The Ark Sakura

by Kōbō Abe

  Again my leg began to throb painfully in time to the beat of my pulse. I had a presentiment of terrible pain, as if my skin were to be slashed with a knife. A dangerous sign. Even a person who normally can’t stand dentists will head straight for one as soon as his toothache gets bad enough. You get so you wouldn’t care if he used pliers to take it out. At this rate, I feared I might soon start begging them to cut my leg off. I addressed the shill.

  “If anything should happen to me, I guess you’d make the best successor as captain,” I said.

  “Me? Captain?” The shill’s face froze in the beginnings of a laugh. “You sure you haven’t got me mixed up with somebody else? If I were the captain, this would be the S.S. Sakura—a shill ship. What a laugh! No compass, no charts. Just a ship that pretends to be going somewhere, when all along it has no intention of moving an inch.”

  “I never had a compass, either, you know.” My leg continued to swell. “If you could catch one of those hoodlums, though, I sure would like to question him about a tunnel leading up under here.”

  “I’ll bet they’re still around, those two—maybe just outside.” The girl supported the crossbow with her knee, and laid her fingers on the bow.

  “It’s probably hopeless,” said Sengoku. “They couldn’t know very much about the quarry layout. It’s only the last two or three days they came in this far, running away from their pursuers… . Funny thing is, the Broom Brigade was really after junior high school girls the whole time.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked.

  “You heard me. Junior high school girls.”

  22

  THE SHADOW ADJUTANT

  We stared at the steel door over the landing. The girl was standing three paces in front of the toilet, crossbow at the ready; the shill was at the foot of the staircase, hand on the pillar, frozen halfway to a sitting position; Sengoku was leaning against the wall that connected with the galley. Each of us pondered separately the possible meaning of that striking remark about junior high school girls. We all sensed the importance of understanding it, in order to catch the youths cowering behind the door.

  That was why when a figure appeared in the tunnel to the operation hold, nobody noticed until he spoke up.

  “Excuse me,” he said. His manner of speaking and his attitude were different from those of the other two, yet he was unmistakably one of them. Half of his teased hair was dyed yellow, and he looked like a dead branch soaked in oil. Swiftly the girl repositioned her crossbow, as Dead Branch gave the interior of the hold a nervous once-over.

  “Excuse me,” he repeated, this time with a bow and a salute in the direction of Sengoku, whom he clearly recognized. Sengoku acknowledged the greeting with an annoyed wave of the hand and said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Excuse me,” Dead Branch said again. What set him apart from the Wild Boar Stew gang was the small bamboo broom in his right hand, and the silver badge on his chest. He drew out the antenna on a large walkie-talkie slung around his left shoulder, and called: “Headquarters, come in… . This is Scout A, reporting from room number one by the oceanside entrance. All’s well. Over… . That’s correct. No sign of any suspicious persons. Over… . That’s correct. Four in all. Over… . Roger. Over and out.”

  “Calling Komono?” asked the girl. She lowered her crossbow and made a sucking sound, as if rolling a pill on her tongue.

  “Commander Komono is on his way here now. He’ll be here very shortly. He’s going to set up mobile headquarters in this room. I’m to wait here for him. Excuse me.”

  His peculiar way of accenting every sentence was typical of his generation, yet his expression and demeanor were as flat as those of a tired old man. Not even my queer predicament elicited any sign of interest or surprise. Was he playing the part of a modern, callous youth, or had constant association with old men turned him into a fossil? Or perhaps he was a very model of allegiance—the sort who gave constant obedience, even in the absence of a command. There was no denying that he inspired a certain dread. Yet now he leaped nimbly up onto the first storage drum and seated himself, swinging his legs and beating out a rhythm with the handle of his broom. Surely he wasn’t humming an old war song … ?

  “Get a load of him,” muttered the shill.

  “He’s a spy,” said Sengoku, loud enough for the youth to hear. “He was a member of the Wild Boar Stew gang till just a few days ago. Inototsu paid him to keep us informed.” He turned to the youth. “Isn’t that so? Why don’t you say something? You’re the one who dragged junior high school girls into it, aren’t you?”

  The youth shot him a wordless glance, his face a mask.

  The girl turned around and asked Sengoku, “What’s all this about junior high school girls?”

  “Ask Komono,” he said.

  “It’s nothing for a woman to be concerned about,” said the youth in a crisp and businesslike tone.

  “Watch what you say, kid, or I’ll let you have it,” she warned, crouching with her finger on the trigger.

  He was unfazed. “Very impressive. But your panties are showing.”

  “You idiot!” yelled the shill. “She means it!” He scooped up the surveying scrapbook from the floor by the toilet and hurled it at the girl. It grazed her shoulder and fell on the sight of the crossbow, knocking the arrow off course so that it glanced loudly against the drum and ricocheted up to the ceiling.

  “What did you do that for!” cried the girl, jumping up.

  The shill strode past her to the youth, and slapped him in the face. The youth leaped to the floor and raised his broom threateningly. “What’s the big idea?” he snarled.

  “I’ll tell you the big idea, pal. You owe me a little gratitude. I just saved your life.”

