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part of some happy occasion. Thus it was certainly plausible to suppose that their actions were a sort of advance expression of their intention to come to an agreement. Country people tended to be self-conscious about expressing their feelings in words. And in this sense they were more honest. He acquiesced for the time being; cigarettes were more important than anything else. How had he ever stood being without them for over a week? With an accustomed gesture he broke the label and stripped it off squarely down the side. It felt like smooth wax paper. He snapped the bottom and forced a cigarette out. The fingers that held it trembled. He took a light from the lamp, filling his lungs with slow, deep breaths, and the fragrance penetrated his blood to the farthest corner of his body. His lips felt numb, and a heavy velvet curtain descended over his eyes. He felt a dizziness as if he were being strangled, and a chill went through him. Clutching the pint bottle tightly to him, he reeled back to the house on faraway legs that were not his own. His head was still firmly clamped in a hoop of dizziness. He tried to look over at the woman, but no matter how he tried he could not see straight ahead. Her face, which he had caught diagonally out of the corner of one eye, seemed terribly small. "It's a present. See." He held the pint bottle up and shakily showed it to her. "Aren't they considerate! They gave us a full one to celebrate in advance. Didn't I tell you? I knew it from the very first Well, what's done is done. What about a snort? Keep me company?" Instead of answering the woman closed her eyes tightly. Was she sulking because she couldn't get him to loosen her ropes? Stupid woman! If she would give him one good answer he would probably release her right away. Was she moping because she could not keep the man she had gone to such trouble to catch and at last had to let go? That might be true too… After all, she was still only about thirty… and a widow. Between the instep and the back of the woman's footi there was a conspicuous and disagreeable fold. Again, a I nonsensical laugh welled up in him. Why was her foot that' funny? "If you want a cigarette I'll give you a light, shall I?" "No. Cigarettes make my throat dry," she said in a faint voice, shaking her head. "Well, then, shall I give you a drink of water?" "I'm all right for the time being." "You don't have to be polite. You know I didn't subject you to this because of any personal dislike for you. You understand, don't you, that strategically it was unavoidable? Your predicament seems to have softened the others up there a little." "They deliver cigarettes and sak6 once a week to places where men are working, anyway." "What do you mean they deliver?" He was a big black fly that thought it had taken flight when it was only bumping its head against the windowpane in its effort to get out. (The scientific name is Muscina stabulans .) Such flies have compound eyes with almost no power of sight. Without even trying to conceal his dismay, he shouted in a shrill voice: "But they don't have to go to such trouble for usl Can't they let us out to buy them ourselves?" "But the work's hard and we don't have that much time. Besides, we're working for the village, and it's up to the village association to take care of the expenses." Well then, far from compromise, they were perhaps advising him to give up! No, it was much worse, he thought. He had doubtless already been entered in the register alongside many others as a mere cog in the working of their everyday life. "Just to satisfy myself, I'd like to ask you a little question: Am I the first, up until now, to have had an experience like this?" "No… Anyway, we don't have enough help. The ones who can work— like property owners, poor people, anybody—leave the village one after the other. Anyway, it's a poor village. All there is is sand…" "Then what's to become of it?" he said in a quiet voice that had taken on the protective coloring of sand. "There's somebody else you caught besides me, isn't there?" "Yes, there is. It must have been in early autumn last year, I think… the postcard dealer…" "The postcard dealer?" "The salesman or something from a company that makes postcards and other things for tourists came to visit the head of the local union. He told us that if we really advertised the beautiful scenery to people in the cities , ." "And you caught him?" "A house on the same side as mine was having trouble with help at the time." "Well, what happened then?" "They say he died soon afterward. I understand he wasn't very strong to start with. Besides, it happened to be the typhoon season, and the work was extra hard." "Why didn't he escape right away?" The woman did not answer. Perhaps it was so self-evident that there was no need to. He hadn't escaped because he couldn't. That was probably all there was to it. "Anyone else?" "Yes. Some time after the beginning of the year, let me see, there was a student going around selling books or something." "A peddler?" "They were thin books, I remember, about ten yen, and they were against something." "Ah, a Back-to-the-Land student. You know. They used to go around the countryside whipping up support for their anti-American campaigns. Did you catch him too?" "He must still be at my neighbor's, three houses down." "And of course they took away the rope ladder?" "The younger ones don't settle down very well, that's why. I suppose it's because in town the pay is good, and then the movies, and restaurants, and stores are open every day." "But hasn't a single one succeeded in escaping from here yet?" "Well, yes. There was a young fellow who went to town and got into bad company. He was pretty big with his knife… it even came out in the papers… and then after he finished his time they brought him back, and now I think he's living quietly with his parents." "I'm not asking about such people. I'm asking about those who don't come back once they've escaped!" "It was a long time ago, but there was a whole family that managed to get out during the night, I remember. The house was vacant for a long time and got to be dangerous and beyond repair. It's really dangerous. If any one place along the dunes gives way, then it's like a dike with a hole in it." "You mean there was nobody after that?" "No. Not a one, I think." "Absurd!" The blood vessels under his ears swelled, and his throat tightened. The woman suddenly doubled up like a wasp laying eggs. "What's wrong? Are you in pain?" "Yes. Oh, these things hurt." He felt the back of her hands, which had become discolored. He slipped his fingers through the cords that bound her and felt her pulse. "You feel that, don't you? The pulse is strong. It doesn't seem to be serious. Sorry, but I'd like to have you tell your complaints to the ones in the village who are responsible for this." "I'm sorry to bother you, but would you just scratch the place on my neck behind my ear?" Taken by surprise, he could not refuse. There was a thick layer of perspiration like melted butter between her skin and the layer of sand. It felt as though he had put his nails on a peach. "I'm really sorry. But honestly there hasn't been a single person to get out yet." Suddenly the outline of the doorway became a faint, colorless line and floated away. It was the moon… a fragment of wan light like the wings of an ant. As his eyes became accustomed to it, the whole bottom of the sand bowl turned into a lustrous liquid that had the texture of new foliage. "All right, then! I'll be the first to get outl" 18 IT was hard to wait. Time was folded in endless, deep, bellows-like pleats. If he did not pause at each fold he could not go ahead. And in every fold there were all kind of suspicions, each clutching its own weapon. It took a terrible effort to go ahead, disputing or ignoring these doubts or casting them aside. Finally, after he had waited the whole night through, dawn came. The morning, pressing its face, like the belly of a snail, against the windowpane, was laughing at him. "Excuse me, but may I have some water?" He must have fallen into a light sleep. His shirt and his trousers down to the backs of his knees were soaked with