Microsoft Word KoboAbe-WomanInTheDunes doc
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Corporation Tax Bribery Spreads to City Officials. College
Towns Become Industrial Meccas. Operations Suspended; General Labor Union Council to Meet Soon — Opinion to Be Published. Mother Strangles Two Children: Takes Poison. Do Frequent Auto Thefts Mean New Mode of Life Breeds New Crime? Unknown Girl Brings Flowers to Police Box for Three Years. Tofeyo Olympics Budget Trouble. Phantom Stabs Two Girls Again Today. College Youths Poisoned by Sleeping PHI Spree. Stock Prices Feel Autumn Winds. Famous Tenor Sax, Blues Jackson, Arrives in Japan. Rioting Again in Union of South Africa— 280 Fatalities. Co-ed Thieves School Has No Tuition Fees — Graduation Certificate Issued on Successful Completion of Examination . There wasn't a single item of importance. A tower of illusion, all of it, made of illusory bricks and full of holes. If life were made up only of important things, it really would be a dangerous house of glass, scarcely to be handled carelessly. But everyday life was exactly like the headlines. And so everybody, knowing the meaninglessness of existence, sets the center of his compass at his own home. Suddenly his eyes fell on a surprising article. About 8:00 A.M. on the fourteenth, at the East Asia Housing construction site, 30 Yokokawa-ch6, a scoop-truck driver for the Hinohara Co., Mr. Tashiro Tsutomu (aged 28), received serious injuries when he was buried under a sand slide. He was taken to a nearby hospital but died shortly after arrival. According to the investigation carried out by the Yokokawa police, the cause of the accident appears to be that too much sand was removed from the lower part of a thirty- foot pile that was being leveled. Aha! Doubtless this was the article that the villagers had intended him to see. They had not responded to his request for nothing. It was commendable that they had not circled the section in red ink. He was reminded of the dangerous weapon they called a blackjack. A blackjack is made by packing sand into a leather sack. It is said to have a striking power comparable to that of an iron or lead bar. No matter how sand flowed, it was still different from water. One could swim in water, but sand would enfold a man and crush him to death. It looked as though he had misjudged the situation. 14 HE needed some time for thought before deciding on a new strategy. Four hours must have passed since the woman had gone out to clear away the sand. The second group of basket carriers had finished their appointed work and were returning in the direction of the three- wheeled truck. After he had made certain, straining his ears, that the men were not coming back, he quietly arose and put on his clothes. Since the woman had taken the lamp away with her, he had to do everything by touch. His shoes were brimful of sand. He tucked the cuffs of his trousers into his socks, then took out his leggings and thrust them into his pocket. He decided to gather his insect-collecting equipment together near the door so that he could find it easily. Thanks to the thick carpet of sand on the earthen floor, there was no need to be cautious about his footsteps. The woman was completely preoccupied with her work. Her movements were smooth as she cut into the sand; her breathing was strong and regular. Her elongated shadow danced around the lamp at her feet. The man, concealing himself at the corner of the building, forced himself to breathe softly. In his hands he grasped the two ends of a towel and stretched it taut; after counting ten he would make a dash for it. His attack had to come at the instant she leaned forward to shovel up the heap of sand. Of course, he could not pretend there was absolutely no danger. There was no telling—their attitude might suddenly change in a half hour. For instance, there was that government man. The old man from the village had at first mistaken him for the government man and shown signs of extreme caution. They must have expected the government man to make an inspection in the near future. If that were so, village opinion would split over him, and they might possibly give up keeping him prisoner and concealing his existence. But by the same token there was no guarantee that a half hour would not stretch into a half year, a year, or even more. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether it would be a year or a half hour, and he was certainly not ready to lay a wager. When he considered that relief might be at hand, he realized that things would go better for him if he were to continue with his pretext of illness. But this was indeed the point that perplexed him. He lived under a constitutional government, and therefore it was natural that he should expect help. People who vanished in a fog of mystery and remained incommunicado frequently wanted to do just that. As long as the case didn't seem to be of a criminal nature, it would be entrusted to the civil rather than the criminal authorities, and thus even the police could not go too far into the matter. But in his case the situation was completely different, and he was desperately reaching out for help. Anyone who saw his empty room would immediately understand what had happened, even if they hadn't seen him or directly heard from him. The unfinished book that lay open to the page he had been reading when he put it down… the small change he had tossed into the pocket of his office clothes… his bankbook, which bore no trace of any recent withdrawals, despite the