Cobo Abe: The Woman in the Dunes

«An insect that eats holes in wood.» «That's probably a termite, isn't it?» «No, no. It's about this big… with a hard skin.» «Ah. Well, it's a long-horned saw beetle then.» «A saw beetle?»

«Long whiskers and reddish, isn't it?»

«No, it's sort of bronze-colored and shaped like a grain of rice.» «I see. Then it's an iridescent beetle.»

«If you let it go on, beams like these rot away to nothing, you know.» «You mean the iridescent beetle?»

«No, the sand.» «Why?»

«It gets in from everywhere. On days when the wind direction is bad, it gets up under the roof, and if I didn't sweep it away it would soon pile up so heavy that the ceiling boards wouldn't hold it.»

«Hmm. Yes, I can see it wouldn't do to let the sand accumulate in the ceiling. But isn't it funny to say that it rots the beams?»

«No. They do rot.»

«But sand is essentially dry, you know.»

«Anyway, it rots them. If you leave sand on brand-new wooden clogs they fall apart in half a month. They're just dissolved, they say, so it must be true.» «I don't understand the reason.»

«Wood rots, and the sand rots with it. I even heard that soil rich enough to grow cucumbers came out of the roof boards of a house that had been buried under the sand.»

«Impossible!» he exclaimed rudely, making a wry face. He felt that his own personal concept of sand had been defiled by her ignorance. «I know a little about sand myself. Let me tell you. Sand moves around like this all year long. Its flow is its life. It absolutely never stops — anywhere. Whether in water or air, it moves about free and unrestricted. So, usually, ordinary living things are unable to endure life in it, and this goes for bacteria too. How shall I put it… sand represents purity, cleanliness. Maybe it serves a preservative function, but there is certainly no question of its rotting anything. And, what's more, dear lady, to begin with, sand is a respectable mineral. It couldn't possibly rot away!»

She stiffened and fell silent. Under the protection of the umbrella which she was holding, the man, as if hurried, finished eating without a word. On the surface of the umbrella so much sand had collected he could have written in it with his finger.

And the damp was unbearable. The sand of course was not damp; it was his body that was damp. Above the roof the wind moaned. He drew out his cigarettes, and his pocket was full of sand. He had the feeling he could taste the bitterness even before he lit one.

He took an insect out of the bottle of potassium cyanide. Before it stiffened he fixed it with pins; at least he could preserve the shape of the legs. From the washstand outside came the sound of the woman cleaning dishes. Did no one else live in the house? he wondered.

When she returned she silently began to prepare the bed in a corner of the room. If she put his bed here, where in heaven's name did she intend to sleep? Naturally, in that inner room beyond the hanging mat. Besides these two there didn't seem to be anything that faintly resembled a room. But it was a very strange way of doing things — to put the guest in the room by the entry and let the hostess sleep in the inner one. Or did she have an invalid unable to move sleeping in the inner room? he wondered. Maybe. Certainly it would be much more natural to assume so. In the first place, one could hardly expect a solitary woman to go to much trouble looking after passing travelers.

«Are there other people…?»

«What do you mean, 'other people'?»

«People in your family or…»

«No, I'm quite alone.» The woman seemed to be aware of his thoughts and suddenly gave a forced and awkward laugh. «Everything really gets so damp because of the sand, even the blankets.»

«Well, what about your husband?»

«Oh, yes. Last year in the typhoon…» she said, busying herself unnecessarily with smoothing and patting down the edges of the matting which she had finished spreading out. «Typhoons are terrible around here. The sand comes thundering down like a waterfall. Ten or twenty feet pile up in a night no matter what you do.»

«As much as twenty feet?»

«At times like that, you can't ever catch up with the sand no matter how much you shovel. He ran out with my little girl — she was in middle school then — yelling that the chicken houses were in danger. I was too busy taking care of the house and had to stay in. When morning finally came and the wind died down, I went out to look. There wasn't a trace of the chicken houses… or anything else.»

«Were they buried?»

«Yes, completely.»

«That was awful! Horrible! The sands are frightful.» Suddenly the lamp began to sputter.

«It's the sand.»

She got down on all fours and stretched out her arm. Laughing, she snapped the lamp wick with her finger. At once it burned brightly again. In the same posture she gazed at the flame, smiling that unnatural smile. He realized that it was doubtless deliberately done to show off her dimple, and unconsciously his body stiffened. He thought it especially indecent of her just after she had been speaking of her loved ones' death.

«Hey, there! We've brought a shovel and cans for the other one!»

A clear voice, considering that it came from a distance, broke the tension; perhaps they were using a megaphone. And then came the sound of something like tin containers striking against one another as they fell. The woman rose to answer.

He had the exasperating feeling that something underhanded was going on. «What's that? See, there's somebody else after all.» «Oh, for goodness' sake!» She twisted her body as if she had been tickled. «But somebody just said «for the other one.»» «Hmm. Well, they're referring to you.» «To me? Why mention me in connection with a shovel…?» «Never mind. Don't pay any attention. Really, they're so nosy!» «Was there some mistake?»

However, the woman didn't answer this, and swinging around on her knees, she stepped down on the earthen floor.

«Pardon me, but are you still using the lamp?»

«Well, I uaven't really finished with it Why? Do you need it out there?» «No, this is work I'm used to.»

She put on a straw hat, of the kind used for gardening, and slipped out into the darkness.

Bending his head to one side, the man lit another cigarette. There was something definitely suspicious, he felt. He arose quietly and decided to peek behind the suspended matting. There was indeed a room, but no bed. In its place the sand had swept down in a gentle curve from beyond the wall. He shuddered involuntarily and stood rooted to the spot. This house was already half dead. Its insides were half eaten away by tentacles of ceaselessly flowing sand. Sand, which didn't even have a form of its own — other than the mean 1/8-mm. diameter. Yet not a single thing could stand against this shapeless, destructive power. The very fact that it had no form was doubtless the highest manifestation of its strength, was it not?

But he returned to reality at once. Supposing this room could not be used. Where in heaven's name did she intend to sleep? He could hear her coming and going beyond the board wall. The hands of his wrist watch pointed to 8:02. What could there be to do, he wondered, at such an hour?

He stepped down to the earthen floor in search of water. A red metallic film floated on the thimbleful of liquid remaining in the bottom of the water jar. But even that was better than enduring the sand in his mouth. When he had washed his face in the water and wiped the back of his neck, he felt considerably better.

A chilly draft was blowing along the dirt floor. Probably it was more bearable outside. He squeezed through the sliding door, which, stuck in the sand, no longer moved, and went out.