perspiration. The sand, clinging to the perspiration, was like a soggy wheat cake in texture and color. Since he had forgotten to cover his face, his nose and mouth were as dry as a winter paddy field. "I'm sorry, but please… can I…?" The woman's whole body trembled under a cover of hardened sand, and she emitted a dry sound as if she had a fever. Her suffering was transmitted directly to him as if they had been connected by electric wires. He took the plastic cover off the kettle and jammed the spout into his mouth. He tried rinsing with the first mouthful, but it was impossible to clear his mouth with so little water. Only lumps of sand came out. Then, not caring, he let the sand run down his throat along with the water. It was as if he were drinking pebbles. The water he drank poured out at once in perspiration. The skin on his back, around his chest, and on his sides down to his hips pained him as though a thin layer of it had been stripped away. Almost apologetically he pressed the spout of the kettle to the woman's lips. She took it between her teeth and, without rinsing her mouth, gulped the water down, cooing like a pigeon. Three good swallows and the kettle was empty. For the first time an unforgiving, reproachful look appeared in her eyes as she stared fixedly at him from beneath her swollen eyelids. The empty kettle felt light, as if it were made of folded paper. The man stepped down on the earthen floor, dusting the sand from his body in an attempt to relieve the disagreeable feeling. Should he try to wipe the woman's face with a wet towel? That would make more sense than to let the perspiration go on running down until she was soaked. They say the level of civilization is proportionate to the degree of cleanliness of the skin. Assuming that man has a soul, it must, in all likelihood, be housed in the skin. These musings on water led him to realize that dirty skin had thousands and thousands of suction cups. Skin was coolly transparent, like ice… a soft, downlike bandage for the soul. If he waited an instant longer the skin of his whole body would rot away and peel off. He looked into the water jar and let out a cry of dismay. "My God! Do you realize it's empty? It's completely emptyl" He thrust his arm into the jar and stirred around. The dark sand which clung to the bottom scarcely stained his fingertips. Under his disappointed skin a thousand wounded centipedes began to struggle. "The bastards forgot to deliver water. I even wonder if they intend bringing any more." He knew very well that he had said this just to console himself. The three-wheeled truck always finished its last job and went back a little before daybreak. He realized what the rascals were up to. They were probably trying to make him howl by cutting off the water supply when there was none left. He thought it over and realized that they were the kind who would have let him go on, knowing full well how dangerous it was to cut away the cliff from the bottom. Definitely, they had little sympathy for him. Certainly they would never let a person get back alive who knew this much of their secret, and if that were the case, they probably intended going all the way. He stood in the doorway and looked up at the sky. At last he could distinguish the red tints of the morning sun. Small fleecy clouds… not patterns that promised rain. It seemed that with each breath he exhaled, his body lost more moisture. "What in God's name do they think they're doing? Do they want to kill me?" The woman continued to tremble as usual. Perhaps it was because she knew all about what was happening. After all, she was an accomplice who had assumed the stance of an aggrieved party. Let her suffer. It was fitting retribution for her to suffer like this. But it would serve no purpose if he didn't let the villagers know of her suffering. And there was no assurance that they would know about it. He knew very well that, far from taking pity on her, they would sacrifice the woman without compunction if the need arose. Perhaps that was the reason she was frightened. He was like an animal who finally sees that the crack in the fence it was trying to escape through is in reality merely the entrance to its cage—like a fish who at last realizes, after bumping its nose numberless times, that the glass of the goldfish bowl is a wall. For a second time he was flung down with no defense. Now the other side held the arms. But he must not be frightened. When a castaway collapses from hunger and thirst it is a fear of physical want rather than a real want, they say. Defeat begins with the fear that one has lost. Perspiration dripped from the tip of his nose. If he was worrying about how many cubic centimeters of moisture he was losing with every drop, he had already fallen into the enemy's trap. It would be interesting to speculate just how long it would take for a glass of water to evaporate. Unnecessary fussing would not make time go faster. "How about it? Shall I loosen the ropes?" The woman held her breath suspiciously. "I don't care if you don't want me to. If you want me to, I'll loosen them. But there's one condition: don't take up the shovel under any circumstances without my permission. How about it? Will you promise me that?" "Oh, please!" The woman, who had been like a patient dog, began begging with the abruptness of an umbrella turned inside out by a sudden gust of wind. "I'll promise you anything. Please! Oh, please!" The ropes had left black-and-blue marks, on the surface of which was a whitish, sodden film. She lay as she was, with her face up, rubbing her ankles together. Then, grasping her wrists, she began to loosen the cords one by one. She ground her teeth together trying not to cry out, and perspiration broke out in spots on her face. Gradually she turned her body and, lifting her buttocks, got up on all fours. Last of all, with much effort, she lifted her head. For some time she swayed back and forth in the same position. The man sat quietly on the ramp around the raised portion of the floor. He forced out some saliva and swallowed it. He repeated the action, and the saliva became glutinous like paste and stuck in his throat. Of course, he did not feel like sleeping, but his fatigued senses had become like wet paper. The landscape floated before him in dirty patches and lines. It was really a picture-puzzle landscape. There was a woman… there was sand… there was an empty water jar… there was a drooling wolf… there was a sun. And, somewhere, he knew not where, there must also be a storm center and lines of discontinuity. Where in God's name should he start on this equation filled with unknowns? The woman stood up and slowly walked toward the door. "Where are you going?" She mumbled something as if avoiding him, and he could hardly catch what she had said. But he understood her embarrassment. At length, from just beyond the board wall, came a quiet sound of urinating. Somehow everything seemed futile. 19 How true. Time cannot be spurred on like a horse. But it is not quite so slow as a pushcart. Gradually the morning temperature attained its usual intensity; his eyeballs and brain began to seethe; the heat pierced his innards; his lungs burned. The moisture that the sand had absorbed during the night became vapor and was belched back into the atmosphere. The sand gave out a light which, through the refracted sunshine, made it seem like wet asphalt. Yet basically it remained the unadulterated 1/8 mm., drier than plain flour baked in a tin. Soon came the first sand slide. It was a noise he was used to, one that had become a part of the daily routine, but involuntarily he and the woman exchanged glances. What would be the consequences of having let the sand go for a day? While he did not think they would be serious, he was still worried. But the woman turned her eyes away in silence. Her sulky look gave the impression that he could worry alone as he pleased. He'd be damned if he'd ask her any more. Just when the sand slide seemed to thin out to a thread, it widened again to the size of a belt; it repeated the process by fits and starts and at length quietly ceased. It certainly did not seem serious enough to worry about. He heaved a sigh; the pulse pounded in his face, and he felt a burning sensation. The thought of the cheap sake", which he had tried not to think about until then, suddenly began to draw his nerves to a point, like a flame floating in darkness. Anything would be all right; he wanted to moisten his throat. If he let things go on as they were, the blood in his body would dwindle away. He knew full well that he was sowing the seeds of his suffering and that later he would regret it, but he could resist no longer. He took out the stopper, thrust the bottle to his lips, and drank. Yet his tongue, like a faithful watchdog surprised by an unexpected intruder, set up a howl. He choked. It was like sprinkling alcohol on a cut. Nonetheless, he could not control a desire for a second and even a third swallow. What horrible sake! Since the woman was there he offered her some too. Of course, she declined. Her refusal was as exaggerated as if he were forcing her to take poison. As he had feared, the alcohol in his stomach bounced to his head like a ping-pong ball, ringing like the buzz of a bee in his ears. His skin began to stiffen like pig's hide. His blood was spoiling!