Microsoft Word KoboAbe-WomanInTheDunes doc

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Got a one-way ticket to the blues, woo, woo,
. . . 
IF you want to sing it, sing it. These days people caught in the clutches 
of the one-way ticket never sing it like that. The soles of those who 
have only a one-way ticket are so thin that they scream when they step 
on a pebble. They have had their fill of walking. "The Round-Trip Ticket 
Blues" is what they want to sing. A one-way ticket is a disjointed life 
that misses the links between yesterday and today, today and 

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tomorrow. Only the man who obstinately hangs on to a round-trip 
ticket can hum with real sorrow a song of a one-way ticket. For this 
very reason he grows desperate lest the return half of his ticket be lost 
or stolen; he buys stocks, signs up for life insurance, and talks out of 
different sides of his mouth to his union pals and his superiors. He 
hums "The One-Way Ticket Blues" with all his might and, choosing a 
channel at random, turns the television up to full volume in an attempt 
to drown out the peevish voices of those who have only a one-way 
ticket and who keep asking for help, voices that come up through the 
bathtub drain or the toilet hole. It would not be strange at all if "The 
Round-Trip Ticket Blues" were the song of mankind imprisoned. 
Whenever he could, he stealthily worked at making a rope. He tore his 
extra shirt into pieces, twisted them together, and then joined them to 
the kimono sash of the woman's dead husband; altogether his rope was 
now about five yards long. When the time came, he would fasten one 
end to a pair of rusty shears, which he would prop half open with a 
piece of wood. Of course, the rope was still not long enough. He could 
almost make the required length if he tied on the hemp clothesline and 
the rough straw rope, stretched over the earthen floor, on which she 
had hung some fish and corn to dry. 
The idea had come to him rather suddenly. But it was not necessarily 
true that only a time-tested plan would be successful. Such sudden 
inspiration had sufficient basis in itself, even though the process of its 
emergence had been unconscious. The chances of success were better 
in spontaneous cases than with plans that had been fussed over. 
Now the question was: When should he put his plan into action? He 
concluded that the best time for escape would be during the day, while 
the woman was asleep. But it would be risky to cross through the 
village unless it was dark. He would begin his actions systematically, 
leaving the place as long a time as possible before the woman awoke, 
hiding out in some convenient place, and waiting there until the sun 
had set. He would take advantage of the darkness before the moon 
rose, and it probably would not be too difficult to get out to a main 
highway where buses ran. 
In the meantime, he would use all his skill to get the woman to tell him 
about the topography and organization of the village. What were the 

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economics of a place like this, which did not have a single fishing boat 
although it faced the sea? How long had it been in this condition? 
What was the population? Who cultivated the tulips, and where? What 
did the children do? Did they go to a school? If he were to gather 
together his vague memories of that first day when he had arrived, he 
could make an approximate map, even though it would be based on 
indirect information. 
Ideally nothing could be better than to escape by de-touring around the 
village and not going through it at all, but the west wall was obstructed 
by a rather steep promontory which, although not very high, seemed to 
have become a sheer cliff, having been eroded away since early times 
by the waves. Even though there were footholds which the villagers 
used when they went to gather firewood, they were obstructed by 
thickets and hard to locate; and then it would be unfortunate to arouse 
the woman's suspicions by being over-inquisitive. On the opposite side, 
to the east, lay a very narrow creek, which was completely surrounded 
by uninhabited sand dunes rising and falling for more than five miles 
and which led ultimately right back again to the entrance of the village. 
In other words, the village was a bag of sand, cut off at the neck by the 
creek and the sheer cliffs. The margin of safety would seem to be 
greater if he attacked the center rather than spending precious minutes 
detouring, thus giving the villagers more time to rally themselves and 
catch him. 
But that did not mean that the problem was solved. For example, there 
was the lookout in the fire tower. He was also worried that the woman, 
upon noticing his disappearance, might set up a hue and cry and that 
the village gates would be closed before he could get out. Perhaps he 
could condense the two problems into one. The first basket gang 
usually came with the water and the regular deliveries a good while 
after the sun had set. If the woman tried to report his disappearance 
before then, she could certainly get through only to the fire lookout. 
The question came down to just what he should do about the fire 
guard. 
Fortunately, owing to the sudden fluctuation of temperature in the 
region, the surface of the land was shrouded in mist for thirty minutes 
to an hour before sunset. The reason was apparently that the silicic 
acid in the sand, which had little capacity to retain heat, suddenly 

