Cobo Abe - The Woman in the Dunes

«If the stars don't come out by this time,» she said in a voice that sounded as if it had been squeezed out of a worn-out tube, «there won't be a very strong wind.»

«Why?»

«If you can't see the stars, it's because there's mist.»

«What do you mean by saying such a thing when the wind is blowing as hard as it is?»

«No. That's the rush of the wind way up above.»

He thought about this; it might well be as she said. The fact that the stars were obscured meant, after all, that the wind did not have the power to blow away the vapors in the atmosphere. There would probably not be much of a wind tonight. If that were the case, the villagers would probably not press things to a conclusion. What he had taken to be downright nonsense had turned out in fact to be a surprisingly logical answer.

«Of course. But I'm not at all worried. If it's their idea to hold out, it'll be a battle of nerves. It's six of one and in half a dozen of the other whether I wait a week, ten days, or even fifteen.»

The woman curled her toes tightly inward. They looked like the suction cups of a suckfish. He laughed. And as he was laughing he became nauseated.

Why in heaven's name was he on tenterhooks like this? He was the one who was pressing on the enemy's vulnerable spot, wasn't he? Why couldn't he observe things in a more self-possessed way? If and when he got back safely it would certainly be well worth while setting down this experience.

— Well, Niki, I am amazed. At last you have decided to write something. It really was the experience that made you. A common earthworm won't attain full growth if it's not stimulated, they say.

— Thanks. Actually I've got to think up some kind of title.

— Hmm. What kind, I wonder? «The Devil of the Sands» or «The Terrors of an Ant Hell»?

— They show a terrible taste for the bizarre. Don't they give much too insincere an impression?

— Do you think so?

— It's meaningless, no matter how intense the experience, to trace only the surface of the event. The heroes of this tragedy are the local boys, and if you don't give some hint of the solution by describing them, your rare experience will be lost…

Pew!

— What is it?

— Are they cleaning the sewers somewhere? Or maybe it's some special chemical reaction between the garlic smell in your mouth and the antiseptic solution they're using to scrub the corridor.

— What?

— No, take it easy. No matter how I try to write I'm not fit to be a writer.

— This unbecoming humility again. There's no need for you to think of writers as something special. If you write, you're a writer, aren't you?

— Well, it's generally considered that teachers are prone to write indiscriminately.

— But professionally they're pretty close to writers.

— Is that what they call creative education?… In spite of the fact that they haven't even made a pencil box by themselves?

— A pencil box… how impressive! Isn't it good to be made to realize what sort of person one is?

— Thanks to this education, I have to experience a new sensation in order to appreciate new pain. — There's hope.

— But one is not responsible for whether the hope materializes or not — From that point on, one has to try to put one's faith in one's own power.

— All right, let's stop the self-deception. Such a vice is impermissible in any teacher.

— Vice?

— That's for writers. Saying you want to become a writer is no more than egotism; you want to distinguish between yourself and the puppets by making yourself a puppeteer.

What difference is there really between this and a woman's using make-up?

— That's severe. But if you use the term «writer» in such a sense, certainly you should be able to distinguish to a certain extent between being a writer and writing.

— Ah. You see! That's the very reason I wanted to become a writer. If I couldn't be a writer there would be no particular need to write!

He must look like a child who has not received his allowance.

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.»