Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

— You’re right. My son is lucky to have a shrewd thinker like you for a friend. Is he listening? See, son, I’m not such a bad guy, after all. I can’t help the way I look. All right, then, is Laughter Hill all right? Over.

— No, let’s make it your office. That’s near where the body was found, isn’t it? Over.

— You tell me. Anyway, you’re more than welcome. I’ve got drinks here, and all kinds of stuff to eat. If you want, I’ll send somebody over to the beach entrance to pick you up. Now just don’t spoil it by saying this will be a one-time visit. Over.

— Sorry, but that’s just what it will be. When the body’s out of the way, we’ll have no more business with each other, right? What time shall we make it? Over.

— Who’s coming? How many in all? Over.

— Two. Me, that’s the liaison man, and the purser. You remember him. He said hello awhile back. Over.

— Isn’t my son coming? Over.

— The captain? No. Out of the question. Over.

— Why? Over.

— Why else has he got a liaison man? This is my job. Over.

— Listen, I’m all alone here. That really has nothing to do with it, but — won’t you please let me talk to him? You see if you can get through to him, will you? Just two or three minutes would be enough. Please. Over.

“Well, what do you say?”

“Never mind that. What’s happened to Sengoku?”

— He wants to know where the sweet-potato man is. Over.

— That’s funny; I guess he’s still not back.

I spoke up.

— If that body turns out to be his, I’ll never forgive you, you know that? He was one decent guy. He was one person I really thought I could work with.

— Don’t get carried away. The man’s in perfect health. I’m fond of him myself. You know what he’s always saying? “Time to start over, time to wipe the slate clean. Serves ’em right, the bastards. ” I know just how he feels, too. It is time to wipe the slate clean and start afresh, sort out the ones who deserve to survive from all the ones who don’t. There — isn’t that it? Over.

— Isn’t what what? Over.

— Isn’t that the way you figure it too? We think alike, I’m telling you. Over.

The insect dealer interrupted. — What time shall we meet? Over.

— Just listen for a minute. When the apocalypse comes, deciding who ought to live and who might as well die will be no easy matter. Isn’t that so? What sort of yardstick are you planning on using?

“What a joke,” I snorted. “Who does he think he is, preaching to people?”

— I’m not preaching. This happened just awhile back, at the spring athletic meet of the local junior high school. They had a strange event called Survival Game. A contest to pick out the real survivors. Seems to have been the brainchild of some wise men who got together to decide how to use the underground air-raid shelter in the new city hall building. Shall I go on? Over.

The insect dealer looked my way to check my reaction. I refrained from issuing any objections. It weighed heavily on me to learn Inototsu had connections in that part of town.

— Keep it short, please. Over.

— Okay, I’ll just cover the main points. As part of the fortieth-anniversary celebrations for the local junior high school, they had a contest to judge who was qualified to survive. From the day before, there was a front stalled just off the coast, and that morning it was drizzling; but the weather reports were encouraging, and they didn’t want to waste all the money and effort that had gone into the preparations for the event — you know, preparing the athletic fields and the decorations and all — and this survival game was a major attraction from the start. How’m I doing? Shall I keep going? Over.

— Fine. Yes. Over.

— It was just a game, but at first everyone was a bit confused. The rules, you see, were unusual. There were winners and losers, but no direct competition. Which is maybe the way it goes with survival. First the playing field was divided lengthwise into three tracks, red, white, and blue, each with a starting line and a goal. Picture it. Then at the starting signal, all the participants headed for the flag of their choice. There was no need to hurry, and you didn’t have to decide on a color till the last moment if you wanted, so it was all nice and relaxed. Everyone — teachers and students, families, special guests — they all set off casually, as if going on a hike. It could have had something to do with the prize, but for a junior high school athletic event it was a lavish production. Are you still with me? Over.

The four of us exchanged glances. For my part, as long as I didn’t have to participate in the coming discussions, I was prepared to put up with a little inconvenience. As usually happens, silence was taken for reluctant consent.

— Yeah, I guess so. Over.

— So that’s how the participants all started off, When everybody had chosen their color and lined up accordingly, the head judge rolled a die painted in the three colors. When the winning color came up, drums rolled and the flag of that color was unfurled. At that signal the losing teams were supposed to fall flat on the ground. Get it? Only the survivors were allowed to go back to the starting line. Then the starting signal would be given again. It went on like that, over and over, and the last one left would be the winner. Any questions? Over.

— If the winners were determined by a roll of the die, it wasn’t so much a sporting event as a kind of gambling, was it? Over.

— Well, luck is a crucial factor in any battle, isn’t it? So what if it was gambling? That only added to the excitement. After all, the first prize was a new little red Honda motor scooter, donated by the Association of Local Shopkeepers. I was in the event too, but with someone else throwing the die, there’s really no point in wearing yourself out, is there? Over.

— Stay on the track, please. Just stick to the main story. Over.

— If you don’t want to hear any more, that’s okay with me. Over.

— You’re off the track again. Over.

— Did I mention the weather? It got worse and worse — just the opposite of the forecast — until rain was falling in solid sheets. As if somebody was slathering it with a paintbrush.

The girl laughed. I didn’t really think it was amusing, but I joined in with an appreciative snort. Our hips were still pressed firmly together. I knew I’d be called to account for this eventually. Both the insect dealer and the shill had their eyes tightly closed; the shill was licking his lips, the insect dealer was swaying his head from side to side.

— The students’ caps were plastered flat on their heads, as if they’d been soaked in oil, and the sand in the playing field was all mucked up with little pools of water here and there. The school physician kept whispering in the principal’s ear, and each time the principal seemed on the point of calling it off. He’d sneak a timid look at the visitors’ tent, but there was nothing doing. That brand-new Honda scooter was there just waiting for someone to claim it. If he’d called the event off just because of a little rain, there would have been violence. A promise is a promise. And so the game went on, one way or another. and what do you think happened? Over.

— What? Over.

— It turned into a circus. You see, the principal believed that everyone’s chances for survival ought to be equal, so he imposed no limits on who could participate. And so the athletic field was jammed with people. They had to shift the starting line up fifteen feet to accommodate them all. Starting time was delayed eight minutes, too. It was really something; you should have seen it. That great mass of people, soaking wet, sending up spray in the air and wearing down the ground under their feet. Mothers running past, dragging bawling kids by the hand; old men waving canes; an invalid, unsteady on his feet, leaning on a nurse’s shoulder; members of the Fishermen’s Union Youth League, charging forward in scrimmage formation. It took an unbelievably long time, but finally everyone poured into the goal area of their choice. The die was cast, the flag unfurled, the drums rolled. A few people got beat up for trying to switch places after it was all over, but for the first round, generally everyone was distributed evenly across the three goals. The only hitch was that at first the losing teams wouldn’t hit the dirt like fallen soldiers, the way they were supposed to. To have to roll around in the mud and rain, on top of losing, is nobody’s idea of fun, after all. The P.E. coach’s voice came screaming from all the loudspeakers: “Losing teams, please fall down. You’re dead. All losers, hit the dirt.” People got sore and started to leave. I was one of them. Then a fusillade rang out: a volley of shots from an automatic rifle. Taped, of course, but it had a dramatic effect. Everybody recognizes the sound from TV and movies, even if they’ve never heard it live. The losing teams started falling down, right according to plan. They must have decided they owed the organizers that much, after all. Actually it didn’t look like a battle so much as a mass execution. Are you still with me? Over.