The Ark Sakura

by Kōbō Abe

  —Wait just a minute. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m doing you a favor by not reporting to the authorities. Over.

  —Call off your bluff, Inototsu. We’ve got this whole conversation on tape from the very beginning. And as the first person to come upon the dead body, you not only failed to report it to the police but plotted to dispose of it illegally. Wouldn’t that be a little tough to explain? Over.

  The shill tilted his head and wet his lips. “Did you hear that? He is good, the son of a gun. I’ll be damned.”

  Apparently it worked; for no reason, Inototsu began to laugh.

  —All right, all right—this is no time to quibble. I’ll meet you anywhere. I’ll go there, if you want. It’s fine with me. I’ve got a pickup at my disposal right now. Over.

  “No! Don’t let him near here!” I said.

  “Why not?” The insect dealer covered the microphone with his hand. “Aren’t you being a little paranoid? Of course it s up to you… .”

  “He’s got us outnumbered, and the Broom Brigade is a paramilitary force,” I said. “What if they should attack?”

  “If being outnumbered is the problem, it’s more dangerous for us to go there,” said the shill, adding in a thin wheedle, “If they take us hostage, will you come rescue us, Captain?”

  The insect dealer spoke into the microphone. —Well, that’s the picture… . You heard, didn’t you? Nobody trusts you. Over.

  —Great. Well, then, how about someplace more neutral? I know … Laughter Hill. Nobody’ll see us there. Ask my son, he’ll tell you. Over.

  “What’s that? Laughter what?” Leaving the radio switched to reception, the insect dealer turned to ask me.

  “Hill. Laughter Hill. It’s an out-of-the-way place along the coast,” I told him.

  “Funny name.”

  “You go south from the station until you come to the Fishermen’s Union warehouse, and then turn. There’s a sea cave nearby, and depending on which way the wind blows, sometimes it makes a peculiar noise. Doesn’t sound like laughter so much as it does a sniveling child with a bad cold. Quite unpleasant. But some people find it amusing, and laugh themselves silly when they hear it. Geriatric patients fighting off depression take bag lunches to the foot of the hill, and sit there just waiting for the wind to blow.”

  “How funny! It makes me laugh just hearing about it.” The girl giggled, and twisted her body in such a way that her abdomen pressed like a softball into my buttocks. I in turn moved so as to expand our shared space (the area where her flesh melted into mine). No adverse reaction. I felt myself about to forget that I was a pig. As long as Inototsu stayed away, I didn’t give a damn where the talks were held.

  “Count me out,” said the shill, flicking the radio off with a fingernail. “Once you get there you’ll find nothing in sight but a dead body, and then all of a sudden the cops—no, thanks.”

  “You’ve got a point.” The insect dealer switched the radio back on.

  —Sorry, no go. None of us has enough nerve. The last thing we want is to get there and find nothing in sight but a dead body, and then suddenly have cops crawling all over us. Over.

  —What? Would I play a dirty trick like that? Don’t be preposterous. Remember, I’m the one who’s devoted to cleaning up this town. Not just trash and empty cans, either—my real aim is a cleansing of the spirit. Nowadays it’s essential—purifying the people themselves. I’m serious. I share your concerns from the bottom of my heart, and I want to join hands with you. What can I do to make you believe me? Over.

  —Tell me this. You’ve already made a fair amount of money from advance ticket sales. Isn’t that so?

  —I told you I was recruiting people, in some very influential circles, too. You’re welcome to supervise the whole operation, from members’ roster to accounts. Over.

  “He’s crazy,” I said. “When it comes time for the ark to set off, all the status and assets in the world won’t be worth jack shit. And anyway, nobody accepts applications for boarding this ark but me.”

  —Hello. For now we’ll limit the discussion to the question of the body. Still, you’ve got yourself a definite problem: how are you going to win our trust? Is that the best you can do? Over.

  —Why am I so unpopular, anyway? I just don’t get it. Over.

  “It’s because you never take a bath!” I yelled from next to the mike.

  —What do you mean? For anybody engaged in sanitation work, taking baths is a duty—and plain common sense besides. The only times I don’t take a bath are when I’m stone drunk. Bad for the heart. Over.

  The girl began to laugh, her body chafing against mine with a hypnotic rhythm. I’ve never undergone hypnosis, but that must be what it’s like: the flow of time disappears and “now” takes off alone, flitting capriciously here and there.

  —For someone so generally disliked, you have an honest way about you. Shall I tell you what you could have said to allay our fears? There is something. Do you want to hear it? Over.

  —Yes. Over.

  —You should have said, “Try to think more like a real baddie. A real baddie wouldn’t go to all these ridiculous lengths. He’d just haul the body over without a second thought, and dump it down from the overpass onto that pile of trash. Then you’d have to get rid of it, like it or not.” Right? Over.

  —You’re right. My son is lucky to have a shrewd thinker like you for a friend. Is he listening? See, son, I’m not such a bad guy, after all. I can’t help the way I look. All right, then, is Laughter Hill all right? Over.

  —No, let’s make it your office. That’s near where the body was found, isn’t it? Over.

