Cobo Abe - The Woman in the Dunes

«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!»

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.