Secret Rendezvous

by Kōbō Abe

  “But if I don’t find some new clues, I’m stuck in the same old dead end.”

  “It depends on you, and how hard you’re willing to try.”

  ‘‘The assistant director said I should sound out the cleaning women, but …”

  “That’s a waste of time. When you read the guard’s deposition, you’ll see what happened during the transfer to the day shift. He didn’t unlock the custodians’ passageway until he had checked again and again to be absolutely sure that nobody was there. There were positively no witnesses.”

  “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  The man’s voice was shrill; the fingers of both hands were tightly clutching the chair arms. The chief gave a childish grin with that cylindrical mouth, and the superfluous flesh on his face puffed out under his eyes like a pair of buns.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to let you use the playback room next door for a while. That ought to satisfy you. You can become dozens of invisible men simultaneously, walking around and sniffing out the whole hospital.” The chief reached down and brought out a freshly laundered and starched white coat from a shelf beneath the workbench. With a deft twist of a knife he reduced the three black stripes on its breast pocket to one. “For now, until your position is officially settled, I’ll let you use this. It’s handy for getting in and out of the dining hall.”

  The starchy material filled the room with a pleasant, dry crackle. It was too wide in the shoulders, but the length was perfect. Calling to the man to follow, the chief crawled through a gap in the machinery, opened a door in the wall, and beckoned him into the adjoining room.

  (With the sound of that door closing, the first side of tape two comes to an end, leaving an empty space of a dozen seconds or so. Actually, nearly five hours went by in that dozen seconds. Not that what happened then wasn’t important. From the man’s point of view, it was an extremely satisfying period of time. Finally, nine hours after his wife had disappeared, he was able to begin the genuine investigation. In that small cubbyhole, just as the chief had said, he was able to divide himself into dozens of selves at once as if with a magic mirror, appearing and disappearing at will from every corner of the grounds without ever moving, sticking in his nose and looking around as he pleased.)

  At first he felt an almost painful sense of oppression, and faltered. It was as though he had jumped into midair with a parachute. Of course, he had never done such a thing in real life. Skydiving, it was called. You didn’t open your parachute right away, but let the wind pressure distort your face as you clung belly-down like a bug to a log that wasn’t there, falling straight down toward far-off ground that looked like an aerial photograph. It wasn’t so much a fall as a loss of the external world. Perhaps the reason that he could understand the sensation without ever having experienced it was that it resembled a certain kind of awakening.

  The sound of a beer bottle rolling across a tiled floor … the voice of a middle-aged woman, angry that the air conditioning is turned too high … someone’s frightened breathing, age uncertain, and the businesslike, slightly irritated voice of a man, offering encouragement in trite phrases … slippers running hurriedly by … curses of someone bombarded with damp laundry … “Okay? Look, I mean, you know …” “Well, in general, I guess.” “Shall we resign ourselves, then, or what?” “Well, hmm, that’s about the size of it” … the sound of urinating, or perhaps of water being poured into a cup from a faucet … aluminum cans rolling and falling downstairs … sounds of a woman’s panting; suppressed laughter; paper being torn … off-key whistling, like wind through a crack … kittens mewing … “Now, how shall I put it, uh, you know?” . ..

  Since it was a special one-track (all one direction), six-channel recording system, a total of six unrelated sound sequences could be heard simultaneously, three from each headphone. He had to divide his attention among all six at the same time. Some of the sounds went on for a fairly long time, while others lasted only two or three seconds. Some scenes came and went again and again, tenaciously, while others flashed by momentarily, never to reappear. The selection was controlled by microcomputer. First the relayer would begin to work in response to sudden changes in tone or volume; it was programmed to stop recording automatically when the vocal-tension index fell below 3.2 in the case of human voices, or, in the case of other natural sounds, when rhythm and pitch were repeated in fixed patterns. The vocal-tension index was the quantification of physical response to psychological tension, he learned, while the repetition rate of natural sounds was understood to be the reverse function of background activities.

  Therefore, even with channels of limited capacity it was possible to handle vast numbers of sound sources. In the past year, the total number of relayers had reached 214; each one had a receiving area of approximately one hundred meters radius, with a capacity of eight channels, so that a total of 1,712 circuits could be in simultaneous use. The entire hospital, virtually without exception, was thus under constant surveillance.

  The man listened intently to those six interwoven time bands, their flow interrupted by jumps and skips, carefully sifting through the sounds in search of the slightest fragment that might be his wife’s voice. Whenever a certain voice attracted him he could stop the tape and by manipulating switches on the control board play it back again and again as many times as he liked, until he was satisfied. Also, by decoding the pulse engraved on the head of that section of tape, he could find out the number of the relayer from which it had come, and even estimate the location of the concealed microphone with considerable accuracy.