… His blood was dying away! "Can't you do anything? It must be hard enough for you too. I loosened your ropes, so do something!" "All right. But if I don't get somebody from the village to bring water…" "Well, why don't you get them to?" "I could… if we were just to start working…" "Don't be funny! Where do those fellows get the right to strike such an absurd bargain? Just tell me that! You can't, can you? They don't have the right, and you know it!" The woman lowered her eyes and was silent. What a situation. The sky, visible above the door, had changed from blue to a glaring white, like the underside of a seashell. Granted that obligation is a man's passport among his fellow men, why did he have to get a permit from the villagers? Human life shouldn't be so many bits of paper scattered about. Life is a bound diary, and one first page is plenty for one book. There is no need to do one's duty for a page that is unrelated to the preceding ones. One can't get involved every time someone else is on the point of starvation. Damn it! He wanted water. But no matter how much he wanted water, he still did not have enough bodies to go around to all the funeral services of people who were of no consequence to him. A second sand slide began. The woman stood up and took down a broom from the wall. "You can't work! You promised, didn't you?" "No, no. It's for the mattresses…" "The mattresses?" "If you don't get some sleep pretty soon…" "If I get sleepy, I'll take care of them myself." He fel£ an earth-shaking shock and stood rooted to the ground. For a moment everything seemed misty with sand that fell from the ceiling. The consequences of having stopped the shoveling were at last apparent. The sand, having no way out, was bearing down. The joints of the beams and uprights groaned in agony. But the woman, staring fixedly at an inner lintel, did not appear particularly concerned. The pressure still seemed to be only around the base of the house. "Damn them! Do they really intend going on like this forever?" His racing heart! It was hopping about like a frightened rabbit, as if unable to stay in its own hole. It seemed ready to crawl in anywhere— his mouth, his ears, or even into his bowel. His spittle had become much more viscid. And the dryness in his throat was as bad. Perhaps it was because his thirst had not been adequately slaked by the cheap sake*. As soon as the alcohol was dissipated, it would flare up again, and the flames would reduce him to ashes. "They must feel fine… doing such things. They don't have the brains of a mouse. Just what would they do if I died?" The woman raised her face as if to say something but, suddenly thinking better of it, maintained her unbroken silence. She apparently did not think it worthwhile to answer at all. All right. If there was to be only one inevitable ending anyway, why didn't he try whatever he could? He gulped down another mouthful from the bottle of sake" and, bracing himself, hurried outside. He reeled back as if molten lead had struck his eyes. The sand, which spilled over into the hollows left by his feet, eddied in whirlpools. Over there was surely the place he had attacked the woman and tied her up the night before. The shovel must surely be buried nearby. The sand slide had mostly stopped for a while, but even so, on the cliff toward the sea, the sand continued its ceaseless flow. From time to time, blown by the wind, it would drop from the face of the cliff, fluttering like a piece of cloth. Taking care not to start a slide, he fished around with the toes of one foot. Although he probed deeply, his foot met no resistance at all. The direct rays of the sun soon became unbearable. The pupils of his eyes were compressed to pin points, and his belly began to throb like a jellyfish. A violent pain pierced his forehead. He must not lose any more perspiration. This was the limit. He wondered what he could have done with the shovel. He had taken it out with the intention of using it as a weapon; that was certain. So it must be around. Peering closely at the surface of the ground, he was suddenly aware that at one point the sand was standing out in a ridge in the form of the shovel. He began to spit but hastily stopped himself. He must retain in his body even the slightest bit of moisture. He separated the spittle from the sand between his teeth and his lips and with the end of his finger scraped off only the portion that remained clinging to his teeth. The woman, facing the other way in a corner of the room, was doing something with the front of her kimono. Perhaps she was unloosening her waistband or brushing off the sand which had accumulated. He grasped the shovel halfway down the handle and brought it up to the level of his shoulders. Aiming at the wall that surrounded the earthen floor, near the doorway, he heaved to with the cutting edge. The woman cried out behind him. He lunged with the shovel, bearing on it with all his weight. Disappointingly, it passed through the wall boards. They had the resistance of a wet cracker. Washed by the sand, they had seemed quite new from the outside, but it was apparent they had already begun to disintegrate. "What are you doing?" "I'm stripping this stuff off to make some material for a ladder." He experimented again at another spot. It was the same. Apparently the woman had been right when she said that the sand rotted the wood. If the part of the wall that was most exposed to the sun was like this, he could imagine what the rest would be like. It was remarkable that such a flabby house could be standing at all. It was bent and warped as if paralyzed on one side. Maybe such flimsy structures were dynamically possible, since they seemed to be making houses out of plastic and paper these days, but… If that was the way it was with the boards, then he would try the cross- beams. "You can't do that! Stop! Please!" "After all, we're going to be crushed by the sand anyway." Without paying any attention, he poised his arm to strike, but the woman, screaming, rushed violently at him. He put out his elbow and twisted his body in an effort to ward her off. But he had miscalculated, and instead of the woman he himself was swung around. Instantly he tried to counter, but she held on as if chained to the shovel. He did not understand. At least he could not be defeated by force. They rolled over two or three times, threshing about on the earthen floor, and for a brief moment he thought he had pinned her down, but with the handle of the shovel as a shield she deftly flipped him over. Something was wrong with him; maybe it was the sake" he had drunk. Anyway, he no longer cared that his opponent was a woman. He jabbed his bended knee into her stomach. The woman cried out, and suddenly her strength ebbed. At once he rolled over on her and held her down. Her breasts were bare, and his hands slipped on skin that was slippery with sweat. Suddenly the two of them froze, as in a movie when the projector breaks down. It was a petrified moment that would go on and on, if one of them did not do something. He could sense vividly the structure of her breasts outlined against