by Kōbō Abe
He let himself slide into the hollow and lay as he was, against the slope. He was screened from the wind, and he gave a sigh of relief and contentment. The dog, staggering under the gusts, disappeared beyond the blowing sand. The fact that a wild dog had made the place its home was a guarantee that people did not come around. As long as the dog did not go tale-bearing to the office of the farm co-op, his safety here seemed assured. In spite of the sweat that began slowly and steadily to ooze out, he felt well. How quiet!… Quite as if he were enveloped in gelatin.
Although he was clutching a time bomb, set for moment X, it bothered him no more than the sound of the balance wheel of his alarm clock. His Mobius friend would have immediately analyzed the situation, so: —My friend, what you’re doing is consoling yourself with the means of your escape and not keeping your eye on the goal.
And he would have agreed easily: —Very true. But I wonder if you have to distinguish so precisely between means and end. Wouldn’t it be all right to use the definitions as need dictates?
—No, no, that wouldn’t do at all. You can’t spend time vertically. It’s an accepted fact that time really goes horizontally.
—What happens if you try spending it vertically?
—You’re a mummy if you do!
He chuckled and took off his shoes. Indeed, time did seem to run horizontally. He could not stand the sand and sweat that had collected between his toes. He took off his shoes and socks and stretched his toes, letting the air in between them. Hmm, why did places where animals live have such an unpleasant smell? Wouldn’t it be fine if there were animals that smelled like flowers! No. It was the smell of his own feet. A curious feeling of friendliness welled up in him when he realized this. He recalled that someone had said that there was nothing that tasted so good as one’s own ear wax, that it was better than real cheese. Even if it weren’t that bad, there were all kinds of fascinating things one never tired of smelling… like the stink of a decaying tooth.
The entrance to the house was more than half blocked with sand, and it was almost impossible to see in. Was it the remains of an old well? It would not be so strange if a shack had been built over a well to protect it from the sand. Of course, you could hardly expect to find water in a place like this… He tried to look in, and this time he was enveloped by the real smell of dog. Animal smell is beyond philosophy. He remembered a socialist saying that he liked a Korean’s soul but he couldn’t stand his smell. Well then, if time did run horizontally, it had better show him how fast it could run… Hope and uneasiness… a feeling of release and impatience. He found it most unbearable to be tantalized this way. He put the towel over his face and lay down on his back. It might be his own smell, but he was not about to pay it compliments.
Something was crawling fitfully up the instep of his foot. Its manner of walking could hardly be like that if it belonged to the beetle family. He decided it must be some kind of ground bug, for it drew itself along with difficulty on its six weak legs. He didn’t even feel like finding out. Supposing for the time being it did belong to the beetle family; even, so he still hesitated, wondering whether he really felt like going after it or not. He was apparently incapable of a definite decision.
A breeze flipped the towel from his face. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a ridge of dunes glistening and golden. A smoothly rising curve cut off the line of gold and abruptly slipped away into the shadows. There was something strangely tense in the spatial composition, and he shuddered with an uncanny loneliness for people. (Yes, this certainly is a romantic landscape… A setting like this would be a great attraction for young tourists these days. Precious, gilt-edged stock it is… I can guarantee its future development as someone who’s experienced in this profession. But if you’re going to develop it, first you’ve got to advertise! Even flies won’t come if you don’t advertise. The place might just as well not be here if no one knows about it. It’s like having a precious stone and not finding a practical use for it.
Well then, what shall we do? I’ll put the thing in the hands of a first-rate photographer and have him make me up some good-looking picture postcards. In the old days you used to find a beauty spot and then have your postcards made. But now, it’s common sense to have the cards made first… and afterwards think up a beautiful place. I have brought along two or three samples, if you’d care to look them over.) The poor postcard salesman had come with the intention of taking the villagers in, but he had been the one to be taken in, and in the end he had got sick and died. But then, he certainly could not imagine that the card man had been particularly eloquent. He had probably been surprisingly sincere in his hopes for the place and had doubtless staked all he had on the business. What in heaven’s name was the real essence of this beauty? Was it the precision of nature with its physical laws, or was it nature’s mercilessness, ceaselessly resisting man’s understanding?
Until yesterday the very thought of this landscape had filled him with nausea. He had actually thought, in a fit of spleen, that the holes were just right for swindlers like picture-postcard vendors.