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released the warmth it had absorbed during the day. From the fire 
lookout, the whole area lay precisely at the angle of light reflection, and 
even with a slight mist a thick, milk-white curtain completely 
obstructed the view. He had made certain of this yesterday, just to be 
on the safe side. At the foot of the cliff toward the sea, he had tried 
sending a signal by waving his towel a number of times, but, just as he 
had anticipated, there had been no response. 
It was on the fourth day after he had conceived it that the plan was 
actually carried out. He had decided on Saturday evening, which was 
the usual time the bath water was delivered. The preceding night he 
had determined to get a full night's sleep by pretending to have a cold. 
For precaution's sake, he had insisted that they fetch him some aspirin. 
The tablets were discolored, apparently shop-worn from their sojourn in 
the local emporium. He took two along with some of the cheap sak6; 
the results were immediate. Until the woman returned from her work, 
he had heard nothing except the sounds of the lift basket being raised 
and lowered. 
The woman, who had not had to work by herself for some time, 
understandably bore signs of great fatigue. As she busied herself with 
the preparation of the meal, he charted idly about all sorts of things… 
the sink, which had been in bad condition for a long time, should be 
repaired… and so on. He could see that she was thinking that his 
selfishness was a sign that he was putting down roots here, and she 
dared not register irritation lest she destroy his mood. Now, after work, 
anyone should feel like taking a bath. The sand that clung to the skin 
with the night's perspiration was especially annoying. Not only was it 
the day for the delivery of the bath water, but the woman especially 
liked to wash him and would surely not put up any objection. 
As he was being soaped he pretended to be aroused and pulled at her 
kimono. He would wash her in return. Caught between confusion and 
expectancy, she made a gesture of resistance, but it was not clear just 
what she was resisting. He quickly poured a bucket of warm water over 
her naked body and without a washcloth began to pass his soapy 
hands directly over her skin. He started with the earlobes and shifted 
down to the jaw, and as he passed over her shoulders he reached 
around and with one hand grasped her breast. She cried out and, 
sliding down his chest, crouched level with his stomach. Undoubtedly 

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it was a posture of expectation. But the man was in no hurry. With 
measured cadence, his hands went on with their painstaking massaging 
from one part of her body to another. 
The woman's excitement naturally infected him too. He felt a strange 
sadness that was different from usual. The woman was glowing from 
within now, as if she were being washed by a wave of fireflies. To 
disappoint her now would be like suddenly shooting a freed criminal 
from behind. And so he reacted with even greater frenzy, spurring on 
his awakening senses. 
But there is a limit to perverted passion too. The woman, who had been 
entreating him at first, manifested obvious fright at this frenzy. He was 
seized by a feeling of prostration, as if he had ejaculated. Again he 
spurred his courage, forcing himself on by a series of helter-skelter lewd 
fantasies, arousing his passion by biting her breasts and striking her 
body, which, with the soap, sweat, and sand, felt like machine oil 
mixed with iron filings. He had intended to let this go on for at least two 
hours. But finally the woman gritted her teeth and, complaining of pain, 
crouched away from him. He mounted her from behind like a rabbit 
and finished up within seconds. Then he threw water over her to wash 
off the soap; he forced her to drink a teacupful of the cheap sake' along 
with three aspirin tablets. She would sleep straight on through without 
awakening until night… and, if things went well, until she was 
awakened by the cries from the basket gangs. 
In her sleep the woman breathed as if a paper wad had been stuck in 
her nose. Her respirations were deep and long; he tapped her heel 
lightly with his foot, but she showed almost no change. She was an old 
tube squeezed dry of all sex. He fixed the towel, which had almost 
slipped off her face, and pulled her kimono down around her knees, 
seeing that it had twisted like a rope around her waist. Fortunately he 
was completely occupied with the final arrangements of his plan and 
there was no time for sentimentality. When he had finished working on 
the device he had contrived with the old shears, it was just about the 
appointed moment. As he had expected, he felt a kind of lacerating 
pain as he looked at her for the last time. 
A thin light played in a circle about a yard from the upper lip of the 
hole. It must be between six-thirty and twenty of seven. The time was 

