The Ruined Map

by Kōbō Abe

  “Yes, sure it was by accident,” he said with his frozen laugh, twitching his cheeks. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. It looks as if I can rest assured about leaving matters in your hands.”

  “The diary … when can I have the diary?”

  There was an instant of sharp hostility in the glance he shot back at me. I withdrew a step, opening up the way. When he realized that I had no intention of accompanying him, he let the tenseness ebb from his shoulders as if he were suddenly giving up; his eyes lost their focus and already he appeared to have abandoned all interest.

  “Any time’s all right … tomorrow … sure, I’ll leave it at my sister’s place for you … by noon.”

  The sister … as a woman … I had not put it into words yet, but I was transfixed by something like a pointed tool—was it the sharp pin sticking out from the opening in the lemon-yellow curtains? I was nailed to an invisible wall like an insect specimen … a bit of paper pinned to the edge of the curtain. Yet what in heaven’s name was this? Once again I had forgotten her face. Even though my retreating companion was leaning forward, his broad shoulders were still stiff … like a wall. The only thing missing was the black hole in a picture painted on a wooden panel.

  Same day: 11:05 A.M.—Visited Dainen Commercial Enterprises. Requested interview with the man in charge of sales in order to check further on the details concerning the contents of the documents, which Nemuro had promised to hand over personally to a subordinate at S—– station on the morning in question.

  “… MM, YES, a half year’s already gone by since then,” mused the director. On the table stood a china ashtray, like a miniature hibachi, bearing the name Dainen Commercial Enterprises in gaudy gold script, perhaps a leftover from those ordered for last year’s traditional midsummer gift. The devices for holding cigarettes that graced the four corners were very elaborate: four brightly colored Kutani-ware cats, with their paws raised, were attached by their backs. They were faintly grinning a saccha rine smile. The company president was a man from the country who had probably made his money in real estate. But the enterprise itself seemed to have made a good start for now. His office was located on the third floor of an old, run-down building. At least half of it was a loft room with a sloping ceiling. Only the reception area, partitioned off by decorative plywood, had furniture, tables and chairs of stainless-steel piping, and it was clear at a glance that they had cost money. Three walls, except for the one with windows, were covered with large, hand-made maps, dividing among them the suburbs into three sections: north, northwest, and west. The complicated diagrams, which were broken up into divisions by the use of red, blue, and green, gave a feeling of rawness quite like human anatomical charts, some places being like tangled skeins of thread, others like frayed nets. Moreover, cream-colored, triangular flags were pinned on them: Government Belt Line and Outer Belt Parkway. The building was located in a dilapidated section of town. The first floor contained a bicycle shop, and the second a mahjong parlor. Despite such surroundings, the president gave the impression of being a tough man to be reckoned with, if only because of his strength of character in doing business in a place like this.—“A half year ago. I think it must have been at the worst of the summer heat,” mused the executive director, the immediate superior of the missing husband. He stroked his bald head, covered with drops of perspiration like specks of isinglass—perhaps the heating was too high—rocking against the black-leather chair back, as he squirmed with pleasure. “Well, I understood that. Because nothing provokes curiosity so much as someone else’s misfortune once you know you’re not responsible for it. Nothing is more natural proof of innocence than wanting to hear about an other’s misfortune.” I went along with his mood and put my question to him casually.