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PART III 28 OCTOBER. During the day the traces of summer, reluctant to depart, still set the sand afire, and their bare feet could not stand it for more than five minutes at a time. But when the sun set, the crack-ridden walls of the room let in the cold night damp, and they had to get on with the work of drying out the wet ashes in the hearth. Because of the change in temperature on windless mornings and evenings, the mist rose like a muddy river. One day he tried setting a trap to catch crows in the empty space behind the house. He named it "Hope." The device was exceptionally simple. It made use of the special properties of the sand. He dug a rather deep hole, and in the bottom he buried a wooden bucket. With three sticks the size of matches he propped open a cover slightly smaller than the mouth of the bucket. To each stick he tied a thin thread. The threads ran through a hole in the middle of the lid and were connected to a wire on the outside. To the end of the wire he attached a piece of dried fish as bait And the whole thing was carefully concealed with sand. From the outside the only thing visible was the bait at the bottom of a sand bowl. As soon as a crow took the bait, the sticks would slip out, the lid would fall down, the sand would slide in, and the crow would be buried alive. He had made two or three trial runs; everything worked perfectly. He could visualize the pitiful figure of the crow swallowed up by the sliding sand, without having had the time even to flap its wings. And then he would write a letter and fasten it to the crow's leg. Of course, it was all a question of luck. In the first place, the possibility was very slight that, when he released the crow, it would fall into anyone's hands. He would never know where it would fly off to. Usually, the radius of a crow's flight was very limited. The worst risk was that the villagers would notice one crow in the flock with a piece of white paper attached to its legs and leam all about his plans. All his long-suffering patience would have been for nought. Since he had failed in his escape, he had become extremely cautious. He adjusted himself to the life of the hole, as if it were a kind of hibernation, concentrating his efforts on making the villagers relax their vigilance. Repetition of the same patterns, they say, provides an effective form of protective coloring. If he were to melt into a life of simple repetition, there might possibly come a time when they could be quite unconscious of him. There was another effective element in repetition. For example, the woman had devoted herself for the last two months, day in and day out, to stringing beads, concentrating so fiercely that her face seemed bloated. Her long needle seemed to dance as she picked up with its fine tip the metallic beads scattered in the bottom of a cardboard box. He estimated her savings to be around two thousand yen, enough to make a down payment on a radio in another two weeks. There was an importance about the dancing needle that made him feel it was the center of the world. Her repetitious movements gave color to the present and a feeling of actuality. The man, not to be outdone, decided to concentrate likewise on some especially monotonous handwork. Sweeping sand from the ceiling, sifting rice, washing—such work had already become his major daily occupations. The time flew by, at least while he was at work. His invention of a small tent made of plastic to shelter them from the sand while they slept, and the device for steaming fish by burying it in hot sand—such things made time pass rather pleasantly. Since he had come back, in order not to upset himself, he had really tried to get along without reading any newspapers. After a week, he had no longer thought about reading. After a month, he almost forgot there were such things as newspapers. Once he had seen a reproduction of an engraving called "Hell of Loneliness" and had thought it curious. In it a man was floating unsteadily in the air, his eyes wide with fright, and the space around him, far from being empty, was so filled with the semi-transparent shadows of dead persons that he could scarcely move. The dead, each with a different expression, were trying to push one another away, talking ceaselessly to the man. What was this "Hell of Loneliness"? he wondered. Perhaps they had misnamed it, he had thought then, but now he could understand it very well. Loneliness was an unsatisfied thirst for illusion. And so, one bit one's nails, unable to find contentment in the simple beating of one's heart… one smoked, unable to be satisfied with the rhythm of one's brain… one had the shakes, unable to find satisfaction in sex alone. Breathing, walking, bowel movements, daily schedules, Sundays coming every seven days, final exams after every four months, far from quieting him, had had the effect rather of pushing him toward a new repetition of them. Soon his cigarette smoking had increased, and he had had terrible nightmares in which he was looking for a hiding place away from the eyes of people with a woman who had dirty fingernails, and when finally