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 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 foot there was a conspicuous and disagreeable fold. Again, a 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 _sake_ 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 us! 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 out!”
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 empty!”
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.