—“Since then, isn’t there something new, some clue that suddenly occurs to you for the first time?”—“No, no, I’ve nothing at all.” He waved his plump hand exaggeratedly. “Yes, frankly, I can say now that right after his disappearance I began to be suspicious of everything. I’ve had my hand bitten by a pet dog, so that for the time being I am quite prepared for anything.”—“But you weren’t hurt.”—“No, I don’t bear a single scratch.”—“Then actually there was no harm done, but was there a possibility of being hurt?”—“Of course, I can’t claim there was no harm at all. Because Nemuro had taken on a rather large market. He was most conversant with the situation, and if he intended to take advantage of his position …”—“Well, do you mean to imply that there was some suspicious remark or behavior in the past?”—“No, I don’t think so. What’s that siren? A fire? No, probably an ambulance or a blood bank. Anyway, Nemuro—how shall I put it?—is really a hard worker, a serious type, straightforward, you know. A golden tongue is capital in this kind of cutthroat business. He’s a clever fellow with a lot of grit and stamina along with his gift of gab. And he is absolutely honest. You don’t get that every day; you can use his wallet as a safe deposit box.”—“Is he rather timid by disposition?”—“Timid? Well, I wouldn’t exactly say timid.”—“Put it very simply in a word.”—“Well, in a word, he’s steady, a plodder, really a bulldog type that never lets go. And there’s an obstinate side to him too. Once he says something he never goes back on it; then he’s like an angry toad.”—“What did he do when he made an enemy of someone?”—“Enemy? Well … this is a sharp dealer’s business; it’s not surprising you make enemies. But you’re not cut out for the work if you worry about that.”—“Supposing there was someone Nemuro caught up in some crime?”—“I see what you mean. Did he disappear or was he liquidated? Such a view is possible, frankly speaking. In your type of work you don’t hesitate to pry into the underside of people’s lives, and I don’t doubt that you come up with some interesting experiences.”—“Hmm, some, thanks to you.”—“I know you do. Anyone has to take a pee or a crap.”—“But to change the subject, wasn’t there some indication that Mr. Nemuro was perhaps dissatisfied with the work here?”—“Quite impossible! Listen, just about a month before Nemuro vanished he was promoted from chief sales clerk to section head.”—“Yes, I’ve heard that.”—“My business, as you see, is not very good now, but it’s a little annoying to have it judged on appearance alone, you know. It’s the nature of the work that when some new area develops, especially in the suburbs, the sale of propane gas naturally goes up at the same time. But as soon as it gets to a certain point city gas comes in, and when that happens that’s the end for us. We give the clarion call to advance toward new, promising, and as yet undeveloped markets. We run around to the central and local authorities collecting reports, enticing small businessmen to come in, and so forth. Well, thanks to the amazing growth of the city—it’s going full blast now—the sown seed matures fast. But in that sense it’s the quicker to dry up too. If the clerks sit at their desks doing nothing we’ll be a definite loser in this constant war of nerves that goes on. It’s better for the office to be quiet. The proof is that we’re sixth in this business. Even the bankers have confidence in us.”—“I realize that. Well now, the problem is the documents we’re looking for, the ones Mr. Nemuro supposedly handed over that morning to some young em ployee at S—– station.”—“Ah, Tashiro, I suppose. Tashiro must be here. I’ll call him in and ask him.”