  Slowly the youth relaxed; then he began to fidget in evident embarrassment. “Uh, excuse me.”

  “All right. That’s more like it.”

  “Horrid little person,” said the girl. She held out her crossbow and the shill took it, drawing the bow to the full.

  Sengoku, in apparent shock, pulled away from the wall, stiff with amazement; I, however, could guess what was going on. It had to be some sort of a trick by these two con artists. They had carried it off magnificently; the tables were entirely turned. Now was my chance to ask my question.

  “There’s some kind of engine room under here, isn’t there?” I said. “You know about it, don’t you? Tell me how to get there.”

  For the first time, the youth looked straight at me. His eyes dropped to the toilet, then rose again to my face. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” said the girl, fitting another arrow to the taut bow. “Answer the captain.”

  “We’ve had nothing to go on but copies of the sketches.”

  “What sketches?”

  With his broom handle the youth pointed to my scrapbook, lying on the floor where the shill had thrown it. The girl picked it up, smoothed the pages, and returned it to me.

  “How do you know about this?”

  “I borrowed it from that shelf and got it copied at a bookstore in town.”

  A double blow. First the humiliation of having been hoodwinked by a pup like him, all the while I went on foolishly believing the scrapbook was my private secret. As if that weren’t enough, this destroyed my last hope of escaping by adjusting the mechanism in the pipes from below.

  “But you people are holed up at the old tunnel site out by Kabuto Bridge, aren’t you?” I said in desperation. “It’s got to connect out there. Try to remember if there’s a tunnel leading down in. There’s got to be. That’s the only explanation.”

  “Leading down under here, you mean?”

  “Yes, exactly beneath here.”

  “Then maybe that’s where …”

  “Does it ring a bell?”

  “Isn’t there someplace you might have overlooked?” he said.

  “Come on, tell me,” I begged. “At least give me a hint.”

  “Down by the Kabuto Bridg
e entrance—the cave in the cliff facing Kabuto River, that is, on the east … I suppose you know there was a big cave-in there once.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, that cave comes to a dead end barely ten yards in.”

  “That can’t be,” I protested. “Then how do you know there’s a room under here?”

  “You just told me there was.”

  “But you said I’d overlooked something.”

  “How the hell else do you explain it?”

  The girl re-aimed her crossbow, planting her feet firmly. “Watch the way you talk.”

  “Excuse me.” He went on, his face still devoid of expression. “Actually we’d like to know too.”

  Sengoku interrupted in seeming irritation. “That could be true. I know they’re out looking. All fifteen or so of the girls have disappeared.”

  “Huh?” The shill swallowed noisily.

  “You baited the tangerine grove entrance somehow, and lured them in from there, was that it?” Sengoku said casually.

  “We gathered up runaways and brought them here,” the youth declared, speaking for the first time with youthful enthusiasm. “We’re not spying on you. We just wanted to do our own thing without any interference from adults. We were going to make our own village and settle down. So we negotiated with Mr. Inototsu, the head of the Broom Brigade, and paid some money and got a share of the rights to this place. We’ve got a perfect right to be here.”

  “I don’t know what to make of this, do you?” said the shill, an eye on Sengoku’s face.

  “Quit making excuses,” said Sengoku with a jumpy laugh. “You tricked those girls into coming here, and then you had the Broom Brigade attack—admit it.”

  “No. Somebody was waiting for us in ambush,” said the youth.

  “Who?”

  “The pig here and his men.”

  The shill ambled forward. “Now you’ve gone too far. Look here, you—”

  “Never mind. Let him finish,” I said. At last I was beginning to see. The Wild Boar Stew gang, having been attacked, must have escaped through the dark maze of tunnels. In the process they had gotten separated and some—including all the junior high school girls—were lost. Their whereabouts were a matter of immediate consequence to me. This was nothing I could close my eyes to.

  Addressing the youth, I said, “Until now the only one living here was me. The other three all just came on board today. You can ask Komono. I couldn’t attack you all by myself, now could I?”

  “But we were attacked.”

  “Yes. By the Broom Brigade.”

  “No, they were there to protect us.”

  “What an idiot!” shouted Sengoku, swinging his two arms before him, hands clasped. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve known plenty of liars, but here’s a guy who can’t face the truth. If what you say is true,” he went on, “why did everybody but you run away from them? Don’t talk nonsense. You knew there was only one person here. You knew everything. That’s because you’re a spy. Can you get that into your head?”

  Suddenly the youth burst into tears. He pressed his forehead against the broom handle and sobbed, his shoulders heaving.

  “Fool.” The girl lowered her crossbow and went back to the stairs.

  “Try to remember,” I urged. “Where did you lose sight of the girls?” The maggots in my calf were as large as earthworms. I doubted my ability to remain sane through the next attack, whenever it might come. As soon as the worms sprouted legs and changed into scorpions or centipedes, it would be all over. If it came to that, I’d rather have them cut the damn leg off.

  There was the echo of footsteps, their approach heightened by perspective. This time it was the insect dealer, as I could tell from the shadow of a massive round head in the doorway. He halted just before coming into view, and said in a rich, commanding voice:

  “Very good. Two men remain here, and the rest of you go join the search squad. That’ll be all.”