small amount in his account… his box of drying insects he had not yet finished arranging… the stamped envelope containing the order blank for a new collecting bottle, laid out ready for mailing—all this repudiated discontinuance, everything pointed to his intention to go on living. A visitor could not help but hear the plaintive voice from the room. Well… if it hadn't been for that letter… if it just hadn't been for that stupid letter. Yet that was the point, it had been. In his dream he had told the truth, but now he was quibbling with himself. Why? He had made enough excuses. Lost articles no longer existed. And he had long since cut his throat with his own hands. He had assumed an unreasonably mysterious attitude about this holiday, saying nothing to any of his colleagues about his intended destination. Not only had he left without saying a word, but he had deliberately made a point of the mystery. There couldn't be a more efficient way of teasing his colleagues, glum and gray with their daily gray routine. He sank into an unbearable self-aversion with the thought that among the glum and gray, people other than he had colors other than gray—red, blue, green. It only happened in novels or movies that summer was filled with dazzling sun. What existed in reality were humble, small-town Sundays… a man taking his snooze under the political columns of a newspaper, enveloped in gunsmoke… canned juices and thermos jugs with magnetized caps… boats for hire, fifty cents an hour—queue up here… foaming beaches with the leaden scum of dead fish… and then, at the end, a jam-packed trolley rickety with fatigue. Everyone knows this is fact, but no one wants to make a fool of himself and be taken in; so, on the gray canvas of reality, he zestfully sketches the mere form of this illusory festival. Miserable, unshaven fathers, shaking their complaining children by the shoulder trying to make them say it has been a pleasant Sunday… little scenes everyone has seen in the corner of some trolley… people's pathetic jealousy and impatience with others' happiness. Well, if that were all, it was nothing to get so serious about. If the Mobius man had not had the same reaction as his other colleagues, it was doubtful whether he would have been so obstinate. He had tentatively trusted the man, a pop-eyed fellow, who always looked as if he had just washed his face and who was enthusiastic about unions. He had once sincerely tried revealing his inner thoughts, which he seldom disclosed to anyone. "What do you think? I have considerable doubt about a system of education that imputes meaning to life." "What do you mean by 'meaning'?" "In other words, an illusory education that makes one believe that something is when it really isn't. Therefore I'm very interested in sand in this instance, because, even though it's a solid, it has definite hydrodynamic properties." The other, perplexed, had bent forward, arching his back like a cat. But his expression, as before, had remained open. He had not appeared to find the idea particularly unpleasant. Someone had once commented that the man resembled a Mobius strip. A Mobius strip is a length of paper, twisted once, the two ends of which are pasted together, thus forming a surface that has neither front nor back. Had they meant that this man's union life and his private life formed a Mobius circle? He remembered feeling a certain admiration for the man, and at the same time cynicism. "In other words, do you mean realistic education?" "No. The reason I brought up the example of sand was because in the final analysis I rather think the world is like sand. The fundamental nature of sand is very difficult to grasp when you think of it in its stationary state. Sand not only flows, but this very flow is the sand. I'm sorry I can't express it better." "But I understand what you mean. Because in practical education you can't avoid getting involved in relativism, can you?" "No, that's not it. You yourself become sand. You see with the eyes of sand. Once you're dead you don't have to worry about dying any more." "You must be an idealist. I think you must be afraid of your students— aren't you?" "I am, because I think my students are something like sand." The man had laughed heartily, showing his white teeth, but- not once had he appeared disturbed by the discordant exchange. His pop-eyes had quite disappeared between the folds of skin. Jumpei had not been able to repress a vague smile. The other was really quite like a Mobius circle. He was indeed a Mobius circle—in both a good and a bad sense. On the good face of it, he really deserved praise. But, speaking of a Mobius circle, the other had frankly shown the same gray envy of his holiday as his colleagues had. It seemed a far cry from a Mobius circle. He was disappointed, but at the same time pleased. Anyone was apt to be ill-natured with virtue. And so, he had come, to take increasing pleasure in his teasing. And then the letter… the irretrievable card that had already been delivered. The obsession in his dream the night before had had a very definite cause. It would be false to claim that there was absolutely no love between him and the other woman. It was simply that theirs was a somewhat obscure relationship in which, mutually at odds as they were, he could never be sure of her. If, for example, he were to say that marriage was, in the final analysis, like cultivating undeveloped land, she would retort, angrily and unreasonably, that it meant having to make a cramped house bigger. Or, if he were to say the