  He concentrated all his powers of attention on listening. Out of consideration for the long hours of work ahead, perhaps, a double curtain of black gauze covered the window, and a one-armed sofa with soft cushions had even been provided. If it turned out that he did find his wife this way, though, wouldn’t it be a little too good to be true? He could not rid himself of a rather forlorn feeling, as though he were trying to scoop up water fleas with a basketball net. No matter how serious a matter this was to him, to the hospital it was doubtless simply the small misfortune of one outsider. If this intensive surveillance system did indeed have all the power that the chief had indicated, then his generosity in so casually yielding up his sanctum was all the more puzzling. The man was not so vain as to imagine that he was worth bothering to deceive, and yet the more he thought, the surer he became that he was being taken in. He couldn’t help thinking that the proper course of action would have been to pour more energy into the less glamorous job of snooping around on foot.

  Without the least regard for such misgivings, however, sounds came pouring out incessantly one after another, toying mercilessly with his emotions. Faint hope for the next instant diverted him each time from his doubts, keeping him pinned where he sat. Every sound, every voice, seemed to flash a clue in front of him. He could not be sure whether he only imagined it, starving for leads as he was, or whether there actually was some cryptogram hidden within the mass of sounds. In any case, it was an incredible barrage. Servility, anger, displeasure, excuses, scornful laughter, insinuations, jealousy, curses … and, permeating each and all of these, a slight indecency. The whispers, especially, were just like the rear view of a human being straddling a toilet bowl. When guilty shame wears a mask of curiosity, men are turned inside out, becoming strangers to themselves. Acute eavesdropping toxemia. The crumbling of his relationship to the outer world, based formerly on his sense of sight, brought on a dizziness like that caused by fear of heights. A time mosaic: moments that existed simultaneously, yet were impossible to experience simultaneously. It was like utter darkness.

  The sense of hearing, compared to the sense of sight, is a fairly passive thing. It is possible to eradicate even a fifty-ton mammoth tanker just by closing the eyes, but it is almost impossible to escape the whirring wings of a single mosquito. By the same token, a barnacle on a tanker’s hull is easily distinguishable, whereas great effort is required to pick out one particular set of footsteps from a
noisy throng in the street. The rate of fatigue is likewise that much greater.

  He was beginning to reach his limits. His neck muscles were as swollen as if he were wearing a lead hat, and the front of his head had started to throb, packed full of his distended eyeballs pressing out of their sockets.

  Then suddenly it hit him. Maybe his wife had long since gone back home, and was there waiting for him even now. Yes … yes, of course … by now she would be worrying about where he was, phoning everywhere in search of him. He looked at his watch and discovered that it was already after six. That meant nearly five hours spent huddled over the control board. He had notified the office that he would be late to work, and then never called back. He would be hard put now to make amends for absenting himself without leave from the important conference that the company president had been scheduled to attend.

  For the present, however, he had to relieve the pressure on his bladder, which was intolerable. Without bothering to notify the security room next door, he stepped outside through another door leading directly to the corridor and ran, scuffling his feet along the quiet ocher porcelain tiles, to the lavatory beside the elevator.

  (The tape begins again here. This is the back of the second cassette. This time, however, since the microphone was not traveling around with me any longer as the FM transmitter in the belt of that rented dress had done, the sound quality and volume are uneven. Moving footsteps … noise of urinating … then a door opening and closing … an overall effect of ragged pieces of time joined together piecemeal….

  The phone rang. It was the horse, asking about my progress with these notes. I parried with a question of my own. Just as he had said, recorded on the very beginning of the first cassette were the sound of footsteps, and a vaguely suggestive atmosphere; he had to have some basis for calling that a lead. I wanted his frank opinion, right away. If he withheld information from me, that was only going to deepen our mutual distrust.

  The horse responded by inviting me to share a late supper with him. He said he preferred to give me a detailed explanation then. In return, he attached the condition that I finish up at least the second tape. I have a general idea of what it is he’s after. All right, so be it. The horizon out my window has disappeared, sea merging imperceptibly into sky. It looks as if it will start raining in earnest.

  I decided to take a break. I lit my eighth cigarette, poured hot water from a thermos into a plastic cup of instant noodles, and sipped on a can of Coke while I waited until it was ready to eat. I took out my contact lenses and gave myself some eye drops.)

  When he came back from the lavatory, the door from the assistant director’s office was standing ajar, as though waiting for him. The secretary was peering through the crack in the door, smiling, her face half hidden. He couldn’t go by without saying something.

  “Okay if I use the phone?”

  She nudged the door open with her hip and quickly disappeared inside. Was she inviting him in? Or was she trying to speak as little as possible, on guard against some hidden microphone?

  “Close the door.” She spoke in a whisper and perched herself on the arm of a sofa by the wall. “Dial zero for outside calls.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  The phone was a new improved model, and the dial spun around lightly. Listening to the first ring, he mentally reviewed all the bizarre events of that day, feeling as though he had finally reached shelter from a rainstorm. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner? In a few seconds, at the other end of the line his wife would pick up the receiver; in the next moment the curtains would part and sunlight pour through, and all the phantoms on the screen would vanish away. He would run straight out and be damned if he ever had anything to do with this place again. He could sense his own health starting to shine glossily under his skin, like blue neon.

  The bell kept ringing.

  “No answer, huh?”

  “I’m calling home.”