his stomach, and his penis seemed like a living thing completely independent of him. He held his breath. With a slight turn of his body the scramble for the shovel would turn into something very different. The woman's gorge rose as she tried to swallow the saliva in her mouth. His penis received this as a signal to stir, but she interrupted in a husky voice. "City women are all pretty, aren't they?" "City women?" He was suddenly ashamed. The fever in his swollen member was abating. They seemed to have skirted the danger with good grace. He had not realized that soap opera could survive even in the midst of sand. Yet the average woman was firmly convinced, it seemed, that she could not make a man recognize her worth unless every time she opened her legs she did so as if it were a scene in a soap opera. But this very pathetic and innocent illusion in fact made women the victims of a one- sided, spiritual rape. With his other woman, he had decided he would always use a condom. Even now he was not convinced that he had been completely cured of the venereal disease he had once had. The results of the tests always came out negative, but after urinating his urethra would suddenly begin to hurt; and when he checked a sample in a test tube, there would be, just as he had feared, something floating around in it, something resembling a piece of waste thread. The doctor had diagnosed it as a nervous disturbance, but he could not get rid of the suspicion that it was still the same old trouble. "Well, a rubber suits us pretty well, doesn't it?" Her small jaws and lips were covered with a thin skin, through which the blood seemed to be visible. She spoke with a certain calculated spite: "Between us it's like buying at a department store, isn't it? If you don't like it, you can take it back any time. You make your mind up, looking at something wrapped up in plastic—you can look without breaking the seal. You wonder what's inside. You wonder if you can trust it. You wonder if you won't be sorry later if you buy the wrong thing now." But in her heart she was probably not satisfied with such a commercial- sample type of relationship… He remembered the brothel smell of disinfectant as he had begun buttoning up his trousers, already feeling he was being hurried out… and the woman still naked on the bed with the towel stuck between her legs. "But it's all right if once in a while you feel like forcing a sale, isn't it?" "No, it isn't. Any forcing…" "But you're cured by now, aren't you?" "If you really think that, then why don't we agree to go on without protection?" "Come on, now. Why are you trying to get out of your responsibilities?" "Well, didn't I say I don't like to force a sale?" "It's very strange. What have I got to do with your venereal disease, for heaven's sake?" "Maybe you do have something to do with it." "Don't be silly!" "Well, anyway, I withdraw the forced selling." "Well then, don't you ever intend to take off your hat in your whole life?" "I wonder why you're so uncooperative. It would be natural for you to feel tender toward me if we slept together." "In other words, you've got a psychological veneral disease, haven't you? By the way, maybe I'll have to work tomorrow." Hmm. A psychological venereal disease, he thought, yawning. It's a pretty clever expression for her to think up. But she would never know just how much the expression had hurt him. In the first place, venereal disease was the exact opposite of soap opera. Venereal disease was the most desperate evidence that soap opera did not exist. Venereal disease… stealthily imported by Columbus in his tiny ships into tiny harbors… spread so diligently by everyone throughout the world. All men were equal before death and venereal disease. Venereal disease… the collective responsibility of mankind. Nevertheless, she absolutely refused to admit it. She had shut herself in her own Alice in Wonderland tale where she herself played the main role. And he was left alone on this side of the minor, suffering with his psychological venereal disease. And so his naked—hatless—member was paralyzed and useless. Her mirror made him impotent. Her woman's innocence had turned him into an enemy. 20 His face was as stiff as starch, his breathing like a storm. His saliva tasted of dry scorched sugar… and such a terrible loss of energy. At least one glassful of water must have evaporated in perspiration. The woman arose sluggishly, keeping her head bent. Her sand-streaked face came to about the height of his eyes. Suddenly she blew her nose with her fingers and rubbed her hands with sand that she scooped up. Her trousers slipped down over her bending hips. Annoyed, he turned his eyes away. Yet it was not quite right to say he was only annoyed. A strange feeling, different from dryness, lingered on the tip of his tongue. His member had been pulsating and vibrant without the rubber, although only for a short time, until he had been put off by the woman's stupid expression. And now a lingering warmth remained in it. To call this a discovery would perhaps be exaggerating, but it was worth a moment's attention. He did not feel that he was particularly degenerate. But he was not at all disposed only to spiritual rape. It was like eating unsweetened tapioca. Spiritual rape meant that before he could hurt her, he would have to hurt himself. And why should he contract even a psychological venereal disease? That would be adding insult to injury. Was it true that a woman's glands were so weak that they emitted blood just because a man looked at her? He vaguely sensed that there were two kinds of sexual desire. For example, on the basis of the Mobius circle, when you courted a girl, you always began, it seemed, with lectures on nutrition and taste… that is, before you got around to sex. Food exists only in an abstract sense for anybody dying of hunger; there isn't any such thing as the taste of Kobe beef or Hiroshima oysters. But once one's belly is full, then one begins to discern differences in taste and textures. Sexual desire was the same. First came desire in general, and only after that did particular sexual tastes evolve. And sex couldn't be discussed in general; it depended on time and place… sometimes you needed a dose of vitamins… sometimesabowlofeelsandrice.lt was a well-thought-out theory, but regrettably not a single girl friend had offered herself to him in support of it, with a readiness to experience sexual desire in general or sex in particular. That was natural. No man or woman is wooed by theory alone. He knew this, but he naively observed the theory of the Mobius circle and kept repeatedly pushing the doorbell of an empty house, only because he did not want to commit spiritual rape. To be sure, he himself wasn't so romantic as to dream of pure sexual relations. You could do that when you were looking death in the eye… like the bamboo grass that bears seeds just as it is beginning to wither… like starving mice that repeatedly and frantically copulate as they migrate… like tuberculosis patients who are all seized by a kind of sex madness… like the king or ruler who dwells in a tower and devotes himself to establishing a harem… like the soldier for whom every moment is precious as he awaits the enemy attack and who spends those final moments masturbating… Fortunately, however, man is not indiscriminately exposed to the dangers of death. Man no longer needs to fear, even in winter; he has been able to free himself of the seasonal sexual urge. Yet when the struggle is over, weapons become an encumbrance. Order has come about, and the power to control sex and brute force lies within man's grasp, in place of Nature's. Thus, sexual intercourse is like a commutation ticket: it has to be punched every time you use it. Of course, you must check to see that the ticket is genuine. But this checking is terribly onerous; it corresponds precisely to the complications of order. All kinds of certificates—contracts, licenses, I.D. cards, permits, certificates of title, authorizations, registrations, carrying permits, certificates of membership, letters of recommendation, notes, leases, temporary permits, agreements, income declarations, receipts, even certificates of ancestry… every conceivable type of