he noticed that he was beginning to show toxic symptoms, he suddenly awoke to the heavens governed by an extremely simple elliptic cycle, and the sand dunes ruled by the i/8- mm. wavelengths. Even though he felt a certain gentle contentment in the handwork which he performed daily and in the repeated battle with the sand, his reaction was not quite masochistic. He would not find it strange if such a cure really existed. But one morning, along with the regular deliveries, he was presented with a cartoon magazine. The magazine was nothing in itself. The cover was worn and greasy with fingerprints; it must have been something they had gotten from a junkman. Yet, except for the fact that it was dirty, it was the kind of thoughtfulness the villagers were likely to display. What puzzled him was that he had rolled over in laughter at it, beating the floor and writhing as if he were having convulsions. The cartoons were exceedingly stupid. They were meaningless, vulgar sketches that had been dashed off, and had he been asked, he would never have been able to explain why they were so amusing. One was so very funny only because of the expression on the face of a horse that had fallen down, its legs broken under the weight of the big bruiser who had mounted it. How could he laugh so when he was in such a position? Shame on him! There was a limit to how far he should accommodate himself to his present plight. He had intended this accommodation to be a means, never a goal. It sounded all right to talk of hibernating, but had he changed into a mole and lost all desire to show his face in the sunlight again for the rest of his life? When he thought about it, he realized there was absolutely no way of knowing when and in what way an opportunity for escape would come. It was possible to conceive of simply becoming accustomed to waiting, with no particular goal in mind, and when his hibernation was at last over, he would be dazzled by the light, unable to come out. Three days a beggar, always a beggar, they say. Such internal rot apparently comes on unexpectedly fast. He was thinking seriously about this, but the moment he recalled the expression on the horse's face he was again seized with moronic laughter. In the lamplight the woman, concentrating as usual on the fine work of stringing beads, raised her head and smiled back at him innocently. He could not bear his own deception, and, tossing the magazine away, he went out. A milky mist billowed and swirled above the cliff. Spaces of shadow, speckled with the remains of night… spaces that sparkled as if with glowing wire… spaces flowing with particles of shining vapor. The combination of shadows was filled with fantasies and stirred limitless reveries in him. He would never tire of looking at the sight. Every moment overflowed with new discoveries. Everything was there, actual shapes confounded with fantastic forms he had never seen before. He turned toward the swirling mass and appealed to it involuntarily. —Your Honor, I request to be told the substance of the prosecution. I request to be told the reason for my sentence. You see the defendant before you, awaiting your pleasure. Then a voice he remembered hearing before answered him from the mist. It sounded suddenly muffled, as if it were coming through a telephone. —One out of every hundred, after all… —What did you say? —I am telling you that in Japan schizophrenia occurs at the rate of one out of every hundred persons. —What in the name of… —Kleptomania also seems to occur in about one out of every hundred. —What in the name of heaven are you talking about? —If there is one per cent of homosexuality among men, then naturally there must also be about one per cent of lesbianism among women. Incendiaries account for one per cent; those who tend to be vicious drinkers, for one per cent; mentally retarded, one per cent; sexual maniacs, one per cent; megalomaniacs, one per cent; habitual swindlers, one per cent; frigid women, one per cent; terrorists, one per cent; paranoiacs, one per cent… —I wish you'd stop talking nonsense. —Well, listen to me calmly. Acrophobes, heroin addicts, hysterics, homicidal maniacs, syphilitics, morons—suppose there were one per cent of each of these, the total would be twenty per cent. If you could enumerate eighty more abnormalities at this rate—and of course you could—there would be statistical proof that humanity is a hundred per cent abnormal. —What nonsense! Abnormality would not come into being if there were no standard of normality! —Come, come. I was just trying to defend you… —Defend me…? —Even you will scarcely insist on your own guilt, I imagine. —No, naturally! —Then I wish you'd behave more obediently. No matter how exceptional your case is, there's absolutely no cause for worry. Just as people have no obligation to save a strange bird like you, they also don't have the right to judge you either. —Strange bird? Why does resisting illegal detention make me a strange bird? —Don't pretend you're so innocent. In Japan, a typical area of high humidity and heat, eighty-seven per cent of annual damage is by water; damage by wind-blown sand, as in your case, would hardly