The Box Man

by Kōbō Abe

  “What for?”

  “For indicting the box man. Maybe I’m trying to impress on people that he really exists.”

  “That’s an unexpected turnabout. If we suppose that you are the author, then the box man becomes simply a figment of the imagination.”

  “Well, then, suppose I am trying to impress on you the fact that he doesn’t actually exist in order to prove his irreality.”

  “Ah, indeed. I wondered if that weren’t it. I had a premonition. But no matter how many tricks you try, they are destined to be futile. Because I have material proof. Yes, perhaps I should have warned you ahead of time before entering into negotiations. If you know that I am not unarmed, even you won’t act rashly. No, I have no intention of putting that proof to bad use; if I had I would have done so long ago. If only you would show your sincerity. I’ll give you all the material evidence later.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea what you’re trying to suggest.”

  “Please. I feel quite dizzy from lack of sleep just doing nothing. Well, then, let me tell you. Who was it, I wonder, who shot me with an air rifle? I’ve got my eye on someone.”

  “A lot of people have air rifles in this neighborhood. The weasels apparently wreak havoc in the chicken houses,” she suddenly said again, repeating the same excuse. Creakingly, somehow time began to move. I did not wish to hurt the girl, but I found it unpardonable that she should side with the fake box man.

  “Unfortunately there’s unshakable proof, you know. The instant I was hit, I at once snapped the shutter—a professional reflex. I saw the developed picture that very day. I had made a good shot. It was a back picture of someone busily going up the sloping road, concealing a rifle by trying to fit it to the length of his body under his arm. The way he cut his hair, the new made-to-order suit fitted to his round shoulders, the conspicuous wrinkles in his trousers, nonetheless of the best material, and the distinctive low shoes like slippers.” Then my tone changed to a plain and simple one, and I addressed myself exclusively to her: “Shall we play a little guessing game? Some profession where one is constantly taking off and putting on shoes, one where there is often the opportunity of sitting in Japanese fashion, one belonging to the financially upper classes, one where one can wear one’s hair without worrying what others think. What would you guess? I don’t think it’s all that hard. Anybody would immediately think of a doctor on house calls, wouldn’t he? Furthermore, it happens that the mounting road I photographed was right next to the soy factory at the foot …”

  At this point events suddenly took an abrupt turn. The fake box man—the fake box man who until then had stood straight upright merely expressionless, harmless, like a trash can that had sprouted legs—began to shake his box awkwardly, making an annoying sound. The vinyl curtain over the observation window separated, and from within a long stick was thrust out. It was an air rifle. Aimed straight at my left eye.

  “Stop it!” I parried in a casual tone, half jokingly. “I seem to have a touch of phobia for extremities, a weakness in me. So pointing at me like that …”

  “Won’t you show me the film?”

  “I didn’t bring it along. It’s my only trump that will guarantee me an equal right to speak.”

  “Search him!” the fake box man urged her in a shrill voice.

  She hesitated. Entreatingly she looked up at me. With her hands clasped at her breast and seeming to push up the collar of her dress, she began to shift her balance forward. Whereupon the front of her white ironed tunic (had she put it on sometime without my realizing it?) gaped wide open. Only the topmost button was fastened. Under the white dress she was naked. I had half expected that, but I was taken by surprise. The nakedness under the white garment gave the feeling of a nakedness stripped more naked than ordinary. The white dress was not a white dress, but had turned into the ceremonial garment of a sacrificial victim. The strong curved skin surfaces, uniformly taut, were suggestive of some strange machine I did not understand. The narrow jaw and the roundness of her belly alone did not suit her and were childlike. I wracked my brain. As in someone else’s briefcase, the disorder in my head was extreme. Her left leg moved forward, trying to support the leaning weight. At once my field of vision contracted, and I felt aggressive. I myself did not understand why.

  “All right, I’ll do it myself. It’s not worth bothering yourself with.” I went to the box in the corner by the door in which I had put my clothes when they were removed, opened the neck of a mountain-climbing bag (probably an American Army surplus item), and fished out a stuffed toy crocodile. “As far as I’m concerned I’m lucky just to find that you feel guilty. I had the feeling your conditions were simply too good to be true.”

  The crocodile that I took out was a little less than eighteen inches in length, the circumference of the torso sixteen and a half; it was a toy crocodile painted green with inset plastic eyeballs and fangs, a warty back, claws of light brown, and a red, snapping mouth. Anyone looking at this merry, overly innocent doll would surely have his fighting ardor dampened. A child’s toy usually makes the average adult lose his hostility unless he has a morbid dislike of children. In view of my psychological tendencies, this was not an ordinary doll. The crocodile was a blackjack that I had invented. I do not refer to cards, but to the blackjack, the deadly weapon that has gained notoriety by being favored principally by the Mafia and the secret police. I take the shavings and spongy filling out and usually carry around just the outside bag, but this morning I had a premonition and in advance stuffed it with sand from the beach. If you take hold of the tail end and just give it a shake, you feel how really dangerous it can be. If you strike with all your force you crush the skull. Of course, there’s no need to go about things so enthusiastically. You can attack someone fatally and yet leave no outer wound; that’s the good feature of the blackjack. When you’ve finished using it, you unfasten the end and scatter the sand that comes out around the garden. If there’s any trouble it would never occur to anyone that a crocodile skin could be used as a dangerous weapon.

