Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

“Over there behind the storage drums, in the shadows,” he said, slurping his coffee, and called, “All right, let’s not be cute. We all know you’re not so squeamish you can’t go right out in the open there. Come on out.”

“They’re lined up smack against the wall,” I said. “There’s no way anybody could squeeze in there.”

I realized what had happened. I didn’t want to think about it, but I knew where the shill must have gone. From the bridge it was hard to see, but he must have crawled through the passageway cut into the far side of that same wall. Unless he had chopped himself up and flushed himself down the toilet, there was simply no other exit.

The girl called out, her voice trailing off in a long sinuous echo like the rise and fall of waves on a large, shallow strand. “If you want to play hide-and-seek, wait till we decide who’s it.”

I strained my ears, listening for a scream. He could not possibly get through that passageway on his own. I had set up a trap on the principle of the bow. It was triggered by a line of fishing gut stretched half an inch off the ground, which when touched would release a steel leaf spring. The basic purpose was to keep rats out, but it could easily shatter a person’s ankle.

“The bastard — he got away.” The insect dealer followed my line of vision and instantly grasped what had happened. He leaned over the parapet, trying to peer down the passageway. “What’s down there, at the end of that tunnel?”

Had these been the crew members I’d anticipated for so long, there would’ve been no need to ask. That would have been the first place I’d have shown them: the heart of the ark, where tunnels branch off three ways, one to each of the other two holds, and one back here. If each hold were a residential area, the “heart” was in the best location for communal use, so mentally I always referred to it as the “central hold” or “work hold.” It was my firm intention to interfere as little as possible in the crew’s personal lives, but some tasks, like the operation of air-purifying equipment or electric generators, required a joint effort. The success or failure of life aboard the ark hinged on how well people cooperated. If everyone lived like the eupcaccia, there would be no problem, since if no one had any urge to expand his or her territory, there would be no fear of mutual territorial violations. Letting the shill aboard might have been as fatal a lapse as if I had overlooked shipworms.

“Machinery.” My voice sounded too belligerent. More graciously, I added, “I’ll take you there one of these times.”

“What kind of machinery?”

“Machinery for survival, of course.”

“Survival of what?” asked the girl, at last seeming to grasp the situation. Bending her body at a right angle, she rested her weight on the parapet and leaned forward as far as she could. Her skirt of artificial leather was stretched to the limit, revealing her round contours like a second skin. The reality of those two soft globes right there beside my own hips seemed more fanciful than my wildest fancies. My brain began to turn red and raw, as if peeling.

“Survival of what?” she repeated. What indeed, I wondered. If only she had asked not “of what,” but “why.” For if it was possible for me to go on living near a skirt stretched this tightly, over this round a pair of hips, then I had no doubts whatever concerning the meaning of survival. Even the eupcaccia emerged from its chrysalis in preparation for mating. Emergence is a preparation for rebirth — regeneration — as well as for death. Looking sideways at her round, tight skirt, I thought that perhaps I too was starting to emerge from my cocoon.

“Of course survival for its own sake is meaningless. It’s pointless to live a life not worth living.” My answer was no answer. The insect dealer then spoke up in my place.

“Don’t you ever think about nuclear war or things like that?” he asked her.

“It doesn’t interest me. Even on TV, if it’s anything about war I change the channel.”

“That’s a woman for you,” said the insect dealer, turning his back to the hold and settling against the parapet until he was at the optimal distance for viewing her hips (about ten inches away). “Women are born without any imagination.”

Hardly a sensitive remark. Instinctively I came to her defense. “Look who’s talking. You can’t stand barking dogs, can you?”

“No, but so what?”

The girl purposely made light of it. “The reason women don’t think ahead is because they have to go to the supermarket every day. This coffee is too bitter for me. I don’t like it without sugar.”

“No?” I said. “But it’s better this way if we’re going to have beer next, isn’t it?”

The insect dealer gulped the remainder of his coffee with a noise like the pump of a dry well, never ceasing his close observation of her rump. Seemingly conscious of his eyes, she waved her hand now and then as if to chase off a pesky fly. But her right-angled posture remained the same, needlessly provocative.

“Let’s go downstairs and see what we can see,” I said, motioning to her, my real aim being to get her away from the insect dealer. “If he’s injured, it’ll mean trouble.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “That man is as sharp as they come. He can catch flies in his bare hands.”

“So can I.”

“While they’re flying.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about him,” said the insect dealer. He laughed sharply and gave the woman’s bottom a slap, making a startlingly loud noise. In monkey colonies, what did they call it? Oh, yes — mounting: the losing monkey sticks out its rear end. Subjugation begins with control of the other’s hindquarters. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already dead. I don’t know what sort of trap it was, but if he’d only hurt himself a little, he’d be screaming for help by now.”

Despite the liberty the insect dealer took with her bottom, the girl reacted only by twisting away and jerking her head. Had she fallen so easily under his sway? Or was she used to this sort of thing? Perhaps it was not as serious as I’d assumed. I wanted to follow his example, but something held me back.

“I doubt if his life could be in danger,” I said, “but it is pitch dark in there.”

“He took a light,” said the insect dealer. “Remember that one hanging from the locker handle — the kind coal miners wear on their heads.”

His statements lacked consistency. First he exaggerated the danger the shill was in, then in the next breath he emphasized how safe he was. He was just out to find fault with whatever I said. She sided with him.

“That’s right, it’s a waste of time worrying about him — he’s sharp as a tack,” she said, and casually shifted her weight from the left leg to the right; in the process the two globes, still pressed close together, subtly changed shape. The skirt stuck to her bottom, becoming progressively more transparent.

I wasn’t seriously concerned about the shill’s well-being myself; I only wanted to put a fast stop to this unpleasant collusion between the insect dealer and her. Besides, it was barely possible that he had gotten safely past the trap and entered the work hold. I was unwilling to credit him with as much cunning and dexterity as she, but perhaps something — a rat, say — had tripped the mechanism beforehand.

I could not have people roaming all over the ship, in any case. The air-conditioning system and electrical generator were as yet unfinished, and I couldn’t permit anyone to lay hands on them in my absence. I especially did not want him, or anyone, getting into the magazine, where locked in a safe I had five crossbows, seven model guns, and one rifle rebuilt with steel-reinforced barrel and hammer. I had test-fired each one five successive times with no difficulty. I was damned if I’d let the shill get his hands on those.