The Ruined Map

by Kōbō Abe

  The dirty part of the sky expanded and rose, pushing aside the blue. Again there was a slight twinge in my molar. Why should I have to be so apologetic? Was it in order to stress my own rightness vis-à-vis my wife? Or was it in order to explain to my client that I had played no role in her brother’s death? Or else was it in order to demonstrate to the chief that I had no desire to go deeper into the case than was necessary? But it was indeed a part of my work. “No good hunter pursues his quarry too far. Rather he puts himself in his quarry’s place as he looks for the path of flight; by pursuing himself he corners his quarry” (from The Memoirs of a Sleuth). Indeed, that seemed valid enough … yes, I wonder. Was I not, some place in my mind, intentionally competing with the missing husband? Could I be contending with him? That would only justify my own quandary—in which I neither ran away nor came back, that is—vis-à-vis the husband who had simply gone off and never returned.

  Perhaps so. If I were told it was true, I should begin to feel it was. Even if it were, I had been shaken by his brother-in-law’s death, and this was far better than my attitude up to this point: to put the essential him out of my mind.

  Perhaps the husband’s silhouette had come into view. In some corner of the superimposed town landscapes there were empty black holes. Shadows of the nonexistent husband, he was not alone; there was a limitless number of different hims. Mine, hers, his. Apparently in my mind some great change was beginning to take place.

  I drove into a rest area where there was a public telephone. No sooner had I got out of the car than the sun, as if it had been brushed away, went behind the clouds. Nevertheless, in the booth it was still warm and damp, and, doubtless because of its infrequent use, there was a pungent smell of mold.

  “SORRY. I’m late in getting in touch with you.”

  “It’s just as well. I’m exhausted with crying. I’m just about out of tears.”

  The hoarse tone in her voice was quite the same as usual and she was unpleasantly self-contained, but the cause doubtless lay in the beer rather than in the passage of time.

  “Everyone will be upset if you’re late, I imagine.”

  “They’re not concerned about me at all. Of course, the expenses all come from the association. You’d think they were closer blood relations than I am. I got these mourning clothes at a rental place.”

  “They suit you. I suppose it’s curious to say so, but black becomes you.”

  A sharp slope cut across the high ground of the housing development to the south. There, a long flight of stone stairs lay between clumps of bamboo on either side. I could see the slender nape of her neck as she led the way down.

  “Have you asked anyone yet about the conditions and the reason that such a thing would happen to your brother?”

  “I can hardly believe it was my brother. After all, I really didn’t know anything about him.”

  “It happened right after he left me last evening, apparently. I feel responsible in a number of ways.”

  “But no one has mentioned anything about your being with him.”

  “It’s getting chilly, isn’t it. Cloudy again.”

  The bamboo gave way to a graveyard, immediately to the right where the stairs left off. There a small old temple was situated, only the roof tiles of which had any luster. The circumstances of the town had radically changed, the parishioners had decreased, and now, probably, the only source of income was funerals. The little temple was so dilapidated that braces were attached with heavy rope to the pillars, which had been eaten away by termites. Indeed, the growth in population had meant a proportionate increase in fu nerals. Perhaps the desolation was the fault of irresponsible financial management on the part of the chief priest, or else a measure to avoid taxes.

  When we passed through the gate we could see the black and white mottled funeral drapery suspended in front of the temple. On either side of the path that led from the information desk to the hanging, holding their cold hands over small hibachi stoves, stood youths, who gave the impression of still being children. The intervals between them were as regular as the spaces between telephone poles. Every time we approached one, he bowed his head low, one following the other like machines. Their overly formal manner, their hands on their thighs and their legs slightly apart, made an eerie impression, but one which was also comical. In our office we had people who were syndicate-oriented like that too, but one didn’t expect to see such old-fashioned ritual.

  Inside the curtain, it was still and hushed. The depressing fragrance of the rising incense suggested the smell of death. A lone priest kept up the soft, lazy droning of a sacred text. There were four wreaths and on each one were written the words Yamato Association. It would seem that the funeral was the second cheapest type.

  In front and extending to the left and right of the main chapel was a wooden dais for those taking part in the services. Only the unoccupied cushions were conspicuous. In the right-hand seat of honor a plump, middle-aged man, who, it was clear at a glance, was from the top echelon of the syndicate, sat with his eyes closed in front of an electric heater, apparently dozing. To his left four or five swarthy men dressed in black, evidently bigwigs, were kneeling in a formal fashion.

  One of them, who was sharp of eye, recognized us and at once hurried down the side steps. His arms and legs were long and slender and he had a cleft in his pointed chin. He wore heavy dark glasses and was of sturdy build, his neck squat on his torso. He followed us with a staggering, unsure step. Either he was drunk or his foot was asleep. Somehow I remembered having seen those glasses. Yes, he resembled one of the gang of three who had been standing near the bonfire at the river bed last night. The one with the strikingly long sideburns, the ends of which curled up, the bow-legged, squashed-faced one. Moreover, the adhesive plaster on the forehead and the Mercurochrome on the nose were definitely souvenirs of the fight.

