Authors: Kōbō Abe
The meaning of the scene before my eyes temporarily eluded me. It was a clean-cut oblong room, solid stone, with nowhere to hide and nowhere to search. I felt the frustration of someone looking through the viewfinder of a broken stereoscope. I was used to seeing no one there, but how could I get used to not seeing someone who
should
be there?
“Now where did he roam off to?” I muttered.
The girl came around from the other side of the table and joined me at the parapet. “Is he gone?” she asked. She didn’t seem particularly concerned; in fact, she sounded rather intrigued. Not knowing the lack of places to hide would doubtless take away the peculiarity of the situation. Coffee cup in hand, the insect dealer joined us.
“Over there behind the storage drums, in the shadows,” he said, slurping his coffee, and called, “All right, let’s not be cute. We all know you’re not so squeamish you can’t go right out in the open there. Come on out.”
“They’re lined up smack against the wall,” I said. “There’s no way anybody could squeeze in there.”
I realized what had happened. I didn’t want to think about it, but I knew where the shill must have gone. From the bridge it was hard to see, but he must have crawled through the passageway cut into the far side of that same wall. Unless he had chopped himself up and flushed himself down the toilet, there was simply no other exit.
The girl called out, her voice trailing off in a long sinuous echo like the rise and fall of waves on a large, shallow strand. “If you want to play hide-and-seek, wait till we decide who’s it.”
I strained my ears, listening for a scream. He could not possibly get through that passageway on his own. I had set up a trap on the principle of the bow. It was triggered by a line of fishing gut stretched half an inch off the ground, which when touched would release a steel leaf spring. The basic purpose was to keep rats out, but it could easily shatter a person’s ankle.
“The bastard—he got away.” The insect dealer followed my line of vision and instantly grasped what had happened. He leaned over the parapet, trying to peer down the passageway. “What’s down there, at the end of that tunnel?”
Had these been the crew members I’d anticipated for so long, there would’ve been no need to ask. That would have been the first place I’d have shown them: the heart of the ark, where tunnels branch off three ways, one to each of the other two holds, and one back here. If each hold were a residential area, the “heart” was in the best location for communal use, so mentally I always referred to it as the “central hold” or “work hold.” It was my firm intention to interfere as little as possible in the crew’s personal lives, but some tasks, like the operation of air-purifying equipment or electric generators, required a joint effort. The success or failure of life aboard the ark hinged on how well people cooperated. If everyone lived like the eupcaccia, there would be no problem, since if no one had any urge to expand his or her territory, there would be no fear of mutual territorial violations. Letting the shill aboard might have been as fatal a lapse as if I had overlooked shipworms.
“Machinery.” My voice sounded too belligerent. More graciously, I added, “I’ll take you there one of these times.”
“What kind of machinery?”
“Machinery for survival, of course.”
“Survival of what?” asked the girl, at last seeming to grasp the situation. Bending her body at a right angle, she rested her weight on the parapet and leaned forward as far as she could. Her skirt of artificial leather was stretched to the limit, revealing her round contours like a second skin. The reality of those two soft globes right there beside my own hips seemed more fanciful than my wildest fancies. My brain began to turn red and raw, as if peeling.
“Survival of what?” she repeated. What indeed, I wondered. If only she had asked not “of what,” but “why.” For if it was possible for me to go on living near a skirt stretched this tightly, over this round a pair of hips, then I had no doubts whatever concerning the meaning of survival. Even the eupcaccia emerged from its chrysalis in preparation for mating. Emergence is a preparation for rebirth—regeneration—as well as for death. Looking sideways at her round, tight skirt, I thought that perhaps I too was starting to emerge from my cocoon.
“Of course survival for its own sake is meaningless. It’s pointless to live a life not worth living.” My answer was no answer. The insect dealer then spoke up in my place.
“Don’t you ever think about nuclear war or things like that?” he asked her.
“It doesn’t interest me. Even on TV, if it’s anything about war I change the channel.”