come to a thousandth of one per cent. Ridiculous! It would be like passing special laws against water damage in the Sahara Desert. —I'm not talking about special laws. I'm talking about the suffering I went through. Illegal detention is illegal, whether it's in a desert or a bog. —Oh, illegal detention… But there's no end to human greed, don't you see? You're a valuable possession for the villagers… —Oh, balls! Even I have more of a reason for existence than that —You're quite sure it's all right to find fault with your beloved sand? —Fault? —I hear there are people in the world who, over a period of ten years, have calculated the value of pi to several hundred decimal places. All right, I suppose they have that much reason for existence. But you took the trouble of coming to such a place as this precisely because you rejected such a reason for existence. —No, that's not true. Even sand has a completely opposite face. You can use it to make casting molds. And it's also an indispensable material for setting concrete. Research is being done on improved farming by talcing advantage of the fact that sand easily eliminates weeds and fungus growths. They have even experimented with changing sand into soil by using soil-disintegrating enzymes. You can't talk about sand so sweepingly. —Come, come, now. What proselytism! If you change your point of view so much I won't know what to believe, will I? —I don't want to die like a beggar! —Well, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other, isn't it? The fish you don't catch is always the biggest. —Damn it, who are you? But the mist billowed in and erased the other voice. Instead, a hundred sheaves of light, ruler straight, slid down. His head spun, and he smothered a feeling of exhaustion which welled up in him like smoke. A crow cawed. Suddenly remembering the trap, he decided to go around in back of the house and take a look at "Hope." There was no likelihood of success, but it would be better than the cartoon magazine. The bait hung just as it was when he had set the trap. The stink of rotten fish struck his nose. It had been over two weeks since he had set "Hope," and nothing whatever had happened. What could the reason possibly be? He had confidence in the construction. If a crow would just take the bait, it would be nabbed. But he was completely helpless, since they paid no attention to it in the first place. But what could be so displeasing to them about "Hope?" No matter from what angle he looked, he could find nothing suspicious about the trap. Crows were uncommonly cautious because they scavenged for human refuse around where people lived. Well then, it was a question of who would have the most patience… until they became completely accustomed to the rotten fish in the hole. Patience itself was not necessarily defeat. Rather, defeat really began when patience was thought to be defeat. He had named the contraption "Hope" originally with this in mind. The Cape of Good Hope was not Gibraltar, but Capetown. He returned slowly to the house, dragging his feet. It was time to sleep again. 29 WHEN the woman saw him, she blew out the lamp as if she had just remembered and changed her position to a lighter place near the door. Did she still mean to go on working? he wondered. Suddenly he felt an irresistible impulse. Standing in front of her, he struck the box of beads from her knees. Black grains, like grass seed, flew over the earthen floor, sinking at once into the sand. She stared at him with a startled look, but said nothing. All expression suddenly left the man's face. A weak groan came from his sagging lips… followed by some yellowish spittle. "It's pointless. You might as well give up. It's all so pointless. The poison'll soon be in your blood." She still said nothing. The beads which she had already strung swung feebly back and forth between her fingers, shining like drops of molasses. A slight shaking rose through his body. "Yes, indeed. Soon it'll be too late. We'll look one day and find that the villagers have disappeared to a man and that we're the only ones left. I know it… it's true. This is going to happen soon for sure. It'll already be too late by the time we realize we've been betrayed. What we've done for them up till now will be just a joke to them." The woman's eyes were fixed on the beads which she held in her hands. She shook her head weakly. "They couldn't do that. It's not anybody can make a living once he gets out of here." "It all comes to the same thing then, doesn't it? Anyone who stays here is not living much of a life either." "But there is the sand…" "The sand?" The man clamped his teeth together, rolling his head. "What good is sand? Outside of giving you a hard time it doesn't bring in a penny." "Yes, it does. They sell it." "You sell it? Who do you sell such stuff to?" "Well, to construction companies and places like that. They mix it with concrete…" "Don't joke! It would be a fine mess if you mixed this sand with cement—it's got too much salt in it. In the first place, if'sprobably against the law or at least against construction regulations…" "Of course, they sell it secretly. They cut the hauling