Microsoft Word KoboAbe-WomanInTheDunes doc

PART II 
11
"Jabu, jabu, jabu, jabu 
What sound is that? 
It's the sound of the bell. 
 
"Jabu, jabu, jabu, jabu 
What voice is that? 
It's the voice of the devil."
THE woman sang as if murmuring to herself, tirelessly repeating the 
same verses as she scooped the slime from the water jar. 
When the song stopped, the sound of rice being ground came to his 
ears. He sighed gently, rolled over, and waited, his body tight with 
expectancy. Soon the woman brought a washbasin filled with water, 
probably to sponge off his body. His skin, which was puffy from sand 
and perspiration, was becoming inflamed. He lay there anticipating thf 
cool, damp towel. 
He had been in bed ever since he had fainted in the 
sand. For the first two days he had had a fever of 
around a hundred and had vomited constantly. But 
on the following day the fever had dropped and he 
had partially recovered his appetite. The basic cause 
was probably not the injury he had received in the 
sand avalanche, but the unaccustomed exertion he 
had kept up for so long, exposed to the direct rays of 
the sun. Anyway, in the long run, it hadn't amounted 
to much. 
That was probably why he recovered so quickly. On 
the fourth day the pain in his legs and loins had 

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almost gone away. On the fifth, except for a certain heaviness, no more 
symptoms were apparent. Nevertheless, he stayed in bed, giving an 
outward show of being seriously ill; but of course there was motive and 
calculation in this. Naturally, he had not for a moment abandoned his 
plans for escape. 
"Are you awake?" 
She was calling to him timidly. Out of the corner of his half-closed eyes 
he noticed the roundness of her knee through her work trousers. He 
answered her with a wordless groan. Slowly squeezing out the towel in 
the dented brass washbasin, she asked: "How do you feel?" 
"Well… a little better…" 
"Do you want me to wipe your back?" 
He did not particularly mind abandoning himself to the woman's hands 
since he had the excuse of being sick. He remembered vaguely that he 
had read a poem about a feverish child who had dreamt he was 
enveloped in cool, silver paper. His sand-clogged skin was suddenly 
cool and fresh again. The odor of the woman slipped over his 
quickened body, subtly stimulating him. 
Even so, he could not completely forgive her. This feeling for her was 
one thing, but what she had done was another, and he had to 
distinguish between them, at least for the time being. His three-day 
holiday had already gone by. It was no use struggling any more. The 
failure of his first plan to level off the sand slope by breaking down the 
cliff was due to lack of preparation as much as anything. It would have 
worked well if not for the sunstroke. But the labor of digging out the 
sand had been more exhausting than he had imagined. He had to 
adopt a more workable method, and thus he had hit upon this feigned 
illness. 
When he had recovered his senses, he had been somewhat displeased 
to realize that he had been put to bed in the woman's house. The 
villagers apparently had no intention of showing him any sympathy. He 
understood this, but he had his own idea. They had underestimated his 
condition and had not called a doctor. He would make them really 

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sorry. He would sleep soundly during the night while the woman was 
working, and conversely, during the day, when she had to rest, he 
would disturb her sleep by exaggerated complaints of pain. 
"Does it hurt?" 
"Of course it hurts. My spine must be dislocated some place." 
"Shall I massage it?" 
"My God, no! I couldn't stand being fumbled with by an amateur. 
Spinal nerves are vital. What would you do if I died? You'd be the ones 
in trouble, wouldn't you? Call a doctor. A doctor! Oh, it hurts. I can't 
stand this pain. If you don't hurry it'll be too late!" 
The woman, unable to endure the strain of the situation, would soon be 
exhausted. Her capacity for work would drop, and even the safety of 
the building would be threatened. It would be a matter of no little 
importance for the village too. Far from having someone to help them 
work, they had got themselves a real stumbling block. If they did not 
get him out at once, the situation would get completely out of hand. 
But this scheme too did not go as smoothly as he had anticipated. Here 
the nights were busier than the days… the sounds of the shovel which 
he could hear through the walls… the woman's breathing… the 
whistling and the cries of the men carrying the hoist baskets… the 
muffled roar of the three-wheeled truck, muted by the wind… the 
distant howling of dogs. The more he tried to sleep, the more nervous 
he became, and he would awaken completely. 
When he did not get enough sleep at night, he could not avoid napping 
during the day. But what was worse was knowing that, if this idea 
failed, there would always be some other way of escape; and he was 
somewhat impatient with the present situation. It had already been a 
week. It would be just about now that a request for investigation would 
be submitted. The first three days had been his regular vacation. But 
after that he would be absent without notice. His colleagues, who were 
usually very sensitive to what other people were about, would surely 
not let this go unheeded. Perhaps that very evening some busybody 
would appear and snoop around his boardinghouse. The plain room, 

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smelly and close in the afternoon sun, would betray the absence of its 
owner. Perhaps the caller would be instinctively jealous of the lucky 
man who had been freed from this hole. The next day, malicious gossip 
would be whispered around to the accompaniment of frowns and 
raised eyebrows. That would be natural. Even he himself could not 
expect this eccentric vacation to have any other effect on his 
colleagues. Rarely will you meet anyone so jealous as a teacher. Year 
after year students tumble along like the waters of a river. They flow 
away, and only the teacher is left behind, like some deeply buried rock 
at the bottom of the current. Although he may tell others of his hopes, 
he doesn't dream of them himself. He thinks of himself as worthless 
and either falls into masochistic loneliness or, failing that, ultimately 
becomes suspicious and pious, forever denouncing the eccentricities of 
others. He longs so much for freedom and action that he can only hate 
people. Was his disappearance accidental? No. If it had been an 
accident, there would have been some sort of news about him. Well, 
then, suicide? But that would have involved the police. And suicide 
would be impossible! Don't overrate the foolish boy. Yes, indeed, he 
disappeared by his own choice; there's no need to root around any 
more. But it'll soon be almost a week. He really is a scaremonger. I 
really don't know what he can be thinking of. 
It was doubtful whether they were sincerely worried, but at least their 
meddling curiosity was as overripe as an unpicked persimmon. 
Consequently, the next step would be for the headmaster to visit the 
police and inquire about forms for requesting an investigation. Behind 
his serious face he would completely dissimulate the pleasure that was 
welling up within him. "