  —You tell me. Anyway, you’re more than welcome. I’ve got drinks here, and all kinds of stuff to eat. If you want, I’ll send somebody over to the beach entrance to pick you up. Now just don’t spoil it by saying this will be a one-time visit. Over.

  —Sorry, but that’s just what it will be. When the body’s out of the way, we’ll have no more business with each other, right? What time shall we make it? Over.

  —Who’s coming? How many in all? Over.

  —Two. Me, that’s the liaison man, and the purser. You remember him. He said hello awhile back. Over.

  —Isn’t my son coming? Over.

  —The captain? No. Out of the question. Over.

  —Why? Over.

  —Why else has he got a liaison man? This is my job. Over.

  —Listen, I’m all alone here. That really has nothing to do with it, but—won’t you please let me talk to him? You see if you can get through to him, will you? Just two or three minutes would be enough. Please. Over.

  “Well, what do you say?”

  “Never mind that. What’s happened to Sengoku?”

  —He wants to know where the sweet-potato man is. Over.

  —That’s funny; I guess he’s still not back.

  I spoke up.

  —If that body turns out to be his, I’ll never forgive you, you know that? He was one decent guy. He was one person I really thought I could work with.

  —Don’t get carried away. The man’s in perfect health. I’m fond of him myself. You know what he’s always saying? “Time to start over, time to wipe the slate clean. Serves ’em right, the bastards… . ” I know just how he feels, too. It is time to wipe the slate clean and start afresh, sort out the ones who deserve to survive from all the ones who don’t. There—isn’t that it? Over.

  —Isn’t what what? Over.

  —Isn’t that the way you figure it too? We think alike, I’m telling you. Over.

  The insect dealer interrupted. —What time shall we meet? Over.

  —Just listen for a minute. When the apocalypse comes, deciding who ought to live and who might as well die will be no easy matter. Isn’t that so? What sort of yardstick are you planning on using?

  “What a joke,” I snorted. “Who does he think he is, preaching to people?”

  —I’m not preaching. This happened just awhile back, at the spring athletic me
et of the local junior high school. They had a strange event called Survival Game. A contest to pick out the real survivors. Seems to have been the brainchild of some wise men who got together to decide how to use the underground air-raid shelter in the new city hall building. Shall I go on? Over.

  The insect dealer looked my way to check my reaction. I refrained from issuing any objections. It weighed heavily on me to learn Inototsu had connections in that part of town.

  —Keep it short, please. Over.

  —Okay, I’ll just cover the main points. As part of the fortieth-anniversary celebrations for the local junior high school, they had a contest to judge who was qualified to survive. From the day before, there was a front stalled just off the coast, and that morning it was drizzling; but the weather reports were encouraging, and they didn’t want to waste all the money and effort that had gone into the preparations for the event—you know, preparing the athletic fields and the decorations and all—and this survival game was a major attraction from the start. How’m I doing? Shall I keep going? Over.

  —Fine. Yes. Over.

  —It was just a game, but at first everyone was a bit confused. The rules, you see, were unusual. There were winners and losers, but no direct competition. Which is maybe the way it goes with survival. First the playing field was divided lengthwise into three tracks, red, white, and blue, each with a starting line and a goal. Picture it. Then at the starting signal, all the participants headed for the flag of their choice. There was no need to hurry, and you didn’t have to decide on a color till the last moment if you wanted, so it was all nice and relaxed. Everyone—teachers and students, families, special guests—they all set off casually, as if going on a hike. It could have had something to do with the prize, but for a junior high school athletic event it was a lavish production. Are you still with me? Over.

  The four of us exchanged glances. For my part, as long as I didn’t have to participate in the coming discussions, I was prepared to put up with a little inconvenience. As usually happens, silence was taken for reluctant consent.

  —Yeah, I guess so. Over.

  —So that’s how the participants all started off, When everybody had chosen their color and lined up accordingly, the head judge rolled a die painted in the three colors. When the winning color came up, drums rolled and the flag of that color was unfurled. At that signal the losing teams were supposed to fall flat on the ground. Get it? Only the survivors were allowed to go back to the starting line. Then the starting signal would be given again. It went on like that, over and over, and the last one left would be the winner. Any questions? Over.

  —If the winners were determined by a roll of the die, it wasn’t so much a sporting event as a kind of gambling, was it? Over.

  —Well, luck is a crucial factor in any battle, isn’t it? So what if it was gambling? That only added to the excitement. After all, the first prize was a new little red Honda motor scooter, donated by the Association of Local Shopkeepers. I was in the event too, but with someone else throwing the die, there’s really no point in wearing yourself out, is there? Over.

  —Stay on the track, please. Just stick to the main story. Over.

  —If you don’t want to hear any more, that’s okay with me. Over.

  —You’re off the track again. Over.

  —Did I mention the weather? It got worse and worse—just the opposite of the forecast—until rain was falling in solid sheets. As if somebody was slathering it with a paintbrush… .

  The girl laughed. I didn’t really think it was amusing, but I joined in with an appreciative snort. Our hips were still pressed firmly together. I knew I’d be called to account for this eventually. Both the insect dealer and the shill had their eyes tightly closed; the shill was licking his lips, the insect dealer was swaying his head from side to side.