charges in half too…" "That's too absurd! Even if half price were free, that won't make it right when buildings and dams start to fall to pieces, will it?" The woman suddenly interrupted him with accusing eyes. She spoke coldly, looking at his chest, and her attitude was completely different. "Why should we worry what happens to others?" He was stunned. The change was complete, as if a mask had dropped over her face. It seemed to be the face of the village, bared to him through her. Until then the village was supposed to be on the side of the executioner. Or maybe they were mindless man-eating plants, or avaricious sea anemones, and he was supposed to be a pitiful victim who happened to be in their clutches. But from the standpoint of the villagers, they themselves were the ones who had been abandoned. Naturally there was no reason why they should be under obligation to the outside world. So if it were he who caused injury, their fangs should accordingly be bared to him. It had never occurred to him to think of his relationship with the village in that light It was natural that they should be confused and upset. But even if that were the case, and he conceded the point, it would be like throwing away his own justification. "Well, maybe you don't have to worry about other people," he said, trying desperately to re-establish his position, "but someone is ultimately getting a lot of money out of this sneaky business, isn't he? You don't have to lend your support to people like that…" "Oh, no. Buying and selling the sand is done by the union." "I see. But even so, with the amount of investments or stock involved…" "Anybody who was rich enough to have boats or anything got out of here a long time ago. You and I have been treated very well… Really, they weren't unfair to us. If you think I'm lying, get them to show you their records, and you'll see right away…" The man stood rooted where he was in a vague confusion and malaise. For some reason he felt terribly downhearted. His military map, on which enemy and friendly forces were supposed to be clearly defined, was blurred with unknowns of intermediate colors like indeterminate blobs of ink. When he thought about it, he realized there was no need to get so upset over such an insignificant thing as a cartoon book. There was no one anywhere around who would have cared whether he laughed stupidly or not. His throat tightened, and he began to mutter disconnectedly. "Well, yes… Yes, of course. It's true about other people's business…" Then words which he did not expect came by themselves to his lips. "Let's buy a pot with a plant in it sometime, shall we?" He was astonished himself, but the woman's expression was even more puzzled, and so he could not back down. "It's so dreary not to have anything to rest your eyes on…" She answered in an uneasy voice: "Shall we have a pine?" "A pine? I don't like pines. Anything would be better than that—even weeds. There's quite a bit of grass growing out toward the promontory. What do you call that?" "It's a kind of wheat or dune grass, I suppose. But a tree would be better, wouldn't it?" "If we get a tree, let's get a maple or a paulownia, with thin branches and large leaves… something with leaves that will flutter in the wind." Ones that flutter… clusters of leaves, twisting and fluttering, trying in vain to escape from their branch… His breath, unrelated to his feeling, sounded shallow. Somehow he felt he was about to break out in tears. Quickly he bent down where the beads had spilled on the earthen floor and began to feel around over the surface of the sand with an awkward groping gesture. The woman stood up hastily. "Let it go. I'll do it myself. It'll be easy if I use a sieve." 30 ONE day, as he stood urinating and gazing at the grayish moon, poised on the edge of the hole as if it wanted to be held in his arms, he was suddenly seized with a terrible chill. Had he caught a cold? he wondered. No, this chill seemed to be a different kind. Many times he had experienced the sort of chill that comes just before a fever, but this was something else. He had no gooseflesh, no sense of the pricking of the air. It was the marrow of his bones rather than the surface of his skin that was trembling. And it was like ripples of water, spreading in slowly widening circles out from the center. A dull and ceaseless ache echoed from bone to bone. It was as if a rusty tin can, clattering along in the wind, had gone through his body. As he stood there, trembling, looking at the moon, a series of associated ideas occurred to him. The surface of the moon was like a grainy, powder-covered scar… cheap, dried-out soap… a rusty aluminum lunchbox. Then, as it came into focus, it assumed an unexpected form: a white skull—the universal symbol for poison… white, powder- covered tablets at the bottom of his insect bottle… an amazing resemblance between the texture of the moon's surface and that of the efflorescent tablets of potassium cyanide. He wondered if the bottle were still hidden under the ledge that ran around the earthen floor, near the entrance, where he had left it. His heart began to jump irregularly, like a broken ping-pong ball. Why did he have to think up such sinister things?