However, there was no reason to think of the life in the holes and the beauty of the landscape as being opposed to each other. Beautiful scenery need not be sympathetic to man. His own viewpoint in considering the sand to be a rejection of the stationary state was not madness… a 1/8-mm. flow… a world where existence was a series of states. The beauty of sand, in other words, belonged to death. It was the beauty of death that ran through the magnificence of its ruins and its great power of destruction. No. Just a minute. He would be in a spot if he were criticized for holding on to his round-trip ticket and not letting go of it. You like movies of wild animals and of war because you find that the same old day, following the same old yesterday, is waiting for you as soon as you come out of the movie house… you even like the films that stick so close to reality they nearly give you a heart attack. Is anybody really foolish enough to go to the movies with a real gun, loaded with real bullets? Certain kinds of mice that are said to drink their own urine in place of water, or insects that feed on spoiled meat, or nomadic tribes who know only the one-way ticket at best, can adjust their lives to the desert. If from the beginning you always believed that a ticket was only one-way, then you wouldn’t have to try so vainly to cling to the sand like an oyster to a rock. But nomads have gone so far as to change their name to “stock breeders,” so…
Yes, perhaps he should have spoken about this scenery to the woman. Perhaps he should have sung her the song of the sands, which has absolutely no room for a round-trip ticket, even though he might have sung it badly. At best he had given a poor imitation of a gigolo trying to catch a woman by dangling the bait of a different kind of life. But with his face pressed in the sand, he had been like a cat in a paper bag.
The light on the ridge suddenly vanished. The whole landscape sank into darkness before his eyes. Unnoticed, the wind had died down, and now the mist was coming back strongly. That was probably why the sun had set so abruptly. Well then, let’s go!
25
HE would have to escape by passing through the village before the basket gangs began their work. Judging by experience, there should be about an hour left or, to be on the safe side, forty-five minutes. The spit of the promontory, as if embracing the village, gradually curved in toward the land, reaching as far as the inlet on the east side and squeezing the village road into a single lane. There the sheer cliffs of the promontory ended in what seemed to be slightly elevated, washed-out dunes. If he went straight ahead, keeping the mist-shrouded lights of the village on his right, he could expect to come out just about where the cliffs stopped. It would be a little over a mile. And beyond that lay the outskirts of the village. He could not remember any houses, only occasional plots of peanuts here and there. If he could just get across the dunes, then it would probably be safe to walk down the road. At least the roadbed was red clay, and if he were to run with all his might it would take him about fifteen minutes to get to the highway.
If he could get that far, then he would have won the game. Buses would be running, and people would be in their right minds.
Thus, according to his calculations, he had thirty minutes to get through the village. What was bad about the sand was that one wasted strength, not because one’s feet sank into it but because there was no resistance. Running was most wasteful of all. Walking with long, careful steps would probably be more effective. And yet, the sand compensated for sucking away one’s strength by deadening the sound of footsteps. It was good, at least, that he didn’t have to worry about his footsteps being heard.
Well, look where you’re walking! It didn’t really make any difference whether he fell or not, and he frequently would stumble on the little rises and hollows and sink to his knees. That was all right, but if by chance he were to fall into another sand hole, what in heaven’s name would he do then?
It was dark, and the sand stretched forever on in irregular undulations. There were waves within waves, and within the small ones there were many still smaller ridges and hollows. The lights of the village, on which he had made his fix, seldom came into his view, for they were screened off by the crests of the endless undulations. When he could not see the lights, he went on by instinct. His mistakes were always appallingly major. Perhaps it was because his feet turned irresistibly toward the higher places, unconsciously seeking the lights.
Ah! Again he had made a mistake! It was more to the left. If he went on like this he would end up by going straight into the village. Although he had crossed over three small hill-like dunes, the lights did not seem to be getting much nearer. It seemed as if he were circling around in the same place. Perspiration ran into his eyes. He paused and took a deep breath.
He wondered whether the woman was awake yet. He also wondered what kind of reaction she would have when she did awake and realize that he was not there. No, she probably wouldn’t realize it right away. She would doubtless suppose he was just relieving himself behind the house. Tonight she would be tired. She would be surprised she had slept until it was dark and would probably be barely able to get herself up. Then, finally, she would remember what had happened between them in the morning from the lingering warmth between her legs, still slightly painful and dry. She would smile bashfully as she groped for the lamp.
But anyway, there was no reason for him to feel any obligation or responsibility for her smile. By his disappearance she would lose only a fragment of her life, one that could be easily replaced by a radio or a mirror.
“You’re really a great help,” she had said. “It’s so different from when I was alone. I can take it easy in the mornings, and the work is finished at least two hours sooner. I think I’ll ask the village association to give me some kind of extra work to do at home. I’ll save the money. And someday, maybe I’ll be able to buy a radio or a mirror or something.”
(Radio and mirror… radio and mirror…) As if all of human life could be expressed in those two things alone. Radios and mirrors do have a point in common: both can connect one person with another. Maybe they reflect cravings that touch the core of our existence. All right, when he got home he would buy a radio right away and send it off to her. He would put all the money he had into the best transistor on the market.
But he couldn’t promise the mirror so easily. A mirror would go bad here. The quicksilver on the back would peel off in half a year; even the surface of the glass would get cloudy with the constant chafing of the sand in the air. Just like the mirror she had now: you looked in it with one eye, and you couldn’t see your nose… and if you could see your nose you couldn’t see your mouth. No, it didn’t matter to him how long it lasted. A mirror was different from a radio; for it to be a means of connection she would first have to have somebody else there to see her. What use would a mirror be to someone who no longer could be seen?
She would be feeling surprised about now. She’d prick up her ears. Wasn’t he taking too long about his business? He certainly was… the rascal had been clever enough to get away! Would she set up a howl? he wondered. Would she collapse? Or would her eyes just dim with tears? Whatever she did, it was no longer his responsibility. He was the one who had refused to recognize the necessity for a mirror.
