behind me in the room. At some point, I was aware of a woman saying, “I don’t know how I was ever under his spell. He looks such a ragamuffin now.”

In my state of near-sleep, I debated with myself whether these words applied to me or, perhaps, to David Maggis, but before long sleep engulfed me once more.

When I next awoke, the room appeared to have grown both darker and colder. Voices were continuing behind me in lowered tones, but I could make no sense of the conversation. I now felt embarrassed at having gone to sleep in the way I had, and for a few further moments remained motionless with my face to the wall. But something about me must have revealed that I was awake, for a woman’s voice, breaking off from the general conversation, said, “Oh, look, look.” Some whispers were exchanged, then I heard the sound of someone coming toward my corner. I felt a hand placed gently on my shoulder, and looked up to find a woman kneeling over me. I did not turn my body sufficiently to see the room, but I got the impression that it was lit by dying embers, and the woman’s face was visible only in shadow.

“Now, Fletcher,” she said. “It’s time we had a talk. I’ve waited a long time for you to come back. I’ve thought about you often.”

I strained to see her more clearly. She was somewhere in her forties, and even in the gloom I noticed a sleepy sadness in her eyes. But her face failed to stir in me even the faintest of memories.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have no recollection of you. But please forgive me if we met some time ago. I do get very disoriented these days.”

“Fletcher,” she said, “when we used to know one another, I was young and beautiful. I idolized you, and everything you said seemed like an answer. Now here you are, back again. I’ve wanted to tell you for many years that you ruined my life.”

“You’re being unfair. All right, I was mistaken about a lot of things. But I never claimed to have any answers. All I said in those days was that it was our duty, all of us, to contribute to the debate. We knew so much more about the issues than the ordinary people here. If people like us procrastinated, claiming we didn’t yet know enough, then who was there to act? But I never claimed I had the answers. No, you’re being unfair.”

“Fletcher,” she said, and her voice was oddly gentle, “you used to make love to me, more or less every time I wandered in here to your room. In this corner, we did all kinds of beautifully dirty things. It’s odd to think how I could have once been so physically excited by you. And here you’re just a foul-smelling bundle of rags now. But look at me—I’m still attractive. My face has got a bit lined, but when I walk in the village streets I wear dresses I’ve made specially to show off my figure. A lot of men want me still. But you, no woman would look at you now. A bundle of stinking rags and flesh.”

“I don’t remember you,” I said. “And I’ve no time for sex these days. I’ve other things to worry about. More serious things. Very well, I was mistaken about a lot in those days. But I’ve done more than most to try and make amends. You see, even now I’m travelling. I’ve never stopped. I’ve travelled and travelled trying to undo what damage I may once have caused. That’s more than can be said of some others from those days. I bet Maggis, for instance, hasn’t worked nearly as hard to try and put things right.”

The woman was stroking my hair.

“Look at you. I used to do this, run my fingers through your hair. Look at this filthy mess. I’m sure you’re contaminated with all sorts of parasites.” But she continued slowly to run her fingers through the dirty knots. I failed to feel anything erotic from this, as perhaps she wished me to do. Rather, her caresses felt maternal. Indeed, for a moment it was as though I had finally reached some cocoon of protectiveness, and I began once more to feel sleepy. But suddenly she stopped and slapped me hard on the forehead.

“Why don’t you join the rest of us now? You’ve had your sleep. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” With that she got up and left.

For the first time, I turned my body sufficiently to survey the room. I saw the woman making her way past the clutter on the floor, then sitting down in a rocking chair by the fireplace. I could see three other figures hunched around the dying fire. One I recognized to be the old man who had opened the door. The two others—sitting together on what looked like a wooden trunk—seemed to be women of around the same age as the one who had spoken to me.

The old man noticed that I had turned, and he indicated to the others that I was watching. The four of them proceeded to sit stiffly, not speaking. From the way they did this, it was clear that they had been discussing me thoroughly while I was asleep. In fact, as I watched them I could more or less guess the whole shape their conversation had taken. I could see, for instance, that they had spent some time expressing concern for the young girl I had met outside, and about the effect I might have on her peers.

“They’re all so impressionable,” the old man would have said. “And I heard her inviting him to visit them.”

To which, no doubt, one of the women on the trunk would have said, “But he can’t do much harm now. In our time, we were all taken in because all his kind—they were young and glamorous. But these days the odd one passing through from time to time, looking all decrepit and burned out like that—if anything, it goes to demystify all that talk about the old days. In any case, people like him have changed their position so much these days. They don’t know themselves what they believe.”

The old man would have shaken his head. “I saw the way that young girl was looking at him. All right, he looks a pitiful mess over there just now. But once his ego’s fed a little, once he has the flattery of the young people, sees how they want to hear his ideas, then there’ll be no stopping him. It’ll be just like before. He’ll have them all working for his causes. Young girls like that, there’s so little for them to believe in now. Even a stinking tramp like this could give them a purpose.”