“That’s a woman for you,” said the insect dealer, turning his back to the hold and settling against the parapet until he was at the optimal distance for viewing her hips (about ten inches away). “Women are born without any imagination.”
Hardly a sensitive remark. Instinctively I came to her defense. “Look who’s talking. You can’t stand barking dogs, can you?”
“No, but so what?”
The girl purposely made light of it. “The reason women don’t think ahead is because they have to go to the supermarket every day. This coffee is too bitter for me. I don’t like it without sugar.”
“No?” I said. “But it’s better this way if we’re going to have beer next, isn’t it?”
The insect dealer gulped the remainder of his coffee with a noise like the pump of a dry well, never ceasing his close observation of her rump. Seemingly conscious of his eyes, she waved her hand now and then as if to chase off a pesky fly. But her right-angled posture remained the same, needlessly provocative.
“Let’s go downstairs and see what we can see,” I said, motioning to her, my real aim being to get her away from the insect dealer. “If he’s injured, it’ll mean trouble.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “That man is as sharp as they come. He can catch flies in his bare hands.”
“So can I.”
“While they’re flying.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about him,” said the insect dealer. He laughed sharply and gave the woman’s bottom a slap, making a startlingly loud noise. In monkey colonies, what did they call it? Oh, yes—mounting: the losing monkey sticks out its rear end. Subjugation begins with control of the other’s hindquarters. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already dead. I don’t know what sort of trap it was, but if he’d only hurt himself a little, he’d be screaming for help by now.”
Despite the liberty the insect dealer took with her bottom, the girl reacted only by twisting away and jerking her head. Had she fallen so easily under his sway? Or was she used to this sort of thing? Perhaps it was not as serious as I’d assumed. I wanted to follow his example, but something held me back.
“I doubt if his life could be in danger,” I said, “but it is pitch dark in there.”
“He took a light,” said the insect dealer. “Remember that one hanging from the locker handle—the kind coal miners wear on their heads.”
His statements lacked consistency. First he exaggerated the danger the shill was in, then in the next breath he emphasized how safe he was. He was just out to find fault with whatever I said. She sided with him.
“That’s right, it’s a waste of time worrying about him—he’s sharp as a tack,” she said, and casually shifted her weight from the left leg to the right; in the process the two globes, still pressed close together, subtly changed shape. The skirt stuck to her bottom, becoming progressively more transparent.
I wasn’t seriously concerned about the shill’s well-being myself; I only wanted to put a fast stop to this unpleasant collusion between the insect dealer and her. Besides, it was barely possible that he had gotten safely past the trap and entered the work hold. I was unwilling to credit him with as much cunning and dexterity as she, but perhaps something—a rat, say—had tripped the mechanism beforehand.
I could not have people roaming all over the ship, in any case. The air-conditioning system and electrical generator were as yet unfinished, and I couldn’t permit anyone to lay hands on them in my absence. I especially did not want him, or anyone, getting into the magazine, where locked in a safe I had five crossbows, seven model guns, and one rifle rebuilt with steel-reinforced barrel and hammer. I had test-fired each one five successive times with no difficulty. I was damned if I’d let the shill get his hands on those.
With the ark in danger of springing a leak, this was no time to loiter. It was essential to go straight below and take defensive steps. But the other two seemed content to stay where they were. After the insect dealer’s ritual assertion of supremacy just now, I could not bring myself to go off and entrust the girl to his keeping. The situation called for deportment worthy of a captain, to make them recognize my leadership. What if I went ahead and gave her bottom a resounding slap myself?
“Anyway, let’s get going,” I said. Taking advantage of the opportunity my words provided, I gave the girl’s bottom a slap that was bold in spirit, if less so in reality. The sound effect was poor, but the tactile impression was richly rewarding—the moist, clingy feel of artificial leather, and a heavy warmth that sank deep into my flesh.
The girl straightened up and turned red. She opened her eyes wide and looked straight at me, whether in fear or embarrassment I could not tell.