… A pretty sad association of ideas. And even if he hadn't, the October wind carried an oppressive echo of regret, its reedy voice sounding through empty, seedless husks. As he looked up at the rim of the hole, faintly limned in the moonlight, he mused that this searing feeling of his was perhaps jealousy. Maybe it was a jealousy of all things that presented a form outside the hole: streets, trolley cars, traffic signals at intersections, advertisements on telephone poles, the corpse of a cat, the drugstore where they sold cigarettes. Just as the sand nibbled aw?y at the insides of the wooden walls and the uprights, so his jealousy was gnawing holes in him, making him like an empty pot on a stove. But the temperature of an empty pot rises quickly. And it might happen that soon, unable to stand the heat any longer, he would give up. First came the problem of weathering this moment, before he could talk about hope. He wanted lighter air! At least fresh air, unmixed with his own breath. How wonderful it would be if once a day, even for a half hour, he could climb up the cliff and look out over the sea. He should be allowed to do that much. Their check on him was too strict for him to escape, and then too it would seem to be a very reasonable request, considering the faithful work he had performed for them over more than three months. Even a prisoner in confinement had the right to a period of exercise. "I really can't stand it! If I keep on like this, sticking my nose in the sand every day in the year, I'll turn into a human pickle! I wonder if I could get them to let me walk around once in a while?" The woman kept her mouth closed as if annoyed. She looked like someone who does not know what to do with a peevish child who has lost his candy. "I won't let them say I can't!" Suddenly the man became angry. He even mentioned the rope ladder, so hard for him to talk about because of the loathsome memories. "The other day, when I was running away, I saw it with my own eyes. Some houses in this row actually had rope ladders hanging down to them." "Yes… but…" she said timidly as if apologizing, "most of those people have been living there for generations." "Well, do you mean that there's no hope for us?" The woman bent her head with resignation, like a dejected dog. Even if he swallowed the potassium cyanide before her very eyes, she would probably let him go through with it without saying a word. "All right. I'll try to negotiate directly with them." However, in his heart he did not expect that such negotiations would be successful. He was quite used to being disappointed. And so, when the old man at once brought back an answer with the second gang of basket bolsters, he was surprised and bewildered. But his surprise was unimportant compared with the contents of the answer. "Well, let's see…" the old man said slowly and falteringly, speaking as if he were arranging his old papers in his head. "It's, ah… not… ah… absolutely impossible to arrange… Well, this is just an example, but if the two of you came out front… with all of us watching you… and if you'd go to it… and let us see… Well, what you want is reasonable enough, so we've all decided… uh… that it's all right…" "What do you mean, let you see?" "Well… uh… the two of you… doing it together… that's what we mean." Around him the gang of basket carriers suddenly broke out in a mad laughing. The man stood numbly, as if someone v/ere strangling him, but slowly he began to understand exactly what they meant. And he began to understand that he understood. Once he had comprehended, their proposal didn't seem particularly surprising. The beam of a flashlight skimmed by his feet like some golden bird. As if it were a sign, seven or eight more shafts fused into a dish of light and began to creep around the bottom of the hole. Overpowered by the burning, resinous ardor of the men at the top of the cliff he was almost caught up in their madness before he could resist. Slowly he turned toward the woman. She had been wielding her shovel there until a moment ago, and now she had vanished. Had she fled into the house? He looked in at the door and called to her. "What shall we do?" The woman's muffled voice came from directly behind the wall. "Let them be!" "But I want to get out I really do…" "But how can you... "You mustn't take it so seriously." "Have you gone out of your mind?" the woman suddenly gasped. "You must have. You've left your senses. I couldn't do a thing like that. I'm not sex-mad." Was it really true? he wondered. Had he gone out of his mind? He winced from the woman's vehemence, but inside him spread a kind of perverse blankness. He had been trampled this much… what difference could appearances make now? If there was something wrong from the standpoint of the one who was being watched, then there was just as much wrong from that of the ones who were watching. There was no need to distinguish between watcher and watched. There might still be some difference between them, but this little ceremony would be enough to make it vanish. And just think what he could get as a prize… ground on which he