paper must be mobilized into action. Thanks to such checks, sex is completely buried under a mantle of certifications… like a basket worm. It would be all right, I suppose, if this were satisfying. But even so, would that be the end of certificates? Wouldn't there be something else we had forgotten to declare? Both men and women are captives of an oppressive jealousy, always suspicious that the other party has purposely left something out To demonstrate their honesty they are compelled to issue a new certificate. No one knows where it will ever stop In the last analysis, the certificate seems to be infinite. (She blames me for being too argumentative. But I'm not the one who's argumentative. It's just the truth.) "But isn't that the obligation of love?" "Not at all. It's what's left after you have struck out the restrictions by a process of elimination. If you don't have that much confidence, you might just as well not have any at all." There's no obligation to go along with this to the extent—and the poor taste—of gift-wrapping sex. Let's be freshly pressed every morning in sex too. In sex, once the coat's been worn, it's already old. You press out the wrinkles and it's like new again. Once it's new, it's immediately old again… Is there any obligation to listen to such indecencies? Of course, if he could feel that this regularization offered some guarantee for life, then there was still room for compromise. But what about reality? The thorn of death falls from heaven, and its myriad forms leave us no room to move. In sex, too, one seems to have a vague premonition, a feeling that one has been left with a false promissory note. And so one begins to falsify the commutation ticket because one is sexually unsatisfied. Well, that's all right; it's good business. Or one admits of spiritual rape as a necessary evil. Anyway, without it there would be almost no marriages. Those who are in favor of free sex behave in much the same way. They are only giving a plausible rationalization to mutual rape. If you accept it as such, it can be enjoyed too. Freedom combined with constant worry— like a curtain that does not quite close—can only result in sexual psychopaths. There was no opportunity for his pitiable sex to doff its hat and relax. The woman seemed to sense the workings of the man's emotions. She stopped in the midst of tying the string to her trousers, and the end of the loosened thong hung down from between her hands. She looked up at him with rabbit-like eyes. And it was not only because of their red eyelids that they resembled a rabbit's. The man answered her with eyes in which time had ceased to run. A strong smell like boiled gristle surrounded her. Still grasping the thong, she slipped by him and went up to her room, where she began to take off her trousers. Her manner was so completely natural that she seemed to be continuing what she had been doing before. The man inwardly rubbed his hands in expectation: such a woman was a real woman. But he immediately reconsidered. Stupid! With such hesitancy he would surely botch the thing. Hastily he too put his hand to his belt. If this had been yesterday he would have perhaps assumed her behavior to be a woman's transparent play- acting… like her giggles and dimples. Actually that might be the case. But he did not want to think so. The stage at which he could bargain for her body had long passed. Now, force had decided the situation. There was ample basis for thinking that relations would be mutually agreeable, and bargaining for permission could be dismissed. A little flow of sand, along with his trousers, slid over the base of his member and fell along his thighs. A stench like that of musty socles rose up. Slowly, but surely, with a pumping like that of a water pipe in which the water has been turned off, his member began to fill again. Hatless, his penis indicating the direction, he spread his wings and melted in behind the already naked woman. Would he find it enjoyable? Of course everything fitted, as if into a square of equally spaced graph paper: breathing, time, the room, the woman. Was this what the Mobius man called general sexual desire? Maybe, but what tight buttocks! You couldn't compare them to the frustrated bags of bones you picked up in the streets. The woman, sitting on one knee, had begun to brush the sand from her neck with a towel which she had rolled into a ball. Suddenly there was an avalanche of sand. The whole house trembled and groaned. A provoking interference! Before his very eyes, a mistlike sand covered the woman's head with white, collecting on her shoulders and arms. The two, clutched in each other's arms, could only wait for the avalanche to pass. Their sweat trickled onto the sand which had gathered, and on that still more sand fell. The woman's shoulders trembled. He felt like superheated water, as if he were on the verge of boiling over. Yet he could not understand why he was so terribly attracted by her thighs. But he was… so much that he felt like taking the nerves of his body and coiling them one by one around them. The appetite of meat-eating animals must be just this—coarse, voracious. He fought back like a coiled spring. This was an experience he had not had with the other. On that bed—with the other one—they had been a feeling man and woman, a watching man and woman; they had been a man who watched himself experiencing and a woman who watched herself experiencing; they had been a woman who watched a man watching himself and a man watching a woman watching herself… all reflected in counter-mirrors… the limitless consciousness of the sexual act. Sexual desire, with a history of some hundred million years from the amoeba on up, is fortunately not easily worn out. But what he needed now was a voracious passion, a stimulation that would sweep his nerves into the woman's loins. The sand avalanche stopped, and as though he had been waiting for it to do so, he joined the woman in helping to brush the sand from her body. She laughed in a husky voice. His hands became more and more insistent as they passed from her breasts under her arms and from there around her loins. Her fingers dug into his neck, and now and then she would give little cries of surprise. When he had finished, it was her turn to brush his body. He closed his eyes and waited, passing his hand over her hair, which was hard and rough to the touch. There was a spasmodic contraction, and again the same thing… the same changeless repetition to which he had devoted himself, dreaming of other things: eating, walking, sleeping, hiccoughing, bawling, copulating. 21 MAN'S convulsions go on building endless layers of fossils. Dinosaur teeth and glaciers were powerless against this reproductive drive with its screams and its ecstasy. Finally a white flash squeezed his writhing body dry… a meteoric swarm spurted out, piercing the limitless darkness… rusty, orange-colored stars… an alkaline chorus. The glimmer trailed on and disappeared at last. The woman's hands patting him on the buttocks to urge him on no longer had any effect. His nerves, which had streamed into her, had withered back like a frost-bitten radish, and his member was paralyzed between the lips of the conch. The woman, who had thrust out her hips, reluctant to let him go, also sank back exhausted in a breathless contentment. An old rag rankly sour behind a chest of drawers… an avenue in front of a bicycle track, from which he used to return covered with the dust of regret. In the final analysis, nothing had been of any avail, nothing had been finished. It was not he who had satisfied his desires, but apparently someone quite different, someone who had borrowed his body. Sex, of its nature, was not defined by a single, individual body but by the species. An individual, finished with his squalid act, must return at once to his former self. Only the happy ones return to contentment Those who were sad return to despair. Those who were dying return to their deathbeds. How could he possibly be convinced that such trickery was passionate love? Was there anything better in this passionate love than in commutation sex? If there were, it would be better to be some ascetic made of glass. Apparently he had dozed off for a moment, rolling