  “Come in,” said the pointed chin, bowing deeply in front of my companion. “I’m sorry, but the vice-president of the association and the other association presidents had to leave early on urgent business. They send you their respects.” His glance fell on the dozing man in the seat of honor, and as he looked back he hurriedly scrutinized me from head to toe. “The director is taking care of everything so there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  My companion introduced me to the pointed chin: “I would like you to meet the man in charge of my brother’s association.”

  Suddenly someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. “I see you made it safely. I warned you, didn’t I? It happened just as I said, didn’t it.”

  Who was this little gray pig? I remembered the voice. Yes, indeed … the fellow who ran the microbus concession last night. If I had not heard the voice, I would probably not have recognized him. He wore a necktie and had trimmed his beard, and one could not imagine even the swollen and bloated face belonging to the one who had been cooking noodles in the river bed. Absently, I bent my arm and tensed my lips just to the point of a smile in response to the blandishments of the man. Just in case we should be suspected for some reason or other, an unspoken understanding was instantly forged between the two of us; as mutual witnesses we would form a united front.

  The result was at once manifest in the attitude of the one with the pointed chin. His watchful attitude fell away like a fake mustache stuck on with spit.

  “The man in charge should be out in front. I’ll get him at once.”

  He hurried away, disappearing beyond the drapery as he spoke. But the one with the dark glasses, standing a step behind, his legs apart, waiting for us like baggage, made no attempt to conceal his hostility, which even the dark lenses could not screen. Maybe it was rancor at me for having torn away from him last night as I was escaping, knowing that he had come to the car to ask for help. Under his comical, Mercurochromed nose the muscles at the corners of his lips trembled unmanageably. Thinking it was time to go, I said: “Well, let’s go and pay our respects.”

  “I already have.”

  She c
ould have been talking about eating. What on earth could be the relationship in her mind between this everyday calm about her brother’s death and her attachment to him, involved as she was with him, constantly bringing him up in her conversation? Of course, funerals, though not so much as weddings, were uninviting, unhappy events. The dead’s memory is nailed up so that the living can be at ease—a convenient ceremony indeed. Was it that indifference to the funeral basically signified indifference to the one who was dead, or else was it a case of loving the dead one too much … beyond life and death? I was seized by a sinister premonition.

  I took off my shoes and put on the slippers provided at the foot of the thick slab of wood that formed the bottom step. I mounted the five stairs. In front of the altar in the main chapel was a thick, scarlet cushion run through with gold threads and an uninviting plain wooden stand for burning incense. Having reached my seat, I realized I was still wearing my gloves and hastily drew them off. I offered some incense in the prescribed way, worrying all the while about wrinkling my trousers as I knelt, and then for the first time I looked up at the photograph on display at the front of the altar.—So that was it, I muttered to myself. As if waiting for me to leave my place, the priest stopped his chanting and hurriedly withdrew. When he had gone, the group of three men in attendance gave a sigh of relief and relaxed, simultaneously lighting cigarettes. The elderly man in the seat of honor who was called director at once roused from his nap, sniffling and spreading his hands over the electric heater, turning them over and back as if he were toasting something.

  Unbeknown to me the pointed chin had appeared in the corridor through which the priest had disappeared, and now he was intently beckoning to me with his hand. Below the balustrade, to the left of the dais, my companion was deep in conversation with the noodle man. No, it was exclusively the noodle man who was doing the talking, and I did not know whether she was giving him her full attention as she fussed with the unaccustomed sleeves of her mourning kimono, letting them hang down in front, rolling them up from the bottom, and flipping them behind her. The sky was again an unbroken mass of milky cloud, but the wind had almost completely died down.

  I was led into a narrow cubicle beside the altar, apparently a waiting room for those taking part in the religious ceremonies. The old-fashioned gas stove sent forth a blue flame, and at once the muscles of my face began to relax. Directly beside the entrance sat a young man, his hands on his knees, waiting with bowed head. The pointed chin looked at me searchingly.

  “May I …?”

  I nodded and he left the room, swinging his shoulders. Of course, I had not foreseen such an abrupt introduction, and I had no idea at all what I should find out from this young man on duty. Yet whether the pointed chin was here or not didn’t matter one way or the other. I faced the young man from across a small black and gold tea table whose lacquer had begun to peel. Judging from his slender, youthful neck—perhaps he was the leader of the group of youths standing out in front—it would seem unsuitable to call him the man in charge. As I took my seat, he adjusted his position and looked up. The face was exactly as I had imagined it would be from the slender neck. His fine-textured young skin looked as if it had been polished with wax, and the line of the jaw was epicene, neither masculine nor feminine. Aside from the dark shadow of a beard, his features, especially his lips, were completely feminine. Even the nose was delicate. Only the eyes were strangely veiled and seemed like dangerous, flammable oil. Still, the muscles were frail. He did not seem to have at all the authority to control, to overawe young men. He was doubtless the lion in sheep’s clothing. If that was true, his position had collapsed with the death of my client’s brother, and the long-cherished hatred of the other youths would now focus on him, ideal circumstances to get something out of him perhaps. However, aside from muscles, in handling a wild and lunatic switch blade he probably excelled the others in violence. Sports and contests of strength and killing demanded another kind of ability. Even the lion is no match for a famished dog.