opposite, she would still take the contrary stand. It was a seesaw game that had been tirelessly repeated for a full two years and four months. Perhaps it would be better to say that, rather than losing their passion, they had frozen it by over-idealizing it. And then he had decided quite suddenly to let her know by letter that he had gone off alone for a time and had purposely told no one of his destination. The mystery of his holiday, which would have such effect on his colleagues, would not produce any reaction from her. But he had thought the letter stupid and had tossed it, stamped and addressed, on his desk and come away. This innocent act, as a result, was to be the automatic, thiefproof lock that only the owner could open. The letter was almost certain to catch someone's eye. It was as though he had purposely left a statement that he had disappeared of his own volition. He was just like some moronic criminal who, observed at the scene of his crime, had thereupon stupidly wiped away his fingerprints and thus proved his criminal intent. His opportunity for escape receded into the distance. Yet, though he still clung to the possibility of rescue even now, his hopes would agonize in the poison of his doubts. Now the only way was to break open the doors by force without waiting for them to be opened. There was no excuse for hesitating any longer. He dug his toes into the sand until they hurt, leaned forward, and prepared to spring out at the count of ten. But still he hesitated, even at the count of thirteen. At last, taking four deep breaths, he dashed out. 15 IN spite of his intention, his movements were sluggish, for his strength had been sapped by the sand. Already the woman had turned around and, with her shovel poised, was gazing at him in blank surprise. If she really wanted to put up resistance, the result could be completely different from what he hoped. But his stratagem of taking her by surprise was completely successful. He had been too eager, but the woman was paralyzed. The thought of pushing him back with her poised shovel apparently never occurred to her. "Don't cry out. I won't hurt you. Just keep quiet." He kept whispering to her in a tense voice, haphazardly stuffing a towel into her mouth. She remained as he put her, without resisting—even in the face of this reckless, bungling act. Finally he pulled himself together when he realized her passiveness. He withdrew the towel, which he had already half stuffed in, and rearranged it over her mouth, tying it firmly at the back of her neck. Then he bound her hands tightly behind her back with the leggings he had ready in his pocket. "All right! Get in the house!" The woman's spirit seemed greatly weakened, and she was not only submissive to his acts but obedient to his words as well. She showed no resistance or antagonism. Perhaps she was in a kind of hypnotized state. He did not feel he had handled the situation particularly well, but his unexpected violence had apparently had the effect of taking all resistance out of her. He forced her up to the raised portion of flooring. And with the other legging he tied her legs together at the ankles. In the dark he had to proceed by feel, and just to be on the safe side he wrapped the remaining portion of the leggings once again around her ankles. "Now, don't move! Do you understand? You won't get hurt as long as you behave yourself. But I'm desperate___" He kept looking in the direction of the woman's breathing as he backed away toward the door. From there, he dashed out, grabbed the shovel and the lamp, and ran back with them at once. The woman had fallen down on her side and was working her jaw up and down repeatedly as she breathed. She was probably pushing her jaw forward with each breath in order to avoid inhaling sand from the matting. And when she exhaled, on the other hand, she appeared to force the breath from her nose, thereby blowing the sand away from around her face. "Well, you'll have to put up with this for a while. You'll have to be patient until the villagers come back with the baskets. There's no reason for you to complain after the nonsense I've had to put up with. Besides, I'll pay honest board. Of course, only the actual expenses I calculate myself. You can't mind that, can you? Really, my stay here should be free, but I can't stand not canceling such a debt. I'm going to make you take it." For some time, nervous and agitated, holding out his collar to let in the air, he strained his ears for signs of life outside. Yes, it might be better to extinguish the lamp. He lifted the chimney and was about to blow—but no, before that he had better check on the woman. The knots were tight enough on her legs; there was not even room to insert a finger. Her wrists were already swollen a dark red, and her spatulate fingernails had turned the color of an old ink smear. The gag too was perfect. She had drawn her dull-colored lips so taut there was almost no blood in them, and she appeared almost ghostly. Saliva dribbled out of her mouth and made a dark stain on the matting under her cheek. With the wavering of the lamp he seemed to hear her voiceless screams. "It's no use. You started the whole thing yourself anyway," he said quickly without thinking. "We've tried to get the best of each other, and we're about even, aren't we? I'm human too, and you can't simply tie me up like a dog. Anybody would call it legitimate self-defense on my Yüklə 0,66 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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