Microsoft Word KoboAbe-WomanInTheDunes doc
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part." Suddenly the woman twisted her neck and tried to catch sight of him out of the corner of her half-closed eyes. "What's wrong? Do you want to say something?" She moved her neck awkwardly. It was as if she were nodding assent, or even dissent. He drew the lamp closer and tried to read her eyes. He could not immediately believe what he saw. They were filled with infinite sorrow, in which there was neither bitterness nor hatred, and she seemed to be appealing for something. Impossible. It must be his own imagination. "Expression in the eyes" is really only a figure of speech. How can expression exist in an eyeball that has no muscle? Even so, he winced and stretched out his hands to loosen the gag. He drew them back and hastily blew out the lamp. The voices of the basket carriers were drawing close. He placed the darkened lamp on the edge of the ramp around the raised portion of the floor so that he could find it easily and, putting his lips to the kettle under the sink, took a drink of water. With the shovel clutched in his hands, he concealed himself by the door. He began to perspire. It would be soon now. He would have to be patient for five or ten minutes more. With one hand he drew his collecting box close to him. 16 "HEY, there!" A hoarse voice rang out. "What are you doing down there?" Another voice, vibrant and still young, echoed the first. The man was enclosed in the palpable darkness of the hole. But outside, the moon had evidently risen, and the shadows of men on the line between the sand and the sky were an indistinct, expanding blob. He edged closer, hugging the bottom of the hole, his shovel in his right hand. A coarse laugh sounded at the top of the cliff. A rope, with a hook for the kerosene cans, was being lowered hand over hand. "Come on, lady. Get a move on!" At that very instant the man sprang toward the rope, kicking up the sand as he ran. "Hey, there! Pull 'er up!" He shouted as loud as he could, clinging to the taut rope with a grip that would have sunk his fingers into stone. "Pull 'er up! Pull 'er up! I won't let go until you do! I've tied the woman up in the house. If you want to help her, hoist the rope right away. I won't let you get to the woman until you do! And if you happen to come down here I'll split your brains open with this shovel. Just take me to court and see who'll win. Do you really expect me to make allowances for you? What are you fussing around for? If you haul me right up I'll withdraw my complaint and overlook the whole thing. Illegal detention is no light crime. What's the matter? Get a move on and pull me up!" The sand that poured down struck his face. A cold, clammy feeling was rapidly spreading from his collar into his shirt. His hot breath burned his lips. Above, it seemed they had begun some sort of discussion. Suddenly there was a strong pull, and they began to haul the rope up. His inert weight, heavier than he had expected, ripped the rope through his fingers. He clung on with redoubled strength. A violent spasm like laughter convulsed his stomach. It was as if the week's nightmare had broken into pieces and flown asunder. Good… Good… He was saved! Suddenly he was weightless and floating in space. A feeling of nausea, as though he were seasick, passed through his body, and the rope which until then had wrenched at his arms lay passive in his hands. The gang above had let go! He made a backward somersault and was thrown out on the sand. Under him his insect box gave out an unpleasant sound. And something grazed his cheek—apparently the hook at the end of the rope. The bastards! Fortunately he was uninjured. When he inspected his side, where he had struck the insect box, he found there was no particular place that hurt. He jumped up at once, looking around for the rope. It had already been drawn up. "Stupid fools!" He shouted brokenly, in a hoarse voice. "Stupid fools! You're the ones who are going to be sorry in the end!" There was no response. Only a silent murmuring drifted over him like smoke. It annoyed him more and more, for he was unable to decide whether it was a hostile sound or whether they were merely stifling their laughter. His anger and humiliation were a hard core of iron inside him. He continued to shout, sinking his nails into his sweaty palms. "Don't you understand me? I didn't think you would if I just told you in words. Didn't I make myself clear by what I did? Didn't I tell you I've tied the woman up? You'd better haul me up right away. The woman stays the way she is until you hand over the rope ladder. There's nobody to clear away the sand. Is that all right with you? Think it over. You're going to be the ones in trouble if we're buried by the sand. If the sand gets over here it will gradually force its way through the whole village. What's wrong? Why don't you answer?" In place of an answer the men had simply left in a disappointingly offhanded way, leaving behind them only the sound of their trailing baskets. "Why? Why do you go off like that without saying a word?" he cried out weakly, but the sound of his voice was audible only to himself. Trembling, he bent over and gathered up the contents of his collecting box. It looked as if there was a crack in his alcohol container, and the instant his hand touched it a fresh coolness spread between his fingers. He sobbed in a stifled voice. But he was not particularly sad. He felt quite as if someone else were crying. The sand clung to him like some crafty animal. Then,! feeling his way with difficulty, he tottered in the dark to the| doorway and went into the house. He gently placed his unhinged collecting box by the side of the sunken fireplace.! The sound of a roaring wind filled the air. He took out the! plastic-wrapped matches from the empty can in the cornerj of the fireplace and lit the lamp. The woman's position had not changed; she had only shifted the angle of her body down a little. She turned her face slightly in the direction of the door, perhaps with the intention of checking on the situation outside, blinked an instant at the light, but at once closed her eyes tightly again. He wondered just how she would take the cold-blooded treatment he had received. If she wanted to cry, let her cry; if she wanted to laugh, let her kugh. It was not yet a foregone conclusion that he had lost the game. In any case, he was the one who held the fuse to the time bomb. He knelt down on one knee behind the woman. He hesitated an instant and then released the gag and tore it off. He did not feel particularly guilty. He had not the slightest feeling of pity or compassion. He was simply worn out. He could not stand any more strain. Furthermore, when he thought about it, the gag had not been necessary from the first. If the woman had cried out for help at that time, she would