  Was this really the insect dealer? Of course it was. I breathed easier when he stepped into sight.

  “That took long enough,” said the shill cheerfully, with undisguised relief. Was he relying on Komono, after all?

  “Yes, I got held up—”

  “Excuse me, sir!” The youth stopped crying, held his broom up at his side like a musket, and clicked his heels together.

  “Who’re you?” asked the insect dealer.

  “That’s Scout A, sir,” said a deep, husky voice, and at the same time a shadowy figure, that of an old man, appeared behind the insect dealer. He seemed less a man than a man-shaped hole in space. He was still in his sixties, broad in the shoulder, with an erect posture. His dark blue uniform looked too short for him. The end of his bamboo broom, which he held tucked under his arm upside down, shone darkly, as if it had a steel core. It looked like a lethal weapon. Slung across his other shoulder was a large canvas bag.

  “Ah, yes, that’s right. I remember.” The insect dealer nodded slightly, held out a hand indicating the shadowlike old man (whose dark complexion nearly matched the color of his uniform), and introduced him to us.

  “My adjutant. He’s had a long and distinguished career under my predecessor.”

  “How do you do,” said the shadow, with a deep bow.

  Leaving his scout and his adjutant there, the insect dealer slowly advanced. He seemed to be stalling for time in order to decide what questions to ask first. Mysteriously, neither he nor the shadow was the least bit wet. If they had come by way of the tangerine grove entrance, they must have crossed that underground river somehow. Come to think of it, the young hoodlums were all dry too. Why? Was I the only one who didn’t know my way around?

  The insect dealer looked from me to the toilet and back again. Then he compared me with the plastic-wrapped body. Finally he looked around at the other three.

  “The situation’s gotten a bit out of hand,” he said, indicating the body with a jerk of his head. “What do you think, Captain? From your point of view this is a calamity, isn’t it? After all, you’ve lost a close family member. Or is it more in the nature of a minor inconvenience?”

  “It’s no calamity,” I snorted. “As you know damn well. I’ll admit it’s sobering—any dead body is.”

  “The problem with the toilet is a calamity, though, isn’t it?” he pursued. “Don’t tell me you’re just out to protest disposing of the body.”

  “Look at him!” said the girl. “Can’t you see he’s in trouble?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What are we going to do?” said Sengoku, fear in his voice. “He’s in there as tight as a cork in a bottle.”

  “I’m getting sick of this,” said the shill, rubbing his arms vigorously. “Too many damned complications.”

  “You can say that again,” said the insect dealer, looking from me to the body and back again. He scratched the wing of his nose. “I thought the job was important for a lot of reasons, and I’ve worked it out with the members of the Broom Brigade … but I guess the captain’s leg comes first.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking, and it seems to me there are two possibilities.” The girl spoke quietly, looking around cautiously to check everybody’s reactions. She was right—it needed to be said quietly. I could read her thoughts as clearly as if they were my own. She was also right about there being two alternatives. But how to choose between them?

  “I think so too.” Surprisingly, the shill quickly agreed.

  “In principle, so do I.” Even Sengoku was getting in the act. Had all four of us reached the same conclusion? Was it so clear and inescapable as that, like a straight road with no turnings?

  The insect dealer rolled up his sleeping bag by the stairs and sat down on it. “Let’s hear it, then. If this is unanimous, it must be brilliant.”

  Nobody wants to be the one to bell the cat. Finally the girl spoke up, smiling innocently. “Well, simply put, one way is to smash the toilet, and the other is to find the engine room below and adjust t
he valves to eliminate the pressure. Isn’t that so?”

  “Makes sense… .”

  “But each plan has its flaw. If we break the toilet, we can’t dispose of the body until it’s repaired. And to find the engine room, we’ve got to track down the hiding place of those missing junior high school girls.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, the captain figures that since neither place has come to light in any survey to date, there must be some connection.”

  “I see.”

  The adjutant, standing by in the tunnel, called out his opinion. “I know how you can kill two birds with one stone—or serve two ends at the same time… . Excuse me, Captain, I ought to offer you my formal condolences, but allow me to defer that for the moment. First I should like to say that speaking in my official capacity, I recommend the latter course—tracking the missing persons. For years, under the leadership of Commander Inototsu, we in the Broom Brigade dreamed of the establishment of an independent self-governing old people’s paradise. Only we never call it that. To us the word ‘old’ is discriminatory, so it’s officially banned. Here, as in all things, Commander Inototsu was uncompromising. We use the word ‘castoffs’ instead. Strictly speaking, the concept of castoffs has no age limits; but since the aging process generally brings on a degree of physical decrepitude, with no hope of reversal, and since aging is the universal fate of mankind, in our dictionary people of advanced age are known as ‘quintessential castoffs’ and the facilities we are planning to build we call the Kingdom of Quintessential Castoffs. Fortunately, the day when our dream becomes reality is not far off. Hellfire of uranium and plutonium will rain from the sky, and that will be the start of the apocalypse—or what Sengoku over there calls the New Beginning.”

  “Listen to him!” marveled the girl, speaking softly.