Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

“It’s just not my line. Social protest, that sort of thing. I’m the type who believes in letting things take their course.”

“Nobody’s asking you to worry about anyone else. This is strictly for you yourself.”

“Thanks, anyway. I think I’ll pass it up. Who am I to survive when other people don’t? Isn’t it a sin to ask for too much?”

There was something to what he said. He had found my vulnerable spot.

“Don’t you see, I want to trade you this for the rest of the eupcaccias.”

“Some other time. What’s the rush?”

“That just shows how little you know. The disaster is on its way. Don’t you read the papers?”

“Oh, yeah? When is it coming?”

“It could very well be tomorrow.”

“Not today? Tomorrow?”

“I’m just talking possibilities. It could come this very instant, for all I know. All I’m saying is, it won’t be long.”

“Want to bet?”

“On what?”

“On whether it comes in the next ten seconds.” He prepared to start the stopwatch attachment on his wristwatch. “Ten thousand yen says this disaster you’re talking about doesn’t happen.”

“I said I’m only talking possibilities.”

“I’ll make it the next twenty seconds.”

“Either way, it’s a toss-up.”

“And in twenty minutes, or two hours, or two days, or two months, or two years, it’ll still be a toss-up, right?”

“You mean the whole thing doesn’t interest you unless you can bet on it?”

“Don’t be so touchy. I know what you’re thinking: Even if it did come in twenty seconds, winning wouldn’t do you much good because you’d be too dead to collect. There could be no payoff unless it didn’t come. Not much of a gamble any way you look at it.”

“Then why not go ahead and take the ticket?”

“What a depressing creature you are.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t relate to someone who goes around hawking the end of the world.”

All right then, smart-ass, go ahead and drop dead if that’s what you want. That head of yours looks terrific from the outside, but inside it must be stuffed with bean curd. Probably I overestimated the eupcaccia too.

“When you’re sorry, it’ll be too late,” I said.

“I’m going to take a leak.”

“You’re positive you don’t want it?”

The insect dealer began to get up. It wouldn’t do to leave the precious ticket lying there any longer. My hand started for it, but before I could reach it, he had slid his hand under mine and snatched it up, smiling broadly then as he adjusted his glasses. He might equally have been seeking reconciliation or merely teasing.

“Wait back by the stall. I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t walk out on me, now.”

“All my stuff is still there.”

“You mean the eupcaccias? You were going to throw them away, anyway. What kind of a guarantee is that?”

He took off his watch and set it where the ticket case had been. “It’s a Seiko Chronograph, brand-new. Don’t you make off with it.”

3

THE SHILLS RAN AWAY

WITH THE TICKETS TO SURVIVAL

Everything in the insect dealer’s stall was packed up, backing his assertion that he had decided to quit. The left-hand stall across the way — I’ve forgotten what it was selling — had likewise ceased business. The sky threatened rain any minute, and the hour was six-twenty — almost closing time. I entered the stall from the side, ducking under the canvas, and found in place of a chair a large suitcase, which doubtless contained the rest of the eupcaccias. Overly conscious, as always, of the eyes of others, I lowered myself onto the suitcase, shoulders hunched to avoid looking conspicuous. I needn’t have worried. The few remaining shoppers went scurrying past like young crabs racing to catch the tide.

I transferred the insect dealer’s watch from my back pocket to my shirt pocket. My spirits were low — not, I thought, solely because of the weather. Was I sorry already that I had let him have the ticket? With what eagerness I had waited for and dreamed of this event — the finding of a companion — yet now that one had made his appearance, I began shrinking back. A bad habit. Must take a more positive view. He wasn’t a bad fellow in the least. A bit plain-spoken, but that was better than a lot of high-sounding talk. Not just anyone could have discovered the eupcaccia. He was probably a lot more quick-witted than he let on. The first crew member, above all, had to be far more than a mere cabin boy.

To erase any doubts, as soon as he came back from the men’s room I could inform him that I was the captain, and have him sign a form stating that once aboard, he agreed unconditionally to obey any orders to disembark. The ship was mine. I discovered her, designed her, and built her. It was only proper for the crew to fall in line with my policies. Of course if he had a mind to disobey, no mere signature was going to stop him. In which case I’d have no choice but to put my punitive system into action. Basically a defense against invaders from outside, the apparatus was capable of inflicting fatal injury; but for communal living to succeed, minimum standards of order had to be preserved. Certainly I had no plan or desire to throw my weight around as captain, but then again, it wouldn’t do to turn the ark into a great coffin.

I couldn’t keep putting off the decision. Unless I compromised somewhere, plainly I would find myself battling windmills forever. One or two people could never run a ship that size; my plans called ultimately for a crew of 385. Unless I wanted to see the ship superannuated before ever weighing anchor, I had better make up my mind to take the insect dealer on board.

The lady directly across the way (whose stall boasted a collection of thousands of different matchbooks and matchboxes, candy wrappers and whatnot) had begun packing in a hurry. Apparently annoyed by the failure of her goods to sell, she was ripping off the tarpaulin and stuffing it into her valise without even taking time to remove the thumbtacks. It was no wonder her sales were poor; the eupcaccia was eccentric in its way, but her merchandise was just too idiosyncratic. She herself, though past middle age, wore yellow sunglasses with a smart-looking kimono, for an effect somehow out of keeping with the surroundings. To make matters worse, at the bottom of her sign were the pathetic words “Mementoes of My Departed Husband,” which could only serve to put off potential customers. Perhaps the insect dealer had been right: expecting too much was indeed a sin.

The man selling a water cannon (not water pistol) at the stall on my immediate right was seated chin in hands by a peculiar machine placed directly on the floor. A tape recording recited his spiel for him while he looked resentfully up at the sky. The clouds were higher than before; now a wisp swirled fitfully by at about the speed of a helicopter. It looked as if the rain would hold off awhile longer, but no one was likely to buy a water cannon in any case. Besides, the price was too high. No sane person would part with ten million yen unless either there was solid reason to believe the price would rise further or the item was of enormous practical value. From listening to the tape, I deduced that he had based the figure solely on the number of days it had taken him to make the thing. A former employee of the Japan National Railways, he had utilized the principle of the steam locomotive. He had evidently applied for a patent, but to my layman’s way of thinking it seemed hardly likely that steam pressure could have an explosive force comparable to gunpowder. If it was a low-noise, nonpolluting, short-distance projectile he wanted, elastic could easily do the job. I didn’t think much of the design, either: an unsightly bulging coal stove, and rising out of it, a stubby cannon. It looked exactly like the male genitalia. Good for a laugh maybe, but certainly nothing I’d pay even one hundred yen for.