over in the sweat and secretions which smelled like rancid fish oil. He had dreamed. It was a dream about a lavatory which he could never find although he could hear the sound of water, about a common bathroom where the toilet was filled to overflowing with feces, about a long gallery whose flooring was beginning to warp, about a cracked glass. There was a man, running with a canteen. When he asked him for just a swallow of water, the man scowled at him, making a face like a grasshopper, and rushed off. He awoke. A hot, sticky glue was melting on the back of his tongue. His thirst had returned twofold. He wanted water. Sparkling, crystalline water, with silver spurs of air bubbles rising from the bottom of the glass. He was an empty water pipe in a deserted house, covered with spider webs and smeared with dust, gasping like a fish. When he stood up, his hands and feet felt like heavy rubber bags of water. He picked up the empty kettle, which had been thrown on the earthen floor, and tipped it to his mouth. After more than thirty seconds, two, three drops finally dampened the end of his tongue. But it remained as dry as blotting paper. His expectant throat convulsed even more, as if it had gone insane. Frantic for water, he rummaged around in the vicinity of the sink for anything he could get his hands on. Of all chemical compounds water was the simplest one. It should not be impossible to find some somewhere… like a penny forgotten in a desk drawer. There! He smelled water. Without a doubt it was the smell of water. He hastily scraped some wet sand from the bottom of the water jar and stuffed his mouth full. A feeling of nausea welled up in him. He bent over, his stomach convulsed, and his tears began to flow as he vomited up a yellow gastric liquid. The pain of his headache slipped down over his eyes like a leaden visor. Apparently passion was simply a short-cut to collapse. Suddenly he rose to his hands and knees, and like a dog began to dig in the sand of the earthen floor. When he had dug to the depth of his elbows, the sand was dark and moist. He thrust his face into it, pressed his burning forehead against it, inhaling it deeply. The oxygen and hydrogen might conceivably combine. "Goddamn dirty hands!" he snapped, pressing his nails into the palms of his hands and turning toward the woman. "What in God's name are you going to do? Isn't there really any water any place?" The woman spoke in a whisper, turning the upper part of her body away, and drawing her kimono over her naked thighs. "No. There's not any." "Not any? Do you think you can let it go at that? This is a matter of life and death! You bitch! Do something! And make it quick. Please! See, I'm even saying please!" "Well, if we just got down to work… in no time at all they'd…" "All right. You win. I can't help it. I give in." In his heart he had not given in for a minute. But this was certainly no way to die… he was not a dried sardine, after all. Yet he would have made a fool of himself for anyone to see if only he could get hold of some water. "I really give in. But it's pretty bad to make us wait until the regular delivery. We can't very well work when we're this dried out, can we? Get in touch with them right away… please. Aren't you thirsty too?" "They'll know the minute we begin to work. There's always someone watching with binoculars from the fire tower." "The fire tower . . what fire tower?" More than iron doors, more than walls, it is the tiny peephole that really makes the prisoner feel locked in. Distressed, the man hastily went back through his memories of the village. He remembered the horizon of sand and sky. There was no place for a fire tower to be. Moreover, he could not believe that he and the woman could be seen from the outside while they could see no one from where they were. "You'll understand if you'll take a look by the edge of the cliff out back." He meekly bent down and picked up the shovel. To worry about his self-respect after all that happened would be like ironing a grimy shirt. He went out as if driven. The sand was burning like an empty pot over a fire. The glare took his breath away. The air that filled his nostrils smelled of soap. But with each step he was getting that much closer to water. When he stood under the cliff on the sea side and looked up, he could make out the top of a black tower about the size of the tip of his little finger. The thornlike projection was doubtless a lookout. Had he already been noticed? The lookout had doubtless been waiting gloatingly for this moment. He turned toward the black thom and, holding the shovel over his head, waved it furiously baclc and forth. He adjusted the angle of the blade so that it would reflect into the eyes of the watcher. A film of burning quicksilver spread over his eyes. Whatever was the woman doing? She had better come and help right away. Suddenly a cool shadow fell over him like a damp handkerchief: a cloud had crossed above, like some fallen leaf driven before the wind into a corner of the sky. Damn it… if it would only rain he would not have to do this. He would hold out his two hands and they would be filled with water. Streams of water on the windowpanes… pillars of water bursting from the eaves troughs… splashing rain veiling the asphalt. He did not know whether he was dreaming or whether his musings had become real, but suddenly he was aware of a commotion around him. Coming to himself, he found that he was in the midst of a sand slide. He took shelter under the eaves of the house and leaned against the wall. His bones seemed to have melted like those of some canned fish. His thirst burst around his temples, leaving fragments lying scattered on the surface of his consciousness like dots standing out in relief. He gritted his teeth and held his hands over his stomach; at last he contained his rising nausea. The sound of the woman's voice came to him. She was facing the cliff and hailing someone. He looked up, squinting between his heavy eyelids. The old man who had first brought him here was just letting down a bucket, suspended at the end of a rope. Water! At last it had come! The bucket tipped and made a splotch on the sandy slope. It was water, unmistakably the real thing! With a shout he fairly flew through the air to get to it. When he came within reach of the bucket he pushed the woman aside, trampling her with his feet, and took hold of it with both hands. He could hardly take off the rope before he impatiently thrust his face into the bucket, his body heaving like a pump. He raised his face and took a breath. The third time he rasied his head water spurted from his nose and his lips, and he choked painfully. His knees buckled limply under him and he closed his eyes. Now it was the woman's turn. She was not to be outdone, and, sounding as if her whole body had turned into a rubber plunger, in no time at all she had drained half the contents. Then she let go of the bucket and went back to the earthen floor; the old fellow began to haul in the rope. At once the man jumped up and grabbed it. "Wait!" he appealed. "Just a minute. I want you to listen to me. Wait, please! I just want you to listen to me!" The old man gave in, and his hands stopped moving. He blinked his eyes in a puzzled way, but he remained almost expressionless. "Since you've given me water, I'll do what I'm supposed to. I promise you that. But I still would like you to listen to me. You have really quite misjudged things. I'm a teacher in a school. I have my colleagues and the union waiting there, and the Board of Education and the P.T.A. too. Do you think people will accept my disappearance in silence?" The old man ran his tongue over his upper lip and grinned rather indifferently. It really wasn't a grin, but probably only wrinkles in the corner of his eyes as he tried to keep out the sand that was blown along with the wind. But not a single wrinkle escaped the desperate man's notice. "What? What's that? You realize, don't you, that you're pretty close to a criminal offense?" "Why? It's been ten days, but there's been no notice from the local police." The old man repeated his words meticulously one by one. "Supposing there was no notice even after ten days… what then?" "It hasn't been ten days. A week!" The old man shut his mouth and said nothing more. Certainly the exchange of words had been to no purpose. He restrained his impatience and said in a tight voice: "Well, these are matters of little consequence. Won't you come down so we can sit and have a leisurely talk? I will do absolutely nothing out of the way. