Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

The man was totally uncomprehending. But how could I explain the need for an ark to a cancer victim with only six months to live? Even if he had no inkling of his condition, persuading him would be a vain effort, one I could not bring myself to make. Yet I couldn’t very well let him do as he pleased, either. I was saddled with one heck of a nuisance.

Finally the trickle of water stopped, and the roar of the flushing toilet echoed in the air.

“No need to make a special trip,” I said. “The weather’s bad. Go ahead and let me know if there’s anything you need, and I’ll do my best to get it or approximate it.”

“Right, you can always make do for a pillow.” As if to say he had everything figured out, the insect dealer began drumming his fingers on the edge of the cup he had chosen, a look of sangfroid on his face. “Even if it’s borrowed, if you wrap it in a dirty undershirt of your own it comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

10

THE SHILL DISAPPEARS AND A

BOTTOM-SLAPPING RITUAL TAKES PLACE

Perhaps because of having had to wait to go to the toilet, the shill descended the stairs in a sort of fox-trot, his knees pressed together.

“I’m hungry,” murmured the insect dealer, eyes turned vaguely on the spot just vacated by the shill. “By the way, Captain,” he went on, “how do you manage to support yourself here?”

I could well understand the motive of his question. His was an entirely natural curiosity: the world over, a man’s source of income is the measure of his worth. Even so, I had no obligation to reply, and no intention of doing so, either. As a matter of fact, the electricity was all stolen, as were most of the fittings, which came from the city hall. There was no law that said I had to let him know my weakest points. I pretended not to hear.

Light footsteps approached, as those of the shill faded away; there remained less than ten seconds, I calculated, before she set foot on the top stair.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have forced him to stay.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re the captain. Just follow your instincts.”

“I heard he’s got cancer.”

“No!”

“She told me. Keep it quiet — he doesn’t know.”

“Kind of ironic — the guy’s so much like a cancer himself.”

We laughed loudly and freely in a burst of mutual understanding. Then the girl appeared, coffeepot in hand. I was unable to look her square in the face. The echo of that gush, still fresh in my ears, made me picture not her face but the outlet for urine.

She joined easily in our laughter, then announced gaily, “Guess what I found out! The refrigerator’s stuffed full of canned beer!”

“For shame,” scolded the insect dealer, pulling on the armrests of the chaise longue to bring his body forward. “You’re forgetting yourself, miss. You can’t let yourself come that far under the president’s influence.”

Intuitively I sensed he was referring to the shill.

“President?” I queried. “Of what? Who?”

“You needn’t sound so impressed,” said the insect dealer. “These days everybody and his brother is a company president. The neighborhood junkman walks around with a namecard that says ‘President of Eastern Reclamation, Inc.’”

“Still, what kind of a company is it?”

The girl smiled, lips open and teeth closed. “It’s called Saisai.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s written with the characters for ‘hold’—as in a function or event — and ‘festival.’ ”

“Peculiar sort of name.”

“He represents festival stall owners.” The insect dealer waved his right hand as if flicking away imaginary dust, and adjusted his glasses with his left. To the woman he said, “Anyway, don’t forget that without the captain’s permission you’re not entitled to a glass of water, let alone a can of beer. First you go and put on some phony act about a fractured ankle, now this. Try to show a little more sense.”

His preachy tone of voice was far phonier than her act had been. She nodded, and for no reason I found myself feeling abashed.

“Don’t exaggerate,” I said. “All I’ve been saying is there’s a need for caution about boarding procedures. The beer doesn’t worry me.”

A fat lot it didn’t. I like to drink my beer all alone. I’m a beer hog — a beeraholic, in fact, who breaks into a sweat at just the sound of the word. What’s more, I like my beer with a little chocolate on the side. Every day, once a day, I sip a leisurely can of beer and munch on chocolates. It is a time of supreme piggish delight, a time I could share with no one.

“You don’t mind, really?” Behind their thick concave lenses, the insect dealer’s questioning eyes widened in happy excitement. “Coffee before a meal is bad for the stomach, anyway. Shall we presume on the captain’s generosity this once? Let’s celebrate our embarkation — that’s as good an excuse as any.”

It was a sensation I’d often experienced in dreams — losing my footing on a hill of garbage. In trying to recover lost ground, I made yet another concession.

“Very well, let’s drink to that,” I said. “But maybe beer alone isn’t enough.” I could hardly suggest chocolate as an accompaniment — although when you try it with an open mind, the hops and cacao blend together in a bitter harmony that I find irresistible. “How about some canned sardines?”

“Excellent,” said the insect dealer. “They’re very good for you. Sardines have lots of a nutrient called prostaglandin, which makes them effective against all kinds of diseases. Hardening of the arteries, even cancer.”

The idiot. What did he have to go and say that for? But then, I was the one who had spilled the beans to him, so what could I say? Luckily, her expression didn’t flicker. Turning toward the hold, she called down:

“When you’re finished down there, we’re having beer and sardines up here.”

Not to be outdone, I too called down. “The sardines are in a basket on top of the refrigerator.”

No answer. I felt an unpleasant presentiment.

She set the coffeepot on the table and smiled. “So the coffee turned out to be a waste.”

“No — I’ll have some,” I said. “Westerners drink coffee and alcohol together and think nothing of it, I’ve heard. Somehow it protects the liver.”

She poured out a cupful. Still not a sound from the hold. It was time we heard something; since the point of emission is higher in the male than the female, the noise ought to be correspondingly louder.

“Where’s the sugar?”

“Let me think.” I take both tea and coffee without sugar, so I couldn’t recall immediately where I did keep it. I had a feeling it might be in a jar in the back of the refrigerator, where ants wouldn’t get into it. It would probably be better to have the shill look for it while I gave instructions. I went around the table, into the interstice where the bookcase and the parapet came together at a sharp angle, and looked down into the hold. The shill was nowhere to be seen.

The meaning of the scene before my eyes temporarily eluded me. It was a clean-cut oblong room, solid stone, with nowhere to hide and nowhere to search. I felt the frustration of someone looking through the viewfinder of a broken stereoscope. I was used to seeing no one there, but how could I get used to not seeing someone who should be there?

“Now where did he roam off to?” I muttered.

The girl came around from the other side of the table and joined me at the parapet. “Is he gone?” she asked. She didn’t seem particularly concerned; in fact, she sounded rather intrigued. Not knowing the lack of places to hide would doubtless take away the peculiarity of the situation. Coffee cup in hand, the insect dealer joined us.