Their conversation, all the time I slept, would have gone something very much like that. But now, as I observed them from my corner, they continued to sit in guilty silence, staring at the last of their fire. After a while, I rose to my feet. Absurdly, the four of them kept their gazes averted from me. I waited a few moments to see if any of them would say anything. Finally, I said, “All right, I was asleep earlier, but I’ve guessed what you were saying. Well, you’ll be interested to know I’m going to do the very thing you feared. I’m going this moment to the young people’s cottage. I’m going to tell them what to do with all their energy, all their dreams, their urge to achieve something of lasting good in this world. Look at you, what a pathetic bunch. Crouching in your cottage, afraid to do anything, afraid of me, of Maggis, of anyone else from those times. Afraid to do anything in the world out there, just because once we made a few mistakes. Well, those young people haven’t yet sunk so low, despite all the lethargy you’ve been preaching at them down the years. I’ll talk to them. I’ll undo in half an hour all of your sorry efforts.”

“You see,” the old man said to the others. “I knew it would be this way. We ought to stop him, but what can we do?”

I crashed my way across the room, picked up my bag, and went out into the night.

* * * * *

The girl was still standing outside when I emerged. She seemed to be expecting me and with a nod began to lead the way.

The night was drizzly and dark. We twisted and turned along the narrow paths that ran between the cottages. Some of the cottages we passed looked so decayed and crumbling that I felt I could destroy one of them simply by running at it with all my weight.

The girl kept a few paces ahead, occasionally glancing back at me over her shoulder. Once she said, “Wendy’s going to be so pleased. She was sure it was you when you went past earlier. By now, she’ll have guessed she was right, because I’ve been away this long, and she’ll have brought the whole crowd together. They’ll all be waiting.”

“Did you give David Maggis this sort of reception, too?”

“Oh, yes. We were really excited when he came.”

“I’m sure he found that very gratifying. He always had an exaggerated sense of his own importance.”

“Wendy says Maggis was one of the interesting ones, but that you were, well, important. She thinks you were really important.”

I thought about this for a moment.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve changed my mind on very many things. If Wendy’s expecting me to say all the things I used to all those years ago, well, she’s going to be in for a disappointment.”

The girl did not seem to hear this, but continued to lead me purposefully through the clusters of cottages.

After a little while, I became aware of footsteps following a dozen or so paces behind us. At first, I assumed this was just some villager out walking and refrained from turning round. But then the girl halted under a street lamp and looked behind us. I was thus obliged also to stop and turn. A middle-aged man in a dark overcoat was coming toward us. As he approached, he held out his hand and shook mine, though without smiling.

“So,” he said, “you’re here.”

I then realized I knew the man. We had not seen each other since we were ten years old. His name was Roger Button, and he had been in my class at the school I had attended for two years in Canada before my family returned to England. Roger Button and I had not been especially close, but, because he had been a timid boy, and because he, too, was from England, he had for a while followed me about. I had neither seen nor heard from him since that time. Now, as I studied his appearance under the street lamp, I saw the years had not been kind to him. He was bald, his face was pocked and lined, and there was a weary sag to his whole posture. For all that, there was no mistaking my old classmate.

“Roger,” I said, “I’m just on my way to visit this young lady’s friends. They’ve gathered together to receive me. Otherwise I’d have come and looked you up straightaway. As it was, I had it in my mind as the next thing to do, even before getting any sleep tonight. I was just thinking to myself, However late things finish at the young people’s cottage, I’ll go and knock on Roger’s door afterward.”

“Don’t worry,” said Roger Button as we all started to walk again. “I know how busy you are. But we ought to talk. Chew over old times. When you last saw me—at school, I mean—I suppose I was a rather feeble specimen. But, you know, that all changed when I got to fourteen, fifteen. I really toughened up. Became quite a leader type. But you’d long since left Canada. I always wondered what would have happened if we’d come across each other at fifteen. Things would have been rather different between us, I assure you.”

As he said this, memories came flooding back. In those days, Roger Button had idolized me, and in return I had bullied him incessantly. However, there had existed between us a curious understanding that my bullying him was all for his own good; that when, without warning, I suddenly punched him in the stomach on the playground, or when, passing him in the corridor, I impulsively wrenched his arm up his back until he started to cry, I was doing so in order to help him toughen up. Accordingly, the principal effect such attacks had on our relationship was to keep him in awe of me. This all came back to me as I listened to the weary-looking man walking beside me.

“Of course,” Roger Button went on, perhaps guessing my train of thought, “it might well be that if you hadn’t treated me the way you did I’d never have become what I did at fifteen. In any case, I’ve often wondered how it would have been if we’d met just a few years later. I really was something to be reckoned with by then.”