  Pretending to give the crocodile to the fake box man with some reluctance, I struck from below at the end of the gun barrel. The destructive power was unimaginable from the speed. The rifle barrel bit into the upper frame of the window, and the box jumped. An angry groan came from the doctor, who had been taken by surprise. At the same time I heard the sound of air escaping, as if someone had driven a nail into a bicycle tire. The bullet had gone up toward the ceiling, but the sound of it hitting could not be heard. I wrested the gun from his grasp. The doctor, not to be out-done, thrust his arm out the observation window. He clutched my right cheek like a rice cake, and with unexpected power I brought the sandbag crocodile down on my opponent’s farther shin. There was a damp and heavy sound as of a hatchet biting into unseasoned wood. Uttering a shriek, the doctor drew his arm back into the box. I broke out in sweat at the vociferations that ran the gamut of the vowels. I began striking at the head at the top of the box to try to make him stop and then paused. I did not want to hurt the box. I continued to beat at his farther shin, this time taking more care (I would be in something of a fix if he were able to remain in the hospital under the pretext of broken bones). The doctor squeezed himself up into a small ball and became perfectly passive like the wastebasket he had said he was. If he had not groaned like an empty pipe, I should never have thought a man was hiding inside the box. At first I looked at the box expressionlessly. The wan ten-o’clock sun flowing in from the window melted into the white of the mortar wall, filling the room, and in it the box seemed like a scooped-out hole.

  Supposing that it is not I who am pushing on with these notes now (I too cannot help but recognize the contradiction in time that has been pointed out by the fake box man), and whoever it may be, I think he has an extremely stupid way of advancing the story line. If he has come this far the next scene can only be one thing in any case. I turn and look at the girl. What attitude does the author intend to have her take now? Depending on h
ow she reacts to me, the outcome, however pleasant or unpleasant it may be, will make clear what I have gained and what I have lost by giving up the box. For example, is she going to accept me like that with the buttons of her white dress unbuttoned, or with them buttoned up? No, it is hardly suitable to make the buttons the measurement of her attitude. But out of amazement she may forget to button them up, and on the other hand she may well button them up once to accept me formally and not abridge the ceremony of unbuttoning them. Thus as long as I stay beyond the two-and-a-half-yard line as I am, it will surely be easy to read her expression. If an unconcealable look of relief shows through her tense expression, that will mean that her relationship has, from the first, been one of estrangement with the doctor and that I will rescue her from his high-handedness and restraint; but if, on the contrary, she is afraid of accepting me, that will show that the two have been accomplices from the beginning and that I shall have to escape from this tiger’s den.

  Enough. Whichever it was it was indescribable ridiculousness. The objectionable thing was not so much the lack of logic but rather the fact that in all these happenings everything was so smooth. The truth was more fragmented, like a picture puzzle with many pieces missing and filled with flights of imagination. Although I am perhaps not I, was it necessary for me to go on living and going to the trouble of writing these notes? I may seem to be repeating, but a box man is an ideal victim. If I had been the doctor I should have at once offered a cup of tea. Being a doctor, it would be easy for him to slip in a drop of poison. Or … perhaps … had I already been made to drink the cup of tea? I wondered. Perhaps I had. It was possible. Certainly there was absolutely no proof that I was still alive.

  AFFIDAVIT

  All statements made are truthful. Since you ask about the corpse washed up at T Seaside Park, I make herewith a detailed deposition of my own volition, concealing nothing.

  Name: C.

  Permanent address: Omitted.

  Profession: Doctor’s assistant (orderly).

  Date of Birth (day, month, year): 7 March 1927.

  My real name is C, but the full one I use when I practice medicine and the one registered at the Bureau of Public Health is the name of the army surgeon who was my superior officer when I joined the colors as a medical corpsman during the war. I used it with the permission of the officer in question.

  I have never yet been condemned for crime to penal servitude nor have I even been questioned as a suspect by the police or the public prosecutor.

  I have never been a public servant nor have I ever received any decoration, relief funds, or pension.

  I am still unmarried, but in point of fact, concerning my family, until last year I have been living with my common-law wife, Nana, who helped me as a nurse in my work and was in charge of all accounts. Originally Nana was the legal wife of the army doctor whose name and identity I borrowed while I was practicing, but since I was cohabiting with her with the doctor’s understanding and approbation there was never any trouble. Until last year there was no conspicuous disharmony between Nana and me, but when I hired Toyama Yoko as a new apprentice nurse, Nana was not happy and suggested we live apart. I agreed, and until now that is what we have been doing.

  During the war I discharged my military duties as a medical corpsman, and, putting that experience to good use, I engaged in practice on my own. I enjoyed a good reputation among the patients, and I have never requested instructions or help from a regularly licensed doctor. My special proficiency lies mainly in the area of surgery such as appendectomies. If I am blamed for illegal practice I shall reconsider using another’s name; I shall make amends to the world and promise never to engage in medical work again.

