Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

“Look, don’t be in such a hurry, will you?” said the shill. He signaled to Sengoku and together the two men started to push the bundle off the landing.

“If you knew whose body this was, Captain, you wouldn’t be so coldhearted,” he added.

“Who’s coldhearted?” I said. “You’re the one who’s dropping it on the floor.”

As the girl let out a scream, the blue plastic bundle did a one-and-a-half twist in midair, then hit the floor with the unmistakable squish of flesh and blood. (Clay, of course, would make approximately the same noise.)

“Who is it?” I demanded again.

“We ought to pay our respects before we flush him away, said the shill as he came down the ladder, followed by Sengoku. The girl was staring at the bundle, her crossbow pressed against her chest.

“Who is it?” I insisted, refusing to be put off.

“Well, properly speaking, Captain,” said the shill, “this is you.” He wiped his mouth and turned around. His nostrils looked pinched, and the whites of his eyes had a bluish tinge. Evidently he was not as collected as he had seemed. No matter how he wiped the corners of his mouth, pale flecks of saliva kept reappearing.

“Come again?”

“Well, uh. actually, it’s, uh. ” Sengoku fumbled for words, his voice dry and scratchy.

“What in God’s name are you talking about? I’m in no mood for practical jokes, let me tell you.”

“In other words. it’s you,” said the shill, rubbing his mouth, and then wiping that hand on the tail of his shirt. “Your substitute, anyway. He was killed in your place. The killer, who made the first move, apparently mistook him for you. So if it hadn’t been for this guy, you’d be wrapped up in this sheet right now.”

“Who’s the killer?” I asked. Simultaneously the girl asked, “Who’s the substitute?”

“Try asking the guy who was supposed to get bumped off; he must know,” said Sengoku with a false air of toughness.

“I haven’t any idea,” I said. “Someone who looked like me?”

“Not really.” Sengoku tilted his head in seeming discomfort, and looked to the shill for help.

“It must be Komono.” Teeth clenched, the girl retreated yet farther from the plastic-wrapped bundle.

“What about him?” I asked her.

“He died in your place,” she said.

“Then who did him in — Inototsu?” I asked, the pain in my leg forgotten.

“No.” The shill indicated the motionless bundle with a jerk of his head, and added with apparent effort, “If you really want to know, it was the other way around.”

“Komono killed Inototsu, you say?” My voice shook with tension, as if needles were jabbing my eardrums. “Then the thing under that plastic sheet is. ”

“Well, let’s get the ceremony over with, shall we?” said the shill.

“You stay out of this,” I snapped.

My eyes remained glued to the blue plastic sheet. Could this really be Inototsu? That animal who wore a green hunting cap and went around smelling like fermented beans wrapped in a dirty old rag? That monster who trampled his own wife to death, raped my mother, chained me to the toilet, and bulldozed concrete buildings on behalf of the waterstone interests? That friendless bastard who sold a thriving fishermen’s inn and two twenty-five-ton fishing vessels to run for city council over and over — but never to win — and who first pinned a badge on his chest only when he became leader of the Broom Brigade? I felt liberated. I must have feared him more than I realized — more than I hated him, even. There was no other emotion. Perhaps getting my leg caught in the jaws of the toilet had numbed my feelings. Had I witnessed the actual killing, no doubt it would have been different. I could not help being amazed at his enormous bulk, even folded up as he was. Had they merely bent him over, or had they dismembered him and rearranged the parts? I recalled having heard once that no evidence is so hard to dispose of as the human body; the full meaning of that statement hit me now with fresh force.

“It doesn’t figure,” muttered the girl, her jaw set. “Why would Komono mistake him for the captain? How could he?”

“He didn’t. It’s more complicated than that. I can’t sum it up as well as Komono could, but basically it’s not a simple case of right and wrong. Originally there was another suspect, who was after the captain, and that’s who Inototsu mistook Komono for.”

“That’s right,” echoed Sengoku, waving both his fists as he sought to explain. “The ‘body’ Inototsu was talking about referred to that suspect. Whether he actually intended to do him in or was just bluffing, I couldn’t say. Right now Komono is gathering facts from the Broom Brigade, so we ought to know more soon. Also, in my opinion, Komono was overly suspicious of Inototsu. He got too much of an indoctrination from the captain here.”

The shill looked at the bundle and rubbed his hands on his pants. “It does seem as if he didn’t give him enough of a chance. That revolver he had was bad. Mind you, I’m not finding fault; it was legitimate self-defense. The only problem is that he left bullets in the body. If an autopsy is done, a bullet could be found, and traced, which would make things rough for the captain. Komono told me to tell you, though, that he’d see to it that everybody in the Broom Brigade kept his mouth shut, so not to worry.”

“That man is meant for better things than liaison work,” said Sengoku, nodding seriously. “He’s a born leader. Why, he’s already taken over the leadership of the Broom Brigade. Inototsu hadn’t been dead ten minutes before he’d reorganized the brigade on new lines, and was issuing commands right and left. ”

The ants nesting in my foot now changed to flies, whose maggots attacked my nerves voraciously. I hadn’t meant to scream, yet here I was screaming. Wishing desperately that the scrapbook in my hands were a hammer, in rage I kicked blindly with my free leg. What bore the brunt of this frenzied attack was not the toilet but the knee of my entrapped leg.

21

“ATTENTION SAUSAGE STUFFERS:

DEAD HOGS DELIVERED FREE OF CHARGE”

If the shill and Sengoku had not supported me on either side as I thrashed around, I might easily have broken my leg. The pain served to clear my head. In the interim I had wet my pants slightly, but that didn’t matter. The benefit of it all was that now, taken aback by my outburst, the two men began to think seriously about my rescue.

First I had them get me two more aspirin and a triple-strength antihistamine. Then I had them wrap a chilled compress around the thigh of the entrapped leg. Finally I had them each hold up one end of a section of steel pipe left over from the plumbing installation, which I clung to, while the girl massaged my knee with both hands. I mustered all my strength; the insect dealer and the shill cheered me on, straining their voices to the limit. The steel pipe bent, Sengoku’s shoulder made a popping noise as if on the point of dislocating — and again I wet my pants. More this time — about a full cup’s worth. There was no sign whatever that the leg had moved.

Mindful of the liquid trickling from my pants down the inside of my leg toward the knee, I decided that holding back any longer could lead only to uremia. I had somebody bring me the steamer from the galley. The bottom was scorched black, so I had no scruples about using it. They all turned their backs while I relieved myself into it.

“Whoever heard of using a potty from inside a toilet? Nobody’d believe it,” said the shill. Plainly he was trying to joke away his confusion and dismay. The seriousness of the situation had begun to impress itself on him.

“Well, once I saw a butterfly flying around inside an airplane, but it didn’t seem particularly strange.” The girl’s voice was too bright; was she perhaps attempting to cover up the sound of my urinating?