Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

I obliged by walking hunched over and breathing with exaggerated difficulty. In the parking lot, a line of cars had begun to form.

“Hey, this jeep is huge,” exclaimed the insect dealer.

“It’s 2600 cc; the torque is terrific.”

But he apparently felt no temptation to drive. He went around to the passenger’s side, pushed the seat forward, and heaved the contents of the suitcase on the floor in the back. “I’ll throw in the plastic containers for nothing.”

He didn’t even ask how my knee was. All right, the hell with him. I’d had enough. The knee was good enough to drive with now. It was his loss. I’d given him his chance, but I couldn’t look out for him forever. If it came to that, I could drive off the shills single-handed. To prepare for such an eventuality, I had set up a number of traps behind staircases and at junctures in the tunnels. They were of all kinds: spring-powered mechanical ones, electronic ones, and devices using chemical sprays. I was confident they would stop any unwanted intruders.

“Take care of yourself, all right?” he said. “When the bomb falls in Lebanon or wherever, I’ll drop by your shelter.”

“It’s not a shelter; it’s a ship.” I turned the key and started the engine, taking a deep breath to relax. “A shelter is only temporary, but on a ship, life goes on. It’s a place to live, day after day.”

“But when you put into port, everyone goes ashore, right? A ship is like any other vehicle — a means of going from point A to point B.”

“There are people who live entirely on the water.”

“So who wants to live like a goddamn turtle? I couldn’t stand being stuck in some hole in the ground nose to nose with you every day.”

“It’s hardly a hole in the ground,” I protested. “It’s a disused underground quarry — a small mountain of rock has been dug out of it. If you felt like it, you could easily go three or four days without seeing any signs of me, never mind my nose.”

The insect dealer spat out his cigarette, which had broken in two from the moisture of his saliva. “A small mountain, eh? Sounds pretty impressive. How many people do you figure it can hold?”

“You could visit every underground station and shopping center across Japan and not find anything to compare with it. The entire population of a small town would fit in comfortably.”

“How is it administered? Is there any residents’ organization? Are you in charge of promotion?”

“As of now, I’m the sole resident.”

“That couldn’t be. There must be other people with tickets, anyway, even if they’re not living there yet.”

“Nobody but you — not counting the shills.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Then don’t.”

I stepped on the clutch and put the engine in gear. A faint spasm, weaker than pain, ran through my knee.

“Wait — it’s not that easy to believe. Why should you be the only one there?” His fingers tightened their grip on the hood. The tables had turned. I disengaged the gears and gave an exaggerated sigh.

“The former owners want to forget all about it. Four different enterprises got together, swarmed over the mountain, and dug it all out. Then there was a series of cave-ins, and in the end — just eight years ago — they relinquished their mining rights. The tunnel entrances are all sealed, and housing developers are selling off plots of residential land on the surface. I’m certain nobody wants to be reminded of what’s belowground.”

“Even if operations have been shut down, the place must still be registered in somebody’s name.”

“Officially, it doesn’t even exist. I checked it out at the city hall. There’s no street number, no address of any kind.”

“But it is Japanese territory, isn’t it?”

In place of an answer, I put my foot back on the clutch.

“Sorry.” He stuck his big head in the window and grabbed my arm, which was holding the wheel. “Wait, let me do the driving,” he said, adding sheepishly, “I suppose you knew all along I’d wind up coming in the end.”

“Then you admit the disaster is at hand?”

“Sure. The world is lousy with disasters, everybody knows that. But this is really amazing. I can’t get over it. You’re like — what should I say? — an emperor, or a dictator, or something.”

“Yes, of a ghost country. But I don’t like dictators.”

He swung into the driver’s seat, shaking his top-heavy head. “Funniest darned feeling. I am grateful for one thing, though. When I was a kid at school, no one ever picked me for anything. I guess I do owe this to the eupcaccia, when you think about it.”

5

TRAVELS WHILE SQUATTING

ON THE TOILET

His experience as a truckdriver had apparently stood him in good stead; soon after we left the parking lot, he was handling the jeep with assurance. It was rush hour, and near the expressway entrance ramp we got caught in a traffic jam. As long as we stayed moving, wind entering through the numerous crevices in the canvas top kept the interior of the jeep tolerably cool, but as we crawled though the rain it became unbearably steamy. Not only was there no air-conditioning, but the ventilation was poor, and we alternated between mopping our perspiration and clearing fog off the windows.

“Is there gas in the tank?”

“Yes. That gauge is off.”

“If they took the same route as us, we’ll never make it in time, anyway; what say we stop somewhere for a plate of curried rice?”

“It hasn’t even been half an hour,” I protested. “Besides, I know a shortcut that’s made for a jeep. It’s too soon to call it quits.”

“Aye, aye, sir. It’s too soon to give up.” Either he was trying too hard to fake it, or else a genuine show of submission came off clumsily from lack of experience. In any case, something in his voice did not ring true. “Then how about if I go out afterwards and pick up something for dinner?” he said. “There must be a grocery store in the neighborhood.”

“I’ve got all kinds of provisions laid in. It’s an oceangoing cruise vessel, you’ve got to realize.”

“Right. And I suppose you’re a hearty eater. All right, I’ll wait. Just in case we get there first,” he went on, “have you got some sort of plan? Those two are stubborn. Besides, they’ve got a key.”

“I’ll bolt the door from the inside. Steel door, steel bolt.”

“They might decide to lay siege.”

“I said I was well stocked up, didn’t I? If they want a war of endurance they’ll get one. I can outlast anyone.”

The insect dealer chuckled, apparently satisfied; his voice and eyes alike conveyed genuine mirth. I did not join in. What if the shill — the man — thought of using the girl as bait? Would I be able to stay inside even then? The bolt might be steel, but not my heart.

“And what if they get there first? Then what?” asked the insect dealer.

“Then we’re in trouble.”

“When he talks he sprays saliva, did you notice? I’ve heard people with overactive salivary glands tend to have a violent streak.”

At the tollbooth, they were apparently limiting highway access; we progressed barely three or four car lengths at a time, in spurts. The underside of my chin felt prickly. My skin was so moist with sweat that it seemed in danger of peeling off. Put a penguin in hot water and they say it goes bananas.

“You suppose they went by car too?” I asked.

“Probably, but what make? That I can’t tell you.”

Knowing wouldn’t have done much good, for the windshield wipers were having little effect. All I could make out was the hazy outline of the car ahead. I wanted to take off my shirt and wring it out.

“Oh, for a breeze,” I sighed.