could walk where he wished. He wanted to take a deep breath with his face above the surface of this stagnant water! Sensing where the woman was, he suddenly threw his whole body upon her. Her cries and the sound of the two of them, entangled, falling against the sand wall, roused an animal-like excitement and frenzy at the top of the cliff. Whistling, clapping… obscene, wordless screams… The number of watchers had grown and now included some young women among the men. And the number of flashlights whose light flooded over the doorway had increased at least three times. He had been successful, perhaps because he had taken her by surprise. Somehow he was able to drag her outside, holding her by the collar. She was a dead, baglike weight. The lights, in a tight semicircle around three sides of the hole, were like the bonfires of some nocturnal festival. Although it was not really that hot, perspiration like a layer of flayed skin poured from his armpits, and his hair was soaked as if he had poured water over it. The cries of the onlookers were like compressed reverbera tions, filling the sky over his head with great black wings. He felt as if the wings were his own. He could feel the breathless villagers looking down from the top of the cliff, so clearly they could have been himself. They were a part of him, their viscid, drooling saliva was his own desire. In his mind he was the executioner's representative rather than the victim. The string of her trousers was unexpectedly troublesome. It was dark, and his trembling fingers seemed twice as clumsy as-usual. When at last he had torn them off, he grabbed her buttocks in his two hands and shifted his hips under her, but at that instant she twisted her body and wrenched away. He churned through the sand as he tried to catch her, but again he was pushed back with a steel-like resistance. He grabbed her violently, entreating: "Please! Please! I can't really do it anyway… just pretend…" However, there was no need to grasp at her any longer. She had already lost all desire to escape. He heard a noise of cloth tearing, and at the same instant he was struck a terrible blow in the belly by the point of her shoulder, which bore the weight and anger of her whole body. He simply grasped his knees and bent in two. The woman, leaning over him, struck his face again and again with her fists. At first her movements seemed slow, but each blow, delivered as though she were pounding salt, carried weight. Blood gushed from his nose. Sand clung to the blood; his face was a lump of earth. The excitement at the top of the cliff rapidly folded like an umbrella with broken ribs. Although they tried to join their voices of discontent and laughter and urging into one, they were already out of step and ragged. The obscene and drunken boos and hisses did nothing to arouse enthusiasm. Someone threw something, but he was at once reproved by someone else. The end was as abrupt as the beginning. Cries urging the men back to work trailed in the distance, and the line of lights disappeared as if they had been drawn in. All that remained was the dark north wind, blowing away the last traces of excitement. But the man, beaten and covered with sand, vaguely thought that everything, after all, had gone as it was written it should. The idea was in a corner of his consciousness, like a . sodden undergarment, where only the beating of his heart was painfully clear. The woman's arms, hot as fire, were under his armpits, and the odor of her body was a thorn piercing his nose. He abandoned himself to her hands as if he were a smooth, flat stone in a river bed. It seemed that what remained of him had turned into a liquid and melted into her body. 31 MONOTONOUS weeks of sand and night had gone by. "Hope," as before, lay neglected by the crows. And the bait of dried fish had become not even that. Although spurned by the crows, it had not been spurned by the bacteria. One morning when he felt the end of the stick, he found that only the skin remained; the fish had turned into a black, almost liquid pulp. As he was changing the bait, he decided at the same time to check on the contraption. He scraped away the sand and opened the cover; he was thunderstruck. Water had collected at the bottom of the bucket. There were only about four inches, but it was more clear by far—indeed it was almost pure—than the water with the metallic film which was delivered to them daily. Had it rained some time recently? he wondered. No. Not for a half month at least. If that were true, then could it be the rain that was left from a half month ago? He would like to think so, but what puzzled him was that he knew the bucket leaked. And when he raised it up, as he had expected, water at once began to fall from the bottom. At that depth there could be no underground spring, and he was obliged to recognize that the escaping water was being constantly replenished from somewhere. At least, that must be theoretically so. But wherever could the replenishment come from in the midst of this parched sand? He could scarcely contain his gradually rising excitement There was only one answer he could think of. That was the