We were once again walking along the narrow twisted passages between cottages. The girl was still leading the way, but she was now walking much faster. Often we would only just manage to catch a glimpse of her turning some corner ahead of us, and it struck me that we would have to keep alert if we were not to lose her.

“Today, of course,” Roger Button was saying, “I’ve let myself go a bit. But I have to say, old fellow, you seem to be in much worse shape. Compared with you, I’m an athlete. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’re just a filthy old tramp now, really, aren’t you? But, you know, for a long time after you left I continued to idolize you. Would Fletcher do this? What would Fletcher think if he saw me doing that? Oh, yes. It was only when I got to fifteen or so that I looked back on it all and saw through you. Then I was very angry, of course. Even now, I still think about it sometimes. I look back and think, Well, he was just a thoroughly nasty so-and-so. He had a little more weight and muscle at that age than I did, a little more confidence, and he took full advantage. Yes, it’s very clear, looking back, what a nasty little person you were. Of course, I’m not implying you still are today. We all change. That much I’m willing to accept.”

“Have you been living here long?” I asked, wishing to change the subject.

“Oh, seven years or so. Of course, they talk about you a lot around here. I sometimes tell them about our early association. ’But he won’t remember me,’ I always tell them. ’Why would he remember a skinny little boy he used to bully and have at his beck and call?’ Anyway, the young people here, they talk about you more and more these days. Certainly, the ones who’ve never seen you tend to idealize you the most. I suppose you’ve come back to capitalize on all that. Still, I shouldn’t blame you. You’re entitled to try and salvage a little self-respect.”

We suddenly found ourselves facing an open field, and we both halted. Glancing back, I saw that we had walked our way out of the village; the last of the cottages were some distance behind us. Just as I had feared, we had lost the young woman; in fact, I realized we had not been following her for some time.

At that moment, the moon emerged, and I saw we were standing at the edge of a vast grassy field—extending, I supposed, far beyond what I could see by the moon.

Roger Button turned to me. His face in the moonlight seemed gentle, almost affectionate.

“Still,” he said, “it’s time to forgive. You shouldn’t keep worrying so much. As you see, certain things from the past will come back to you in the end. But then we can’t be held accountable for what we did when we were very young.”

“No doubt you’re right,” I said. Then I turned and looked around in the darkness. “But now I’m not sure where to go. You see, there were some young people waiting for me in their cottage. By now they’d have a warm fire ready for me and some hot tea. And some home-baked cakes, perhaps even a good stew. And the moment I entered, ushered in by that young lady we were following just now, they’d all have burst into applause. There’d be smiling, adoring faces all around me. That’s what’s waiting for me somewhere. Except I’m not sure where I should go.”

Roger Button shrugged. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there easily enough. Except, you know, that girl was being a little misleading if she implied you could walk to Wendy’s cottage. It’s much too far. You’d really need to catch a bus. Even then, it’s quite a long journey. About two hours, I’d say. But don’t worry, I’ll show you where you can pick up your bus.”

With that, he began to walk back toward the cottages. As I followed, I could sense that the hour had got very late and my companion was anxious to get some sleep. We spent several minutes walking around the cottages again, and then he brought us out into the village square. In fact, it was so small and shabby it hardly merited being called a square; it was little more than a patch of green beside a solitary street lamp. Just visible beyond the pool of light cast by the lamp were a few shops, all shut up for the night. There was complete silence and nothing was stirring. A light mist was hovering over the ground.

Roger Button stopped before we had reached the green and pointed.

“There,” he said. “If you stand there, a bus will come along. As I say, it’s not a short journey. About two hours. But don’t worry, I’m sure your young people will wait. They’ve so little else to believe in these days, you see.”

“It’s very late,” I said. “Are you sure a bus will come?”

“Oh, yes. Of course, you may have to wait. But eventually a bus will come.” Then he touched me reassuringly on the shoulder. “I can see it might get a little lonely standing out here. But once the bus arrives your spirits will rise, believe me. Oh, yes. That bus is always a joy. It’ll be brightly lit up, and it’s always full of cheerful people, laughing and joking and pointing out the window. Once you board it, you’ll feel warm and comfortable, and the other passengers will chat with you, perhaps offer you things to eat or drink. There may even be singing—that depends on the driver. Some drivers encourage it, others don’t. Well, Fletcher, it was good to see you.”

We shook hands, then he turned and walked away. I watched him disappear into the darkness between two cottages.

I walked up to the green and put my bag down at the foot of the lamppost. I listened for the sound of a vehicle in the distance, but the night was utterly still. Nevertheless, I had been cheered by Roger Button’s description of the bus. Moreover, I thought of the reception awaiting me at my journey’s end—of the adoring faces of the young people—and felt the stirrings of optimism somewhere deep within me.