“I didn’t know you had it in you,” said the insect dealer, licking his lips, and reaching past the girl to slap my shoulder. He flashed me a secretive, friendly grin in which I could detect no trace of irony or ridicule. Had it been a success? The insect dealer walked ahead, leading the way. Reality returned. It was as if at last the ship’s rudder had begun to work. The day’s events had not been a total waste.
At first glance the passageway appears to be a mere crack or slit rising high in the seam between walls. This is because of its enormous height, over fifty feet in all; actually it is wide enough for a small truck to pass through easily. We were dwarfed as we drew near.
About fifteen feet in, it turned to the right, thus blocking off our light source from the first hold. As we moved on in darkness, the floor began rising. Calling a warning to the others, I halted and stared ahead into the blackness. If the shill was there, the light from his lamp should be visible. Those shadows, light and dark, that moved with my eyeballs—were they mere afterimages, within the eye? I could see nothing else. Had he switched off his lantern, hearing our footsteps? Why? I pushed the second button on the switch control panel hanging from my belt, and fluorescent lights spaced evenly along the walls came sputtering to life. The right-hand wall of the passageway continued on to become the south wall of the work hold. The first hold and the central work hold were linked directly by this passage. The cluster of white pipes along the west wall, like a scale-model factory, was a manually operated air-conditioning system.
“Looks like he found the switch,” the insect dealer whispered in my ear. He hadn’t caught on that I was operating a remote-control switch. I saw no reason to relieve him of his misapprehension.
The girl took a step forward and called, cupping her hands, “Come on out. Hide-and-seek’s over.”
“Watch out.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Why, I wondered, was her skin so soft? For a while I let my fingers stay as they were, pressed into her flesh. It was the first such change in mental state I had undergone since the bottom-slapping incident. He who controls the woman controls the group. Leering in my imagination like a movie villain, I strained my eyes to see the stone floor a few steps ahead.
The worst situation possible met my gaze. The flat steel spring lay blocking our way like a railway crossing gate. By rights it should have been fastened to the wall, set so that the moment anything or anyone touched the silkworm gut, suspended in a zigzag just off the floor, the latch would release and the spring would mow down its prey. Someone (possibly the shill) had either seen through the device and dismantled it safely, or else fallen into the trap.
“Is that a trap?” She clung to my arm. A most favorable sign. The sound of urinating … bottom slapping … and now direct contact. At the same time, I found myself still more apprehensive: a sprung trap, and no sign of prey… .
“Yes,” I responded, “but the spring’s been released. Look, the strings on the floor have all gone slack.”
“I’ll be damned. You’re right.” The insect dealer crouched over the steel spring and removed his glasses. “These lenses aren’t right for my eyes—but wait a minute, where’s the victim? If this came down on your leg, you’d sure as hell know it.”
“That’s right; we didn’t hear a scream,” said the girl.
“It didn’t have to be a person, you know. A rat could have set it off easily,” I said.
“Yes, but a rat would get killed, wouldn’t it?” said the insect dealer. “Not only is there no dead rat here; the spring is perfectly clean. There’s not even any hair on it, let alone bloodstains.”
“Then it
was
a person. Somebody stood back at a safe distance and poked it with the end of a stick, or threw a stone at the string. But to do that you’d have to know before-hand that the trap existed. So it’s impossible.”
“It’s possible,” the girl said flatly. “He’s a master at anticipating people’s moves. Cards, mah-jongg … you name it.”
“Yes, and he’s already been hurt, twice.” The insect dealer put his hands on the small of his back and stretched. “First the staircase, then the fireworks. But, Captain, it doesn’t necessarily have to be the president, does it? Couldn’t it be somebody else, like a spy who sneaked aboard when you weren’t looking?”
There was no point in discussing hypothetical possibilities. The important thing now was to ascertain the shill’s whereabouts.
“Whoever it was, he couldn’t have just melted away. He’s no snowman,” I said, stepping over the steel spring and moving forward.
“He’s terrible, running off like this without a word to anyone,” the girl responded fretfully. The genuine irritation in her voice seemed to rule out any possibility of collusion.