capillary action of the sand. Because the surface sand had a high specific heat, it was invariably dry, but when you dug down a little the under part was always damp. It must be that the surface evaporation acted as a kind of pump, drawing up the subsurface water. When he thought about it, everything was easily explained—the enormous quantity of mist that came out of the dunes every morning and evening, the abnormal moisture which clung to the pillars and walls, rotting the wood. In short, the dryness of the sand was not due simply to a lack of water, but rather, it would seem, to the fact that the suction caused by capillary attraction never matched the speed of evaporation. In other words, the water was being constantly replenished. But this water circulated at a speed unthinkable in ordinary soil. And it had happened that "Hope" had cut off the circulation some place. Probably the chance placing of the bucket and the crack around the lid had been enough to prevent evaporation of the water that had been sucked up in the bucket. He could not yet explain exactly the placing and its relationship to the other elements, but with study he would surely be able to repeat the experiment Moreover, it should not be impossible to construct a more efficient device for storing the water. If he were successful in this experiment he would no longer have to give in to the villagers if they cut off his water. But more important, he had found that the sand was an immense pump. It was just as if he were sitting on a suction pump. He had to sit down for a moment and control his breathing in order to quiet the wild beating of his heart. Of course, there was no need yet to tell anyone about this. It would be his trump card in case of emergency. But he could not suppress the natural laughter that welled up in him. Even if he were able to keep silent about "Hope," it was hard to conceal the elation in his heart. He suddenly let out a cry and put his arms around the woman's hips from behind as she was getting the bed ready. And when she dodged away he fell over on his back and lay kicking his legs and laughing all the while. It was as if his stomach were being tickled by a paper balloon filled with some special light gas. He felt that the hand he held to his face was floating free in the air. The woman laughed reluctantly, but it was probably only to be agreeable. He was thinking of the vast network of water veins creeping up through the sand, but the woman, on the contrary, was surely thinking that his actions were sexual advances. That was all right. Only a shipwrecked person who has just escaped drowning could understand the psychology of someone who breaks out in laughter just because he is able to breathe. The fact that he was still just as much at the bottom of the hole as ever had not changed, but he felt quite as if he had climbed to the top of a high tower. Perhaps the world had been turned upside down and its projections and depressions reversed. Anyway, he had discovered water in this sand. As long as he had his device the villagers would not be able to interfere with him so easily. No matter how much they cut off his supply, he would be able to get along very well. Again laughter welled up in him at the very thought of the outcry the villagers would make. He was still in the hole, but it seemed as if he were already outside. Turning around, he could see the whole scene. You can't really judge a mosaic if you don't look at it from a distance. If you really get close to it you get lost in detail. You get away from one detail only to get caught in another. Perhaps what he had been seeing up until now was not the sand but grains of sand. He could say precisely the same thing about the other woman and his former fellow teachers. He had been con cerned up until now only with curiously exaggerated details: nostrils in a thick nose, wrinkled lips or smooth, thin lips, spatulate fingers or pointed fingers, flecked eyes, a string of warts under a collarbone, violet veins running over a breast. If he looked very closely at those parts alone he would feel like vomiting. But to eyes with magnifying lenses everything seemed tiny and insectlike. The little ones crawling around over there were his colleagues having a cup of tea in the faculty room. The one in this comer was the other woman, naked, on a dampish bed, her eyes half closed, motionless although the ash of her cigarette was about to fall. Moreover, he felt, without the slightest jealousy, that the little insects were like cookie molds. Cookie molds have only edges and no insides. Even so, there was no need to be such a dedicated cookie maker as to be unable to resist making unneeded cookies just to use the mold. If the chance occurred for him to renew his relationship with them, he would have to start all over again from the very beginning. The change in the sand corresponded to a change in himself. Perhaps, along with the water in the sand, he had found a new self. Thus, work on a water trap was added to his daily occupations. Figures and diagrams began to accumulate—the place to bury the bucket, the shape of the bucket, the relationship between daylight hours