  As the secretary shifted her position on the armrest, the front of her white coat parted, exposing one leg all the way to the top of the thigh. Her sleek, sunburned skin was as smooth as wax. Didn’t she have anything on under her white coat except underwear, then?

  The number of rings passed ten.

  “Looks like nobody’s home.”

  “She’s probably busy and can’t get away, out in the kitchen frying dinner or something. …”

  The secretary did not reply. Without attempting to fix the hem of her uniform, although she must have been aware of his stare, she tapped out a light rhythm with her bare toes, legs stretched out. He felt a sudden urge to put his fingers in the dimples in her kneecaps.

  The phone kept ringing. At the thirty-fifth ring he quit trying. The secretary stood up. Closing the front of her uniform, she covered her knees. Sometimes when a self-centered woman is being deliberately flirtatious she behaves with that sort of unpredictability.

  “The employees’ dining hall closes at eight-thirty. If you want, why don’t you come with me?”

  “I have one other call to make.”

  Peering at his hand as he spun the dial, the secretary rested her chin on the man’s shoulder as she spoke.

  “Your office.”

  “How did you know?”

  “But nobody’ll be there now.”

  A recorded voice answered.

  Today s business hours ended at six o’clock. Thank you.

  As he replaced the receiver, there was a far-off sound like the tinkle of a bell on a Buddhist altar. It was like waking from a dream of falling, only to find that he was still falling in real life.

  “That coat doesn’t fit you too well, but as long as it’s right inside the building . . Looking up at him, she pulled on the button of her own collar. Her low-cut brassiere was purplish-red, a color that only goes well with light skin. “I have a meal ticket for you from the assistant director, but you’ll have to pay for any drinks on your own, okay?”

  “I don’t feel like eating yet.”

  “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, though, don’t you?”

  Urging him to come along, she preceded him out into the corridor. The man followed behind, but then planted his feet down firmly to signify he meant to go no farther.

  “I’ve got to hurry and do the rest of those tapes….’’

  “But you’ve barely finished the first reel! There’s no point in being in such a hurry.”

  “Are there a lot more?”

  He felt as though he had licked the blade of a safety razor. The secretary opened her mouth so wide he could have peered down her throat, and laughed noiselessly.

  “Of course! There are hundreds, thousands of hidden microphones all over the hospital. How could they all fit on just six channels?” She cut back across the corridor diagonally, opened the security room door without knocking, and poked her head inside. “How many reels so far today?”

  The chief’s resonant voice came booming back, as if he had been waiting to be asked.

  “Six and a half.”

  “Just this morning?”

  “That’s right, up till noon. .. .”

  Closing the door with an elbow, she spun around on one heel and came back, the rubber soles of her red sandals making short little squeaks. As she brushed by, she wound her arm around his, but the man broke away, his mind elsewhere.

  “I’ve been tricked.”

  “What do you mean? …”

  “It takes seven hours to listen to one hour’s worth, then.

  It’s like playing hide-and-seek with my own shadow while it stretches out longer and longer. I’ll never be able to catch up.”

  “But you’re the only one who could pick out your wife’s voice. You can’t expect anybody else to help.”

  “This is like trying to catch the bullet train on a bicycle.”

  “Isn’t that what reality is like? In a lottery, nothing says first prize can’t turn up until all the lots are drawn.”

  Perhaps she was right. He could see that da
ys spent in prison counting until the end of one’s term would be far more real than a dream of innocence in a detention center. But if this was reality, then what of those peaceful days before his wife was carried off; were they only a memory? All at once it seemed the tender hairs on his wife’s ear lobe brushed against the tip of his nose, like a soft wisp of air.

  This time the secretary wrapped her eyes around him instead of her arm. She was a woman whose outlines were disturbingly distinct. His impression of his wife, by contrast, was as pale and light as beaten egg whites.

  “Cheer up; stop looking as if you’d watched too many late late shows on TV….”

  Running her eyes swiftly along the line between ceiling and wall, she put a finger to her lips and quickly began walking. Dragged along by the dramatic gesture, the man ended up following behind.

  The elevator lights indicated that the elevator was at the fourth floor, going down. They would have to wait awhile. In the light of the setting sun, shining in through windows on either side, the entire corridor gleamed like the inside of a well-greased cylinder. She peered around cautiously on both sides, then looked up at him with a conspiratorial smile; when she finally began talking, however, what she came out with was perfectly harmless and ordinary. Later she told him it had been a diversionary tactic for the benefit of hidden mikes.

  “This is the center of the building. Both sides are exactly symmetrical. This whole side is partitioned off for the assistant director’s own use. The other side used to be reserved for the director, but three years ago they converted his office and the meeting rooms and secretaries’ offices into data storage centers.

  The tapes alone take up an enormous amount of space. In another two or three years this part will be full, too.”

  “So the director moved somewhere else?”

  She only leaned her head to one side, and didn’t answer. The elevator came. As soon as she stepped inside, she pressed the red “capacity” light and gave a naughty laugh, wrinkling the skin above her nose. That way they would be able to go all the way to the second basement without stopping for other passengers.