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do a thing against such odds. I promise." The old fellow remained silent. The man began to breathe harder. "It's not that I don't understand how important this work of clearing away the sand is for the village. It's a matter of life and death, I know. It's very serious. I really understand that. If I weren't forced into it, I might even feel like co-operating with you voluntarily. It's really true. It'd only be human to co-operate when I see how things really are, wouldn't it? Do you really think this is the only way to make me work with you? I doubt it. Haven't you been able to think of a better one? The right man in the right place. If you don't put a man in the right place, you destroy the desire to co-operate. That's true, isn't it? Wasn't there a better way of making use of me without taking such a dangerous risk?" Had the old man heard or not? He turned his head blankly and made a movement as if he were shaking off a playful kitten. Was he perhaps nervous about the lookout in the fire tower? Would it be bad if they were to be seen talking together? he wondered. "You agree, don't you? It really is important to clear away the sand. But that's a means, not a goal. Your goal is to protect your life from the sand, isn't it? It is, isn't it? Fortunately I've done some research on sand; I'm especially interested in it. That's why I made it a point to come to a place like this. Sand has a strange fascination for people today. There's a way of taking advantage of this. The place can be developed as a new sight-seeing spot, for example. You take advantage of the sand, you follow it, you don't run against it. In short, you've got to try to make a complete change in your thinking." The old man opened his eyes. "In any sight-seeing place," he answered indifferently, "there's got to be a hot spring around. Besides, everybody knows that the only ones who make anything out of tourists are the merchants or outsiders." Perhaps it was his imagination, but the man had the feeling of being laughed at; and he suddenly recalled the woman's story about the postcard salesman who, after meeting the same fate as he, had taken sick and died. "Well, that's just one example of what you might do, of course. You can assume also that there are special crops suited to the particular properties of sand, can't you? In short, you don't have to stick so unreasonably to the old way of life." "But we've made all kinds of studies. We've tried raising peanuts and bulbs and things like that. I'd just like to show you how tulips grow here." "Well, what about breastworks to protect you against the sand?… a full- scale breastwork against the sand? I've got a friend on a newspaper, you know. It's very possible to use the paper to start public opinion moving in your favor." "No matter how much sympathy we get from the rest of the world it won't make any difference unless we get the necessary funds." "Well, then. You've got to start a movement to get them." "Maybe, but according to government regulations, damage from wind- blown sand doesn't seem to be recognized under disaster compensation." "You should work to have it recognized!" "What can you do about it in such a poor prefecture as this one? We're completely disgusted. Anyway, our present way is the cheapest. If we let the government office have their way we'd be lost in the sand while they're fiddling with their abacuses." "But I have my own situation to think about!" he cried out at the top of his voice. "You're the parents of children, aren't you? You surely understand the obligations of a teacher!" At that very instant the old fellow drew up the rope. Taken by surprise, the man released it inadvertently. What impertinence! Had the old man been pretending to listen to what he was saying only in order to seize the opportunity of hauling up the rope? He was amazed when his outstretched hands met thin air. "You behave like madmen. You've lost your senses. Even a monkey could shovel up the sand if it just had a little practice. I should be able to do a lot more than that. A man has the obligation to make full use of the abilities he has." "Well, maybe, but…" The old man spoke casually as if to put an end to the chitchat. "Do what you can anyway. We'll do whatever we can to help you." "Wait! Don't joke! Hey, there! Wait a minute! You'll be sorry. You don't understand at all. If you'd just wait a minute. Please!" But the old man did not look around again. He stood up, his shoulders bent as though he carried a heavy burden, and walked away. After three steps his shoulders were no longer visible, and with the fourth he had completely disappeared from view. The man wearily approached the sand cliff. He sank his arms and head into the sand, which ran in at his collar, forming a loose cushion at the point the shirt met his trousers. Suddenly the perspiration began to pour out furiously from his chest, neck, and forehead and along the insides of his thighs. It was the water he had just drunk! The sand, combined with the perspiration, formed a mustard plaster that made his skin smart and tingle, swelling it into a rubber raincoat. The woman had already begun to work. Suddenly he was seized by a profound suspicion that she had finished drinking what was left of the water. He hurried back to the house. The water was all there. Once more he gulped down three or four mouthfuls, and again was amazed at the limpid, mineral taste; he could not conceal his uneasiness. He couldn't possibly wait until evening. Of course, it would be impossible to prepare supper if he drank all the water now. The villagers had counted precisely on this. They intended to get around him by subjecting him to the fear of thirst He pulled his straw sun hat far down over his eyes and hastened outside. His judgment and ability to think were no more than a snowflake on his feverish brow when he was faced with the threat of thirst. Ten buckets of water would have been candy, but a single one was merely a goad. "Where's that shovel?" The woman smiled wearily, pointing to a spot under the eaves as she wiped the perspiration from her forehead with her sleeve. Although she had been overpowered, she did not appear for a moment to have forgotten the arrangement of the tools. It must be a mental attitude that people who lived in the sands learned naturally. No sooner did he have the shovel in his hands than his exhausted limbs collapsed like a folding tripod. As a matter of fact, he had not slept a wink since the night before. Under any circumstances, it would probably be necessary to arrange in advance with the woman the minimal amount of work that had to be done. But he was already too tired to talk with her about it. His vocal cords were shredded like strands of dried squid—perhaps because he had strained them too much talking with the old man. Mechanically he took his place next to the woman and began to shovel. The two, as if bound together, moved on with their digging between the cliff and the building. The board wall of the house was as soft as a rice cake that has not fully dried; it looked like a seedbed for mushrooms. Finally they piled the sand up in one place. They put it into the kerosene cans and transferred them to the clearing. When they had finished, they resumed the digging. The man's movements were almost automatic, involuntary. A frothy saliva that tasted like egg white filled his mouth. It ran over his chin and dribbled down on his chest, but he paid no attention. "You know, you would do better to hold the shovel with your left hand further down… like this," the woman remarked quietly. "If you hold your left hand still and use the right like a lever you won't get half so tired." A crow cawed. Suddenly the light changed from yellow to blue, and the pain, which had become magnified, softly withdrew into the surrounding landscape. Four crows glided low, parallel with the