  Be that as it may, what in god’s name could her purpose be? What was the point of having me meet this boy? And the suddenness of it all; there had been opportunity enough to let me know in advance. The badge with the lightning design was exactly the same as the one the brother had worn. Perhaps it was the sign of the organization they called the Yamato Association. If this youth was the man in charge, the ones standing along the temple walk were perhaps the bodyguard directly responsible to the dead man. But just a minute! This boy’s badge was the same as the brother’s. It was identical with the one belonging to the fellow with the pointed chin as far as the design was concerned, but the color of the background was different. The dead man’s badge had been blue, and the one belonging to the pointed chin was beige. In age, the dead man had been somewhat older. So the difference in color probably did not mean a distinction between superior and subordinate, but a difference in division. Then, the dead man’s gang had perhaps become an independent organization within the Yamato Association.

  What was she hoping for? I wondered.

  Had it been a casual idea on the spur of the moment? Or had something occurred to make her put off bringing us together until the very last minute? Or had she reckoned she could use my unpreparedness to advantage by means of this unexpected encounter?

  “Do you take turns being man in charge?”

  “No.”

  His businesslike, unfeeling tone was, of course, put on. The resulting expressionlessness had ironed smooth the creases of feeling, so that within himself he adroitly balanced absolute submission against absolute resistance. Dealing with such a fellow outside a cage was next to impossible. Once in the cage together perhaps one would have to challenge him to a dangerous gamble: bite or be bitten. But I had no time to try that here.

  “I imagine you’re at something of a loss … all of you … with your head man dying so suddenly.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you the only one left to take charge? Or will you get someone from outside to be head man?”

  “Maybe we’ll split up.”

  “Why?”

  “The leaders of the Association had trouble with the dead boss. Because minors are easy to spot. Kids run away from home and form gangs of toughs who suck the blood of other runaways. Once they’re found out the police are on their tail, and they can’t do anything.”

  Kids who run away from home … something passed through my mind, leaving shock waves in its wake. Kids who left home … If the brother had been the head of an organization that preyed on boys who ran away from home, it would be only natural for him to have a completely different point of view from us concerning the husband’s disappearance. I wondered if she knew this. Was it because she knew it that it occurred to her to have me meet this boy?

  “I read the messages of condolence for the whole bunch.” He constantly shifted his body, perhaps trying to escape from the stifling atmosphere, and abruptly he became defiant. “It made me cry. The boss really had a heart. It made me cry. No matter how many times we were raided we never let anything out. Not one of us wants to go back home. The leaders of the Association never understood. Everybody liked the boss. They really loved him. Wait and see. We’ll do something, one way or another; we’re not going to drop things here.”

  “But the criminal has been arrested by the police, I heard.”

  “Don’t be stupid. He was a scapegoat. The boss was done in with a pistol. How could workmen in temporary quarters have pistols?”

  “Do you have anyone particularly in mind?”

  “Well …”

  “The Association head doesn’t approve, does he?”

  “That’s why I said that maybe we’ll split up.”

  “I wonder if the money’ll keep coming in.”

  “Ah. Our customers are the best. The kids out front are all sexy, too.”

  Perhaps at long last I was able to understand just what sort of work was involved. It was somehow unbelievable that there was not a sing
le one of the gang at the microbus stand in the river bed, but … high-type customers … sexy kids. A gang of boys who were in the homosexual business, and the brother pulled the strings. If this one handled things cleverly, maybe he could get by without getting entangled with the law. But not just anyone could manage it. There’s got to be a marriage of taste and profit. Thinking of it in this way, I understood the meaning of the tawdry impression the funeral made. I would imagine everybody in the Association was embarrassed by this group. So the executives had quietly withdrawn, leaving only a director. From the view point of profit alone, no one could shift these frenzied animals to some other pasture, unless he loved the boys and was loved by them …

  “Do they all appear in set places?”

  “Never,” he said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “We’re different. I don’t think you get it … do you? You don’t look like you were one of us. Members of our club are all first-class patrons. Say, do you think I’m cute? Do I trouble you?”

  “You’re a good-looking boy.”

  “Well then. Want me to slap you around? Want to drink my piss? What about licking the soles of my shoes?”

  I shrank back from his strangely set and unmoving eyes. “I think I’ll just pass that up.”

  “I thought so. Dirty old men with gobs of money come around plenty … and every once in a while some television star, but …”

  “I have something to ask you. You all would know, I think. Did your boss ever say anything about any fuel suppliers?”

  “Fuel suppliers? You mean a customer of the club?”

  “Well, don’t worry about it if you don’t know.”