—It’s a story I read some place… Leaving home is all the fashion now. I thought it was because of bad living conditions, but that doesn’t seem to be the only reason. They mentioned a middle-class farm family that had recently added land to its holdings, bought machinery, and was doing quite well, when the eldest son suddenly left home. He was a quiet, hard-working young man, and his parents were completely puzzled; they didn’t know why. In country villages you have social obligations and reputation to think of, so there really must have been a reason for the heir of the family to have left home…
—Yes, certainly. An obligation is an obligation.
—Then, it appears that one of the relatives took th$ trouble to find the young man and hear his story. He wasn’t living with a woman, and he didn’t seem to be driven by debts or pleasure; there was no single concrete motive. Then whatever was the reason? And what the young man said made absolutely no sense at all. He seemed unable to explain it very well himself, beyond saying he just couldn’t stand it any longer.
—There really are foolish people in the world, aren’t there!
—But when you think about it, you can understand his feelings. When farmers increase their workable land they have that much more to do. In the final analysis, there’s no end to their labor, and they only wind up with more to do. However, the farmer at least has a return on his potatoes and rice. Compared with a farmer’s work, shoveling away the sand is like trying to pile up rocks in the River of Hades, where the devils cart them off as fast as you throw them in.
—Well, what happens with the River of Hades in the end?
—Not a thing. It’s an infernal punishment precisely because nothing happens.
—Well then, what happened to the son after that?
—He had planned the whole thing in advance and had probably even settled on a job beforehand.
—And then what did he do?
—Well, he went and took his job.
—And after that?
—Well, after that he probably got his pay on payday, and on Sundays I suppose he put on a clean shirt and went to the movies.
—And then…?
—We’ll never know unless we put the question to him directly, will we?
—And when he saved up some money, he probably bought himself a radio, didn’t he…?
At last, he thought, he had finished his climbing, but he had come only halfway. No, that was wrong. It was already flat here. Where had the lights that he had fixed on gone to? He continued walking with a feeling of disbelief. The place where he stood was apparently the ridge of a rather high dune. Why ever couldn’t he see the lights from here? A feeling of apprehension paralyzed his legs. Perhaps his previous laziness was the cause of his failure. He slid down the steep slope, heedless of the direction. It was an unexpectedly long ravine, not only deep but wide too. Many lines of rippling sand lay tangled and confused at the bottom; they troubled his judgment. Even so, he couldn’t understand at all why the lights of the village were not visible. His margin of error was not more than a half mile on either side of his line of advance. He may have missed his way, but it could not be serious. He wanted to go left, but, perhaps because of his fear of the village, he also felt he should strike out boldly to the right in order to get nearer to the lights. Soon the mist would lift and the stars would come out. The quickest way, in effect, would be to climb up to any elevated place, regardless of where it was, and get the best perspective he could.
Still, he couldn’t understand. He did not understand at all the reason why the woman had to be so attached to that River of Hades… Love of Home and obligation have meaning only if one stands to lose something by throwing them away. What in the world did she have to lose?
(Radio and mirror… radio and mirror…)
>
Of course he would send her a radio. But wouldn’t it work out, to the contrary, that she would lose more than she would gain? For instance, there would be no ceremony of giving him a bath, which she liked so much. She always used to save water for washing him, even at the expense of the laundry. She would splash warm water between his legs and, quite as if she were doing it to herself, bend over squealing in laughter. There would not be another chance for her to laugh like that again.
No, she shouldn’t be under any misapprehension. From the beginning there had been no contract between him and her, and since there had been no contract there could be no breach of contract. Furthermore, he too was not completely untouched. For instance, the stink of the cheap _sake_ that came once a week and seemed as if it had been squeezed from a compost heap… the flexing of the flesh on the inner side of her thighs where he could see the muscles standing out in ridges… the sense of shame in scraping away, with a finger he had wet in his mouth, the sand like burnt rubber that had gathered on the dark lips of her vulva… And her bashful smile that had made these things appear more indecent. If he added them all up, they would come to quite a lot. Even if his involvement seemed unbelievable, it was nonetheless a fact. A man, more than a woman, tends to abandon himself to bits and pieces of things.
When he thought about what the villagers had done, he realized that it would be almost impossible to calculate the harm he had suffered. The relationsip between him and the woman was of little importance. He intended sometime to take a full measure of revenge on them. He hadn’t yet decided what would be the worst. At first he had thought of setting fire to the whole village, or putting poison in the wells, or laying a trap to lure them one by one into a hole in the sand. He had spurred himself on, whipping up his imagination by thinking up such direct measures. But now that he would have the opportunity of actually putting them into practice, he couldn’t continue thinking such childish things. After all, the violence of a single person wouldn’t amount to much. The only way was to make his complaint to the authorities. Even if he did, he was somewhat concerned as to how much of the cruel significance of the experience they would grasp. Well, for the time being, he would report it at least to the prefectural police.