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just right. He forced both arms back with all his strength and turned his 
neck to and fro, stretching the kinks out of his shoulder muscles. 
First he had to climb to the top of the roof. In grappling, the chances of 
success are greater the closer the angle of elevation is to forty-five 
degrees. He would have liked to climb up on the roof using the rope, 
but he was afraid the woman might be awakened by the sound of the 
shears striking the shingles. He decided to eliminate the testing and to 
circle around back of the house and climb up on the roof using as 
footholds the vestiges of a rain shelter that seemed once to have been 
used as a place for drying clothes. 
The squared timbers were thin and half rotten, and they worried him. 
But what came next was even worse. The flying sand had polished the 
straight white grain of the roof, making it appear like new. But when he 
climbed up on it, it was as soft as a soaked cracker. If he were to put his 
foot through it, he would be in real 
trouble. He dispersed his weight, 
crawling slowly forward. Finally he 
reached the ridgepole and, straddling 
it, raised himself on his knees. The top 
of the roof was already in the 
shadows, and the faint honey-colored 
granulations on the west edge of the 
hole were signs that the mist was 
gradually beginning to come in. He no longer need concern himself 
with the lookout in the tower. 
He tied the rope into a lasso and, holding it in his right hand about a 
yard below the shears, swung it in a circle around his head. His target 
was one of the sandbags that were used instead of a pulley when they 
raised and lowered the baskets. Since the bags could hold the rope 
ladder, they must surely be quite firmly buried. Gradually he increased 
the speed of the revolutions and, taking aim, let fly with the loop. It 
sailed off in a completely unexpected direction. His idea of casting was 
wrong. The shears had to fly in a tangent to the circumference of the 
hole, and so he would have to let go at the very instant the rope was at 
right angles with the target, or maybe a bare instant before. Yes, that 
was it! But the next time the shears unfortunately struck the middle of 
the cliff and fell to the ground. It would seem that the speed of the 

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revolutions and the angle of elevation as he held the rope were not 
right. 
After repeated tries, he managed to establish both the distance and the 
angle pretty well. But still there was a long way to go before a real 
strike. He would have been happy at any sign of progress, but still there 
was no evidence that the margin of error was lessening—indeed, to the 
contrary, his aim was becoming terribly erratic with fatigue and 
impatience. Perhaps he had oversimplified. He felt unreasonably angry 
and close to tears, as though someone had actually deceived him. 
Yet there seemed to be some truth in the law of probability, according 
to which the chance of success is directly proportionate to the number 
of repetitions.' With something like the thirtieth try, when in despair he 
had given up hope, the rope flew straight over the bags. The inside of 
his mouth felt prickly, and even though he kept swallowing, the saliva 
kept welling up. But it was still too soon to be pleased with himself. He 
had simply got hold of money with which to buy a lottery ticket. He 
would see now whether he would win or lose. All his nerves strained 
toward the rope as he drew it gently toward him, as if he were pulling 
on stars with a strand of spider's web. 
It resisted. 
At first he could not believe it, but the rope actually did not move. He 
tried exerting more pressure. His body was poised, waiting for the 
moment of disillusion… was it to be now?… or now? But there was no 
longer any room for doubt. The hook improvised from the shears had 
bitten firmly into the bags. What luck! What unbelievable luck! From 
this minute on, things would really go in his favor. With a giddy heart, 
he got down from the roof and walked to where the end of the rope, 
now hanging perpendicular, was gently shaving away at the sand cliff. 
Ground level was right there… so near he could scarcely believe it. His 
face was stiff and his lips trembled. Columbus's egg must have been 
hard-boiled. Keep it hot too long, though, and it would spoil. 
He grasped the rope and slowly began hoisting himself. 
Suddenly it began to stretch as if it were rubber. He was startled, and 
the perspiration gushed from his pores. Fortunately the stretching 

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stopped after about a foot. He tried bringing all his weight to bear, and 
this time there seemed to be no further cause for worry. He spit on his 
hands, fitted the rope between his legs, and began to climb hand over 
hand. He rose like a toy monkey climbing a toy coconut tree. Perhaps it 
was his excitement, but the perspiration on his forehead felt strangely 
cold. In an effort to keep the sand from falling on him, he avoided 
brushing against it and depended solely on the rope. But he felt uneasy 
as his body turned round and round in the air. The dead weight of his 
torso was more than he had anticipated, and his progress was slow. 
And whatever was this trembling? His arms had begun to jerk in spite 
of him, and he felt almost as if he were snapping himself like a whip. 
Perhaps it was a natural reaction, in view of those forty-six horrible 
days. When he had climbed a yard the hole seemed a hundred yards 
deep… two yards, two hundred yards deep. Gradually, as the depth of 
the hole increased, he began to be dizzy. He was too tired. He mustn't 
look down! But there! There was the surface! The surface where, no 
matter which way he went, he would walk to freedom… to the very 
ends of the earth. When he got to the surface, this endless moment 
would become a small flower pressed between the pages of his diary… 
poisonous herb or carnivorous plant, it would be no more than a bit of 
half-transparent colored paper, and as he sipped his tea in the parlor he 
would hold it up to the light and take pleasure in telling its story. 
And now, he hadn't the slightest intention of accusing the woman any 
more. He could definitely guarantee that if she wasn't exactly a lady 
she was also not a prostitute. If she needed any backing later he would 
gladly guarantee it… as much as she wanted. She was a stupid creature 
whose only merit was that she clung to her round-trip ticket… like him. 
But even with the same round-trip ticket, if the point of departure was 
different, the destination was naturally different too. It would not be