and the rate of water accumulation, the influence of temperature and barometric pressure on the efficiency of the apparatus. But it was incomprehensible to the woman why he could be so enthusiastic about anything so insignificant as a crow trap. She recognized that no man can get along without some sort of plaything, and if he was satisfied with that one, it suited her. Moreover, she did not know why, but he had begun to show more interest in her own craft work. It wasn't at all a disagreeable feeling. The question of the crow trap aside, she had still benefited considerably. But he too had his own reasons and motives. His work on the device was unexpectedly troublesome, for it was necessary to combine many elements. The number of materials increased, but it was hard to find a law that would govern them all. If he wanted to make his data more precise, he needed a radio in order to tune in the weather reports. The radio had become their common objective. At the beginning of November he had recorded the daily intake of water at one gallon, but after that the quantity began to fall off every day. It was perhaps because of the temperature, and it appeared that he would have to await spring to try a full-scale experiment. The long, hard winter had at last come, and bits of ice were blown along with the sand. In the meantime, in order to get a somewhat better radio, he decided to give the woman a hand with her craft work. One good point was that the inside of the hole was protected from the wind, yet it was unbearable with the sun scarcely visible throughout the day. Even on days when the sand froze over, the amount that blew along in the wind did not decrease, and there was no respite from the work of shoveling. Many times the chilblains on his fingers broke and began to bleed. In some way, winter passed and spring came. At the beginning of March they got the radio. On the roof they erected a high antenna. The woman joyfully and repeatedly voiced her wonder, turning the dial left and right for half a day. At the end of that month, she found herself pregnant. Two more months went by. Large white birds kept flying over from east to west for three days in succession, and on the following day the lower part of her body was covered with blood and she complained of violent pain. One of the villagers, who was said to have a veterinarian among her relatives, diagnosed it as an extra-uterine pregnancy, and it was decided to take her to the hospital in the city in the three-wheeled truck. The man sat with her as they waited for the truck to come, letting her hold one of his hands, while with the other he kept rubbing her belly. Finally the three-wheeler stopped at the top of the cliff. A rope ladder was let down for the first time in a half year, and the woman, wrapped in her blankets as in a cocoon, was hauled up by rope. She looked at him beseechingly with eyes almost blinded by tears and mucus, until she could see him no longer. The man looked away as if he did not see her. Even though she had been taken away, the rope ladder remained as it was. He hesitantly reached out and touched it with his fingertips. After making sure it would not vanish, he slowly began to climb up. The sky was a dirty yellow. His arms and legs felt heavy, as if he had just come out of water. This was the long-awaited rope ladder. The wind seemed to snatch the breath from his mouth. Circling around the edge of the hole, he climbed to a spot where he could view the sea. The sea too was a dirty yellow. He breathed deeply, but the air only irritated his throat, and it did not taste as he had expected. He turned around. A cloud of sand rose on the outskirts of the village. It was probably the three-wheeler with the woman, he thought. Oh, yes… maybe he should have told her the real significance of the trap. Something moved at the bottom of the hole. It was his own shadow. Just near it stood the water trap. One part of the framework had come loose. Perhaps someone had accidentally stepped on it when they had come to take the woman out. He hastened back down the ladder to repair it The water, as his calculations had led him to expect, had risen to the fourth mark. The damage did not appear to be too great. In the house, someone was singing in a rasping voice on the radio. He tried to stifle the sobbing that seemed about to burst from him; he plunged his hands into the bucket. The water was piercingly cold. He sank down on his knees and remained inert, his hands still in the water. There was no particular need to hurry about escaping. On the two-way ticket he held in his hand now, the destination and time of departure were blanks for him to fill in as he wished. In addition, he realized that he was bursting with a desire to talk to someone about the water trap. And if he wanted to talk about it, there wouldn't be better listeners than the villagers. He would end by telling someone—if not today, then tomorrow. He might as well put off his escape until sometime after that. NOTIFICATION OF MISSING PERSONS NAME OF PERSON: Yüklə 0,66 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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