coast. The tips of their outspread wings glittered dark green, and the man for some reason was reminded of the potassium cyanide in his insect bottles. Oh, yes. Before he forgot, he must transfer his speciments to another container and wrap them in plastic. They would dissolve into a mushy mess in no time if the dampness got to them. "Shall we call it a day now?" The woman looked up at the wall as she spoke. He realized that her face was dry too; she was pale through the layer of sand that clung to her. Suddenly everything around him grew dark, daubed with a rust color, and he realized his blood had lost its vital force. Groping through the tunnel of his dimming consciousness, he barely managed to struggle to his messed and grease-smudged bed. He had no memory of when the woman came in. 22 HE would have felt exactly like this if plaster of Paris had been poured between his muscles. His eyes were wide open, but why was it so dark? he wondered. Somewhere a mouse seemed to be dragging along the makings of a nest. His throat smarted painfully as though a file had been passed through it. Gas rose in belches from his intestines as if from some cesspool. He wanted a smoke. No, before that, he wanted a drink of water. Waterl At once he was drawn back to reality. Then it hadn't been a mouse, but the woman, who had begun working. My God, how long had he been asleep? He tried to get up, but a terrible weight forced him back on the mattress. Remembering, he snatched the towel from his face. From the open doorway a wan, cool moonlight was streaming in, as if through gelatin. Suddenly it was night again. The kettle, lamp, and bottle of cheap sak6 stood beside his pillow. He raised himself at once on one elbow and rinsed out his mouth, spitting the water into the sunken fireplace. Slowly, relishing the feeling, he moistened his throat. He felt around the lamp, and his hand touched a soft package and some cigarettes and matches. He lit the lamp and put a match to a cigarette; then cautiously he tried a mouthful of cheap sake". His scattered faculties slowly began to arrange themselves. The contents of the package consisted of a boxed lunch: three balls of rice mixed with wheat, which were still warm; two skewers of dried sardines; some dry, wrinkled radish pickle; and some boiled vegetable that had a bitter taste. The vegetable seemed to be dried radish leaves. He could eat only one of the skewers of sardines and one rice ball. His stomach felt like a cold rubber glove. When he stood up, his joints creaked like the wind howling over the zinc roof. Nervously he peered into the water jar. It had been replenished and was brimming full. He dampened the towel and wiped his face. A shiver went through his whole body like a flourescent light. He washed his neck and flanks and shook the sand from between his fingers. Maybe he should be satisfied with creature comforts and let the rest go. "Shall I fix you some tea?" The woman was standing in the doorway. "No, thanks. My stomach is too queasy as it is." "Did you sleep well?" "You should have got me up when you got up." The woman bent her head giggling. "Actually, I got up three times during the night and fixed the towel over your face." She had the coquetry of a three-year-old who has just learned to use an adult's laugh. It was obvious she did not know how best to express her cheerful feelings or her embarrassment. He felt depressed and turned his eyes away. "Shall I help you with the digging? Or would it be better if I did the carrying?" "Well… It's about time for the next basket lift to come." When he actually began working, for some reason he did not resist it as much as he thought he would. What could be the cause of this change? he wondered. Was it the fear that the water would be discontinued? Was it because of his indebtedness to the woman, or something about the character of the work itself? Work seemed something fundamental for man, something which enabled him to endure the aimless flight of time. Once he had been taken along—when was it?—by the Mobius man to a lecture-meeting. The meeting place was completely surrounded by a low, rusty fence, and within the enclosure the surface of the ground was almost invisible beneath paper refuse, empty boxes, and rags of indiscriminate origin. What had ever put it into the designer's head to place such a fence around the site? Whereupon, as though his thoughts had materialized, a man in a tired suit of clothes appeared, leaning over the iron fence, earnestly trying to scrape it with his fingertips. His Mobius friend had informed him that it was a plain-clothes man. Then on the ceiling of the meeting place there was a huge coffee-colored leaky spot the like of which he had never seen before. In the midst of all this, the lecturer was speaking: "The only way to go beyond work is through work. It is not that work itself is valuable; we surmount work by work. The real value of work lies in the strength of self-denial." He heard the sharp signal of someone whistling through his fingers. Then there were carefree shouts and people running up, dragging the baskets. As usual, as they drew nearer they became quiet, and the basket was lowered in silence. He could feel that he was under close observation, but it would be of no use now to yell at the cliff. When the specified amount of sand had been safely hoisted the tension relaxed, and even the feel of the air seemed to change. No one said anything, but it seemed that for the moment they had come to an agreement. He could see a very definite change in the woman's attitude too. "Let's have a break. I'll bring some tea." Her voice and her behavior too were more cheerful. She was brimming over with an unobtainable zest. The man felt sated, as if he had eaten too much sugar. As she passed him he brought himself to pat her buttocks from behind. If the voltage is too high the filament bums out. Never had he intended to deceive her like this. Sometime he would tell her the story of the guard who protected the imaginary castle. There was a castle. No. It wasn't necessarily a castle, it could be anything: a factory, a bank, a gambling house. So the guard could be either a watchman or a bodyguard. Now the guard, always prepared for the enemy attack, never failed in his vigilance. One day the long- expected enemy finally came. This was the moment, and he rang the alarm signal. Strangely enough, however, there was no response from the troops. Needless to say, the enemy easily overpowered the guard in one fell swoop. In his fading consciousness he saw the enemy sweeping like the wind through the gates, over the walls, and into the buildings unhindered by anyone. No, it was the castle, not the enemy, that was really like the wind. The single guard, like a withered tree in the wilderness, had stood guarding an illusion. He sat down on the shovel and lit a cigarette. The flame caught at last with the third match. His fatigue spread out into a sluggish circle, like India ink dropped in water—it was a jellyfish, a scent bag, a diagram of an atomic nucleus. Some night bird had found a field mouse and was calling to its mate with a weird cry. An uneasy dog bayed deeply. High in the night sky there was a continuous, discordant sound of wind blowing at a different velocity. And on the ground the wind was a knife continually shaving off thin layers of sand. He wiped away the perspiration, blew his nose with his fingers, and brushed the sand from his head. The ripples of sand at his feet suddenly looked like the motionless crests of waves. Supposing they were sound waves, what kind of music would they give? he wondered. Maybe even a human being could sing such a song… if tongs were driven into his nose and slimy blood stopped up his ears… if his teeth were broken one by one with hammer blows, and splinters jammed into his urethra… if a vulva were cut away and sewn onto his eyelids. It might resemble cruelty, and then again it might be a little different Suddenly his eyes soared upward like a bird, and he felt as if he were looking down on himself. Certainly he must be the strangest of all… he who was musing on the strangeness of things here. Yüklə 0,66 Mb. Dostları ilə paylaş:
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