have thrown him into a panic and would perhaps have hastened the outcome of the matter. She thrust out her jaw, panting. The towel was as heavy as a dead rat with her saliva and foul breath. It had bitten into her flesh, leaving freckled spots, which did not seem about to go away. The stiffness in her cheeks, which had become like the skin of dried fish, began to relax as she repeatedly moved her lower jaw. "You'll soon be all right," he said, picking up the towel by the tips of his fingers and throwing it toward the earthen floor. "It's about time for them to have come to some decision. They'll certainly bring the rope ladder pretty fast now. They're the ones that are going to be in trouble if they let things go on as they are. And that's the truth. There was no need at all for them to go to the trouble of trapping me if they didn't have to." The woman swallowed her sour spittle and moistened her lips. "But…" Her tongue did not seem to have regained its functioning. She spoke in a muffled voice as if she were holding an egg in her mouth. "Have the stars come out?" "The stars? Why the stars?" "Well, it's just that if the stars aren't out…" "What do you mean, if they're not out?" But she was exhausted with this much talk and again sank into silence. "What's wrong? You can't stop in the middle of what you started to say! Are you going to tell my horoscope or something? Or is it a superstition in this part of the country? I suppose they don't let the rope ladder down on starless nights. What about it? Eh? I can't understand you if you don't say anything. If you want to wait until the stars come out, it's up to you. But what'll you do if a strong wind comes up while you're waiting? The last thing you'll think of is stars!" "If the stars don't come out by this time," she said in a voice that sounded as if it had been squeezed out of a worn-out tube, "there won't be a very strong wind." "Why?" "If you can't see the stars, it's because there's mist." "What do you mean by saying such a thing when the wind is blowing as hard as it is?" "No. That's the rush of the wind way up above." He thought about this; it might well be as she said. The fact that the stars were obscured meant, after all, that the wind did not have the power to blow away the vapors in the atmosphere. There would probably not be much of a wind tonight. If that were the case, the villagers would probably not press things to a conclusion. What he had taken to be downright nonsense had turned out in fact to be a surprisingly logical answer. "Of course. But I'm not at all worried. If it's their idea to hold out, it'll be a battle of nerves. It's six of one and in half a dozen of the other whether I wait a week, ten days, or even fifteen." The woman curled her toes tightly inward. They looked like the suction cups of a suckfish. He laughed. And as he was laughing he became nauseated. Why in heaven's name was he on tenterhooks like this? He was the one who was pressing on the enemy's vulnerable spot, wasn't he? Why couldn't he observe things in a more self-possessed way? If and when he got back safely it would certainly be well worth while setting down this experience. —Well, Niki, I am amazed. At last you have decided to write something. It really was the experience that made you. A common earthworm won't attain full growth if it's not stimulated, they say. —Thanks. Actually I've got to think up some kind of title. —Hmm. What kind, I wonder? "The Devil of the Sands" or "The Terrors of an Ant Hell"? —They show a terrible taste for the bizarre. Don't they give much too insincere an impression? —Do you think so? —It's meaningless, no matter how intense the experience, to trace only the surface of the event. The heroes of this tragedy are the local boys, and if you don't give some hint of the solution by describing them, your rare experience will be lost… Pew! —What is it? —Are they cleaning the sewers somewhere? Or maybe it's some special chemical reaction between the garlic smell in your mouth and the antiseptic solution they're using to scrub the corridor. —What? —No, take it easy. No matter how I try to write I'm not fit to be a writer. —This unbecoming humility again. There's no need for you to think of writers as something special. If you write, you're a writer, aren't you? —Well, it's generally considered that teachers are prone to write indiscriminately. —But professionally they're pretty close to writers. —Is that what they call creative education?… In spite of the fact that they haven't even made a pencil box by themselves? —A pencil box… how impressive! Isn't it good to be made to realize what sort of person one is? —Thanks to this education, I have to experience a new sensation in order to appreciate new pain. —There's hope. —But one is not responsible for whether the hope materializes or not —From that point on, one has to try to put one's faith in one's own power. —All right, let's stop the self-deception. Such a vice is impermissible in any teacher. —Vice? —That's for writers. Saying you want to become a writer is no more than egotism; you want to distinguish between yourself and the puppets by making yourself a puppeteer. What difference is there really between this and a woman's using make-up? —That's severe. But if you use the term "writer" in such a sense, certainly you should be able to distinguish to a certain extent between being a writer and writing. —Ah. You see! That's the very reason I wanted to become a writer. If I couldn't be a writer there would be no particular need to write! He must look like a child who has not received his allowance. 17 FROM the lower face of the cliff came an abrupt sound like the flapping of wings. He grabbed the lamp and rushed out A package wrapped in matting was lying in the sand. There was not a sign of anyone around. He shouted in a loud voice. There was no answer at all. With eager curiosity he snatched away the rope fastened around the matting. He could only suppose that the package contained implements for climbing the cliff. The villagers still could not show their faces; they had only thrown the things down to him and fled, he supposed. But the contents were only a pint bottle with a wooden stopper and a small package wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. In the package were three boxes, each containing twenty Shinsei cigarettes. Nothing more. He grasped the edges of the matting again and shook it violently, but only sand spilled out. He had counted on some scrap of a letter at least, but there was nothing. The bottle contained cheap sake" that smelled of rice mold. Whatever could they be about? Could they be bargaining? He had heard that the Indians of America exchanged cigarettes as a sign of friendship. And, in Japan, sake" too was commonly a Yüklə 0,66 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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