  Without giving me a moment to interrupt, the director at once sprang up and, as he pushed with his hand, kicked open the ill-fitting veneer door. Through the opening facing the dusty office, which was partitioned off irregularly by a single-paneled screen, he bellowed: “Tashiro! Tashiro! On the double!” With his palms, he wiped away the perspiration that had sprung out on his head and then rubbed them on the seat of his trousers. How far, indeed, could one trust that falsely smiling face that looked back at me?—“He’s here. A promising young man. Well, don’t hesitate to ask him anything you want.”

  The promising young clerk at length put in a trembling appearance. Perhaps it was in contrast to the director, but he had an unpleasantly bad complexion, and behind his thick glasses his eyes
were shifty; along with his baggy trousers he wore rubbers—on inspection, an unprepossessing, undersized young man. The fact that he showed no particular sign of emotion at the director’s introduction was due perhaps not so much to calmness as to the expression on his face, which was one of constant perplexity. He seated himself next to me on the sofa at the end nearest the entrance and answered me in a surprisingly unfaltering way, although in a high, nasal voice. He incessantly pushed up his glasses.

  —“No, I don’t know why. Only because he thought it would be a waste of time to return once he had left the office, I think. He specified S—– station, but then I supposed it was a matter that needed urgent attention.”—“You had no idea of the contents?”—“No, none at all.”—“But you knew the recipient’s address, didn’t you?”—“No, that too I was to have had handed over to me, along with a map, at the time I received the documents.”—“Didn’t you have a general idea, judging from the situation before and after and from your work at that time?”—“No, even at the time, everybody asked the same thing. I tried to guess, but …”

  —“What about you, sir?” I said, suddenly changing my attack to the director. “You were in a position of controlling the whole affair. You have more of an idea than Tashiro, I imagine, don’t you?”—“No, no, not at all,” he said, lighting a cigarette and waving away the first smoke that went into his eyes. Then, in his normal voice, he continued: “I’m convinced that the knack of dealing with subordinates is never to interfere without good reason in their individual schemes. As for a report, I’m satisfied with the conclusion; and if the conclusion’s first-rate, that’s even better, I always say. Don’t I, Tashiro?”

  —“But, in any case,” I went on, gazing in the neighborhood of the beckoning cat on the ashtray, “you’ve got to admit that the documents were a matter that apparently required great secrecy.” The director was first to react: “Why?”—“Because, it’s true, isn’t it? If they had been unimportant papers they could have been sent through the mails.” Instantly the younger man agreed.—“I said so, didn’t I. Certainly, time was a question. Even if it had been out in the country, special delivery would have got there the next day.”—“Hmm, but the telephone would have been even faster. I don’t think it’s only a question of time.”—“But, it must have been a case of handing over something with a personal signature on it, something you couldn’t get over by word of mouth on the telephone, or on the other hand, a case of having something signed.”

  A pretty shrewd character, Tashiro. Turning my body ninety degrees, I looked straight at him. But his eyes remained fixed ahead. His half-sitting, half-standing posture did not change; only his chair creaked.

  —“Indeed, it’s quite possibly as you say. If that is so, try and draw a map of the rendezvous spot that morning while we’re on the subject—a simple one will do.” The young clerk gave a short nod of assent and bowed only to the director, whereupon he left the room quietly with a light step made more silent by his soundless rubbers. The indentation left by his weight at the end of the sofa slowly rose. The dirty sky was still more tarnished by the grimy windows … a reddish-brown light that cast no shadow. Suddenly, aiming at a beckoning cat on the ashtray, the director thrust out his cigarette and crushed it on the face as he began to chuckle.—“Too bad, wasn’t it, and you a professional detective. I thought you would get something out of him. I had great expectations. He’s a clever fellow, I suppose, though he doesn’t look it.”—“Well then, you, as director, are concerned about something, aren’t you?”—“I have no reason to be. I merely take a little pride in the company’s men. But, all right, I feel better thanks to you. There’s a weight off my chest. Of course, I have no clue, but on occasion I do have a prick of conscience. Even so, Nemuro’s wife went to the trouble of engaging you and that’s proof she herself knows nothing of her husband’s whereabouts. Fine. Fine. No, I sympathize with everybody directly involved. A sad affair. But if Nemuro happens to have some understanding with his wife, he might be trying to hide his whereabouts from me alone. Such doubts do linger on in a corner of my mind.”—“Is there any concrete basis for them?”—“My god, if I’m to be caught up on each little remark, I’ll end up by being tongue-tied. An unintentional mistake isn’t all that strange. It’s a trait of mine to worry. Appearances are deceiving in my case.” Then he heaved a long sigh and clasped the short, fat fingers of both hands in his portly lap. “Can you really go so far as to toss your family aside and completely vanish? I don’t understand Nemuro. He didn’t seem to have that kind of courage at all.”—“Courage, you say?”—“Well, yes. Even though I can understand how relieved a man might feel in doing what he did, I couldn’t have done it myself. I could never do a thing like that. I’m going to stay right here till I die unless I’m forced out. A man eats and defecates. It’s a handicap to move away from the place where you get your food. And it’s always a lot better to defecate in the same place too.”

  SOMEONE WAS following me. Paying no heed, I continued to walk.

