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
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
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,
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. "
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