Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

The part of me pressed against the girl became a separate living creature, in growing control of me. It was wriggling, seeking to take me over completely. And there was another reason for the sense of unreality I felt: as the words came over the radio, each building on the rest like pieces of a puzzle, I sensed the shaping of another Inototsu, totally unlike the Inototsu I knew. I could hardly believe this was the same person. The Inototsu I knew would never talk this way, as if each separate word were just back from the cleaners, freshly laundered and pressed. I felt as if I were witnessing a cicada shedding its skin.

— Get to the point, will you? Over.

— So that’s the way it went. Then the losing participants quit the field, and round two began, at a signal from the referee. The invalid hanging on to his nurse’s shoulder — I think he must have had palsy — well, he was in the winning team, so he made a great nuisance of himself, getting in everyone’s way. Even so, up to round four everything went swimmingly, the group decreasing by two-thirds every time. The end was in sight, and a lot of people started packing up to go. Then at round five, events took a strange turn. Shall I go on? Over.

— We’re all ears. Carry on. Over.

— Thanks, glad to hear it. So they got down to about eleven people, I think it was. Everybody but the paralytic left the starting line together. So far so good. Then for some reason, right in front of the goals they all stopped. Guess what happened? Everybody just stood there, waiting for the paralytic to hobble down and catch up. Seeing him enter the blue zone, they all went in after him. Strange psychology, don’t you think — call it superstition or mob psychology — the we’re-all-in-this-together mentality. And the funny thing was that the die turned up blue. All eleven survived, but this way the prize stayed beyond their grasp. It wasn’t a violation of the rules, though, so not even the judges could complain. At round six, exactly the same thing happened. Incredibly, round seven was the same. It began to seem uncanny. The rain was coming down harder and harder, and the lights came on, although it was really still too early. Even the students, who were usually a source of noise and confusion, stood lined up at the edge of the playing field like so many wet sandbags. Midway through round eight, the committee in charge went into deliberations, and just then the assault began, a sudden fusillade of automatic rifle fire. The sound effects director must have flipped out. All at once the paralytic’s knees buckled and he went down head-first into the mud. Some people misunderstood, and laughed. The school physician came running over, medicine bag in hand, but it was too late. The game was called off. What do you think? I think maybe that’s what survival is all about. Over.

— What happened to the scooter? Over.

— Ah, the prize. They had a raffle among the ten survivors. Then the family of the old invalid put up a squawk: the others had all been waiting for him, they pointed out, in order to do whatever he did, and since he had died they should all be regarded as technically dead too. The argument does have a certain logic. Anyway, the issue remains unresolved, and the scooter is kept locked up at the school. Isn’t that a strange story? Over.

— What does it all boil down to? Over.

— I don’t know. Haven’t any idea. That’s exactly why I want to get together with you and talk things over. Maybe you can tell me. Over.

We all began smiling weakly. From the other end of the wireless there came a noise like a blast of air escaping from a heavy rubber balloon. That was Inototsu, laughing his old, familiar laugh.

18

FALLING INTO THE TOILET

Back at the supply room in the work hold, we chose our weapons, the selections varying according to each person’s perception of the situation. The insect dealer took a small converted revolver; had his goal been mere intimidation, something larger and more conspicuous would have served the purpose better. He and Inototsu had seemed to achieve a certain rapport in their exchanges over the radio, but perhaps inwardly he had been preparing for the worst. Or was this only a sign of his natural predilection for firearms?

After considerable hesitation, the shill settled on a tear gas pistol designed for self-protection. Actually it was a spray canister; I call it a pistol only because it was equipped with a trigger, and its range had been greatly increased. This too was for actual use, not mere show — although it served only to render the enemy powerless, and had no lethal effect. It was less potent than a converted gun, and yet it suggested he sought a sure means of self-defense; the knives and crossbows he never gave a passing glance.

The girl and I each took a crossbow. Just as our suppositions regarding the combat determined our choice of weapon, so those choices in turn would ordain the nature of the combat.

To appease the stray dogs out by the garbage dump, I picked out some pieces of dried sardines made from tainted fish (I got them at the fish market once a week, for dog food) and lifted the hatch. As if a curtain had gone up, warm air came sweeping down, and the singing of tires on concrete pavement filled my ears. I scattered the fish from the door of the scrapped car that camouflaged the entrance.

My way of imitating a dog’s howl when I wanted to feed them differed from the howl I used to demonstrate my authority as boss. The effect, however, was similar. I signaled to the insect dealer and the shill to let them know the danger was gone. As long as that pack of wild dogs obeyed me, this was one way in and out, anyway, that was firmly in my control.

“When you get back, honk the horn, and I’ll come out to meet you.”

“We’ll do our best not to come back with any unpleasant souvenirs.”

Waving, they jumped hastily into the jeep. The dogs, as if sensing something unusual in the air, fought viciously over the food. I stood watching them off until the taillights disappeared in the shadow of the highway overpass. The high-level road cut off my view like a visor, so I could not see the sky. The rain appeared to have let up, but I couldn’t make out the horizon, so probably there was still a heavy cloud cover. Only the lights of the fishing port on my far right gave any indication of where the sea lay. Traffic was fairly heavy. This was the hour when long-distance trucks passed by, aiming to be in Kyushu, far to the southwest, by morning. Out at sea, a gravel-carrier ship headed east.

On my way back inside the ark, I contemplated what might happen should the two men fail to return from their errand. Day after day alone with the girl, wrapped together in a world the consistency of banana juice — she in her red artificial leather skirt, with those red lips, and drooping eyes, and that straight nose, shiny at the tip; and beside her me, forever gazing at her like a mute gorilla. In fact, if I wished, there was no need to wait for some accident to befall my negotiating team. I could take unilateral steps to bring about the banana-juice conditions anytime I wanted.

All I had to do was set off the dynamite. Then all connection between the ark and the rest of the world would be severed. However many times they might circle the mountain, my two emissaries would never find their way back inside. Not only them — I had power to shut out and nullify the entire world. I knew the magic formula for escape from the world. Given that nuclear war was inevitable anyway, it would only be hastening its onset by a little bit. Then would begin the halcyon days of a eupcaccia (and eventually, no doubt, regret so searing that I would long to chop myself in a thousand pieces and flush myself down the toilet).