Cobo Abe - The Woman in the Dunes

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.

How true. Time cannot be spurred on like a horse. But it is not quite so slow as a pushcart. Gradually the morning temperature attained its usual intensity; his eyeballs and brain began to seethe; the heat pierced his innards; his lungs burned.

The moisture that the sand had absorbed during the night became vapor and was belched back into the atmosphere. The sand gave out a light which, through the refracted sunshine, made it seem like wet asphalt. Yet basically it remained the unadulterated 1/8 mm., drier than plain flour baked in a tin.

Soon came the first sand slide. It was a noise he was used to, one that had become a part of the daily routine, but involuntarily he and the woman exchanged glances. What would be the consequences of having let the sand go for a day? While he did not think they would be serious, he was still worried. But the woman turned her eyes away in silence. Her sulky look gave the impression that he could worry alone as he pleased. He'd be damned if he'd ask her any more. Just when the sand slide seemed to thin out to a thread, it widened again to the size of a belt; it repeated the process by fits and starts and at length quietly ceased.

It certainly did not seem serious enough to worry about. He heaved a sigh; the pulse pounded in his face, and he felt a burning sensation. The thought of the cheap _sake_, which he had tried not to think about until then, suddenly began to draw his nerves to a point, like a flame floating in darkness. Anything would be all right; he wanted to moisten his throat. If he let things go on as they were, the blood in his body would dwindle away. He knew full well that he was sowing the seeds of his suffering and that later he would regret it, but he could resist no longer. He took out the stopper, thrust the bottle to his lips, and drank. Yet his tongue, like a faithful watchdog surprised by an unexpected intruder, set up a howl. He choked. It was like sprinkling alcohol on a cut. Nonetheless, he could not control a desire for a second and even a third swallow. What horrible sake!

Since the woman was there he offered her some too. Of course, she declined. Her refusal was as exaggerated as if he were forcing her to take poison.

As he had feared, the alcohol in his stomach bounced to his head like a ping-pong ball, ringing like the buzz of a bee in his ears. His skin began to stiffen like pig's hide. His blood was spoiling!.. His blood was dying away!

«Can't you do anything? It must be hard enough for you too. I loosened your ropes, so do something!»

«All right. But if I don't get somebody from the village to bring water…»

«Well, why don't you get them to?»

«I could… if we were just to start working…»

«Don't be funny! Where do those fellows get the right to strike such an absurd bargain? Just tell me that! You can't, can you? They don't have the right, and you know it!»

The woman lowered her eyes and was silent. What a situation. The sky, visible above the door, had changed from blue to a glaring white, like the underside of a seashell. Granted that obligation is a man's passport among his fellow men, why did he have to get a permit from the villagers? Human life shouldn't be so many bits of paper scattered about. Life is a bound diary, and one first page is plenty for one book. There is no need to do one's duty for a page that is unrelated to the preceding ones. One can't get involved every time someone else is on the point of starvation. Damn it! He wanted water. But no matter how much he wanted water, he still did not have enough bodies to go around to all the funeral services of people who were of no consequence to him.