  —The students’ caps were plastered flat on their heads, as if they’d been soaked in oil, and the sand in the playing field was all mucked up with little pools of water here and there. The school physician kept whispering in the principal’s ear, and each time the principal seemed on the point of calling it off. He’d sneak a timid look at the visitors’ tent, but there was nothing doing. That brand-new Honda scooter was there just waiting for someone to claim it. If he’d called the event off just because of a little rain, there would have been violence. A promise is a promise. And so the game went on, one way or another … and what do you think happened? Over.

  —What? Over.

  —It turned into a circus. You see, the principal believed that everyone’s chances for survival ought to be equal, so he imposed no limits on who could participate. And so the athletic field was jammed with people. They had to shift the starting line up fifteen feet to accommodate them all. Starting time was delayed eight minutes, too. It was really something; you should have seen it. That great mass of people, soaking wet, sending up spray in the air and wearing down the ground under their feet. Mothers running past, dragging bawling kids by the hand; old men waving canes; an invalid, unsteady on his feet, leaning on a nurse’s shoulder; members of the Fishermen’s Union Youth League, charging forward in scrimmage formation. It took an unbelievably long time, but finally everyone poured into the goal area of their choice. The die was cast, the flag unfurled, the drums rolled. A few people got beat up for trying to switch places after it was all over, but for the first round, generally everyone was distributed evenly across the three goals. The only hitch was that at first the losing teams wouldn’t hit the dirt like fallen soldiers, the way they were supposed to. To have to roll around in the mud and rain, on top of losing, is nobody’s idea of fun, after all. The P.E. coach’s voice came screaming from all the loudspeakers: “Losing teams, please fall down. You’re dead. All losers, hit the dirt.” People got sore and started to leave. I was one of them. Then a fusillade rang out: a volley of shots from an automatic rifle. Taped, of course, but it had a dramatic effect. Everybody recognizes the sound from TV and movies, even if they’ve never heard it live. The losing teams started falling down, right according to plan. They must have decided they owed the organizers that much, after all. Actually it didn’t look like a battle so much as a mass execution. Are you still with me? Over.

  The part of me pressed against the girl became a separate living creature, in growing control of me. It was wriggling, seeking to take me over completely. And there was another reason for the sense of unreality I felt: as the words came over the radio, each building on the rest like pieces of a puzzle, I sensed the shaping of another Inototsu, totally unlike the Inototsu I knew. I could hardly believe this was the same person. The Inototsu I knew would never talk this way, as if each separate word were just back from the cleaners, freshly laundered and pressed. I felt as if I were witnessing a cicada shedding its skin.

  —Get to the point, will you? Over.

  —So that’s the way it went. Then the losing participants quit the field, and round two began, at a signal from the referee. The invalid hanging on to his nurse’s shoulder—I think he must have had palsy—well, he was in the winning team, so he made a great nuisance of himself, getting in everyone’s way. Even so, up to round four everything went swimmingly, the group decreasing by two-thirds every time. The end was in sight, and a lot of people started packing up to go. Then at round five, events took a strange turn. Shall I go on? Over.

  —We’re all ears. Carry on. Over.

  —Thanks, glad to hear it. So they got down to about eleven people, I think it was. Everybody but the paralytic left the starting line together. So far so good. Then for some reason, right in front of the goals they all stopped. Guess what happened? Everybody just stood there, waiting for the paralytic to hobble down and catch up. Seeing him enter the blue zone, they all went in after him. Strange psychology, don’t you think—call it superstition or mob psychology—the we’re-all-in-this-together mentality. And the funny thing was that the die turned up blue. All eleven survived, but this way the prize stayed beyond their grasp. It wasn’t a violation of the
rules, though, so not even the judges could complain. At round six, exactly the same thing happened. Incredibly, round seven was the same. It began to seem uncanny. The rain was coming down harder and harder, and the lights came on, although it was really still too early. Even the students, who were usually a source of noise and confusion, stood lined up at the edge of the playing field like so many wet sandbags. Midway through round eight, the committee in charge went into deliberations, and just then the assault began, a sudden fusillade of automatic rifle fire. The sound effects director must have flipped out. All at once the paralytic’s knees buckled and he went down head-first into the mud. Some people misunderstood, and laughed. The school physician came running over, medicine bag in hand, but it was too late. The game was called off. What do you think? I think maybe that’s what survival is all about. Over.

  —What happened to the scooter? Over.

  —Ah, the prize. They had a raffle among the ten survivors. Then the family of the old invalid put up a squawk: the others had all been waiting for him, they pointed out, in order to do whatever he did, and since he had died they should all be regarded as technically dead too. The argument does have a certain logic. Anyway, the issue remains unresolved, and the scooter is kept locked up at the school. Isn’t that a strange story? Over.

  —What does it all boil down to? Over.

  —I don’t know. Haven’t any idea. That’s exactly why I want to get together with you and talk things over. Maybe you can tell me. Over.

  We all began smiling weakly. From the other end of the wireless there came a noise like a blast of air escaping from a heavy rubber balloon. That was Inototsu, laughing his old, familiar laugh.