  Leaving Dainen Enterprises, I went about two blocks south, down the main street, turned right, and climbed the abrupt incline. I came to a railroad crossing with no gate. The street which lay alongside the tracks on the other side was, in this neighborhood, the only place where parking was possible. A line of cars stretched almost solid from there to the next main street. Most of the parked cars were small-sized trucks, since the whole area was crowded with small factories. Every time a train came by, it would raise a metallic dust, and here even the road appeared rusty-red.

  My car was parked at the end of the street. When I turned and looked over my shoulder, the figure of the man shadowing me had vanished. There was nothing to get excited about. He would, I suspected, soon reappear. I got in the car and shoved the seat back as far as it would go, inserted a carbon between two sheets of paper on top of my briefcase, which I propped on my knees, and lit a cigarette. Putting records in order in places like this was a habit in which we had had to acquire some skill. The same was true for information and shadowing techniques. Yet, after the few lines of stereotyped opening, the following sentences simply didn’t come. “No results,” I wrote—an incredibly wretched expression that only corroborated my alibi. Fortunately I did have thesheet with the map of the meeting place at S—– station, which I had had young Tashiro draw up, a sketch like a plumber’s draft for some water conduit. That was something to pad out the report with. Nothing is so devastating at such times as one’s own incompetence. Well, maybe I was really incompetent. Had I ever once been competent? I wondered. Once in a long while, when my words flowed, when I was able to draw out my “No results” over thirty lines, I had the illusion of competency. Since I took a rather aggressive attitude toward my abilities, there was no need to be particularly competent. I would manage some way to forget about my inefficiency.

  Tearing off a length of Scotch tape, I attached the piece of paper with the map to the left-hand corner of my report sheet.

  A long freight train crowned with snow—it had come through the mountains—beating and bending the rails, taking an endless time, began to pass by. Once again the figure of my follower appeared in the corner of the rear-view mirror.

  It was, as I expected, young Tashiro. He vanished into a dead angle of the mirror and was transformed at once into a real person standing at my window. Opening the opposite door, I signaled to him with my finger to go round to the other side. The window groaned as if it would break under the pressure set up by the train, and the report sheets on my knees fluttered violently. He pitched, almost collapsing, into the car, and I was struck with the pungent odor, like that of an old icebox, coming from his overcoat.

  For the several minutes—actually a score of seconds—until the train had passed completely by, the pupils of my companion’s eyes became smaller and smaller behind his glasses, and his head sank deeper and deeper into his coat collar. His rigid body trembled in unison with the train, vibrating quite as if he were a thin iron plate. What t
ale had he come to bear? I wondered. If he was carrying tales, good enough, but perhaps he had come to throw a little sand in my eyes, as he had done a short while ago. The promising young clerk, and for that matter the missing husband too, were, in the words of the director, pretty rare types.

  At length the train passed by. After it had gone, a sound like the buzzing of insects lingered in my ears.

  “Depressing weather, isn’t it?”

  With these words the rigidity suddenly left his knees, like a film that begins to roll; and he shifted his body, turning slightly in my direction. When I flipped my cigarette out the side vent, he in turn took out one and lit it, pushing up his glasses, which kept slipping down.

  “I’m sorry. I … to tell the truth … I told a lie back there. I’m sorry. There was really no need to.”

  “You did it out of deference to the director, I suppose.”

  “Well … no, I don’t think so. Because it was something the director knew all about. But why did he act as if he didn’t know anything at all about it and why didn’t he correct me? I feel awful. It goes against my conscience … because I’ve become an accomplice in betraying Mr. Nemuro, who’s the head of my section.”

  “Don’t worry about it. If in the long run it’s to Mr. Nemuro’s advantage, it’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not to his advantage. I knew from the start that it wasn’t. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be telling a lie. I realized that telling it was probably useless.”

  “Just let me decide whether it was useless or not.”

  “It’s about the destination of those documents.”

  “Did you know?”

  “The section manager … here,” he began, extracting from his breast pocket a calling card, which he brandished with a histrionic gesture. “I actually do recall hearing him make a telephone call about delivering some documents or other. Possibly about two days before he disappeared.”