  Now I shall discuss the corpse, the cause of whose death is unknown, that you ask about.…

  The Case of C

  Now you are writing.

  A dark room where the lights have been turned off with the exception perhaps of the lamp on the work table. At just this instant you raise your head from the affidavit you are in the act of writing and have just drawn a deep breath. When, in the same position, you turn your neck diagonally to the right, a thin line of light runs over the right edge of the desk. It is a beam seeping in under the door from the corridor. If someone were to pass by, like it or not, his shadow could not help but be inscribed on that line. You wait. Seven seconds, eight … there is no sign of anyone.

  On the old white door the layers of paint cannot conceal the surface scratches. Staring at the door, you think of many things. What is that sound that catches your attention now? Is it only your fancy? Yes, you hear it … there … that’s it … from a different direction. You look around at the window. A movable house of cardboard precisely modeled on the one worn by the box man on the bed next to the wall. Has the real box man at last taken it into his head to come? No, the interval between footfalls is too short. It is not a dog either. Perhaps it is that chicken. It is that weird hen that sometime learned to walk about at night. Every night she wanders around here, searching for food. Is a night-prowling chicken an extremely strange phenomenon or not? Since it can monopolize all the night insects that crawl out unafraid, there is plenty of food and it should be well fed, but it is thin and sickly. If one finds oneself with exceptional talents one has to pay unexpected compensation (you seem to be taking a lesson from the chicken now).

  You try lifting to your lips the half-drunk glass of beer. You decide to stop with just wetting the tip of your tongue a little. The beer is completely flat and undrinkable. More than four hours have already passed since you sat down here. Although it will soon be the end of September, the weather is depressing. You stop the sweat that flows from the hairline at your forehead with some cotton soaked in alcohol and moisten your sticky lips with saliva, but you cannot very well turn on the fan or the air conditioner. You must not miss hearing whatever footfalls there may be. You have become terribly suspicious.

  A thick slab of glass lies on the desk. On it the half-written affidavit. The affidavit concerning the incident that has not yet taken place and that we are sure will. Pushing it aside, you open a notebook. Quarto size, lined with orange-colored horizontal lines … This is surprising; I did not know that you had even prepared notes exactly like mine. You absently turn the cover. The first page begins with the following sentence:

  “This is the record of a box man. I am at this time beginning to write this record in my box. I am in a cardboard box that fits over my head and covers me completely to the hips.

  “That is, at this point, the box man is my very self.”

  You flip over more than ten pages and open to a clean one. Grasping your ballpoint pen, you assume a posture for writing, but changing your mind, you look at your watch. Still nine minutes until midnight. The last Saturday in September is just coming to a close. You rise from your seat, pen and notebook in hand. You walk to the bed. You tilt the box over diagonally and crawl in, bringing it down over your head from the back. You present a figure seated on the edge of the bed with the box over your head. Apparently you have become rather used to getting in and out of the box. You adjust it so that the observation window is directed at the lamp on the desk. But there is not enough light to take notes. You switch on the flashlight suspended over the observation window. Making the plastic board you have provided into a table, you begin taking your notes on that.

  “The following is a summary of the incident: The place is the city of T, the last Monday in September …”

  You evidently fancy to begin recording the past events of the day after tomorrow when nothing has yet occurred. What is the hurry? Or is it that you are backed up by your considerable self-confidence? Since you are trying to establish a chronology of actions that you describe in the past tense, evidently those actions had already been going on when I began reading these notes. You already were aware of the results of those actions, though I was not, for you could make an educated guess. But I should like to read right on in your notes. I cannot believe that there was
any other clear purpose for the action than to bring death.

  You begin to write.

  “On the outskirts of a little frequented seaside park, an unidentified body was washed up. The body was wearing over its head a box made of packing cardboard, secured by a cord tied around its waist. Undoubtedly it was a box man who had been wandering about the city lately and who, by mistake, had fallen into a canal; the body was swept by the tides onto the beach. Other than the box, he had no possessions. The result of the autopsy made it possible to set the supposed time of death about thirty hours previously.”

  Thirty hours previously … you were very decisive about that. Let us suppose for the moment that the time of the autopsy was early in the morning of Monday. Going back thirty hours from then puts us at precisely the present moment. At the latest it will be within several hours from now. You too have evidently made up your mind to face death. When you hastily close your notes, you slip off the bed and kneel on the floor. You shove the box, which has dipped forward, off toward the back. The things inside the box knock against each other and set up a din. Confused, you hug the box to you, looking over your shoulder. You look up, straining your ears to catch any noise beyond the walls, beyond the ceiling. Fear paints a streak of varnish down your face. The varnish is evidently quick-drying, and the surface of your face is covered with crepelike wrinkles. You are much too nervous. Why can’t you be more practical? You can only do what you can no matter how you try.

  You straighten up and face the door. You begin to walk. You hold your elbows close to your sides; and your fingers, all together, slightly bend inward. You take three steps and your strength leaves you. You change directions and go in front of the desk. Seating yourself, you hold your head in your arms. The notes that you have placed between your elbow and your side slip noiselessly onto the desk. And then time indolently goes by as you think.