Кобо Абэ - The Ark Sakura

“People are always asking you that? What do you mean.”

“This person,” he said, indicating her with a jerk of his head, “seems to radiate loneliness. As if she were a pitiful waif forced against her will to do nasty men’s bidding. She stirs up men’s combativeness. It’s a kind of fishing by lure, if you follow me.”

“This person,” he had said. How much more impersonal could you be? Perhaps there was hope. Or perhaps he was only glorying in his fishing skills. The sight of him became even more irritating.

“Sorry — I don’t go in much for fishing,” I said.

Slowly the girl’s smile faded. She did have an air of loneliness about her, despite her way of glancing up at you, and the lines at either corner of her mouth, and her fairly heavy makeup. It might well be a look that was carefully contrived and calculated, I thought.

“Well, what about this merchandise? Don’t we at least get an explanation?” He flicked the card with a fingernail and spoke with rising insistency. “You can’t choose your customers; it’s not fair. Once the goods are on the counter, that’s it. You have to play fair. The bug man may have told you— half of these stalls are here only because I put in a good word for the owners with the management. That gives me a certain stake in what goes on here. I can’t have you picking and choosing among customers.”

“You don’t understand. These aren’t for sale. That’s what I’ve been telling you all along.”

“Tsk tsk. The rule is that anything displayed on the counter has to be for sale.”

“In that case, I apologize. I’m sorry. Now will you please hand it back?”

“The bug man must have told you some ridiculous story about us. That we’re a couple of sakura or something.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Officially, a sakura is a shill, a sidewalk vendor’s assistant — somebody who makes a purchase or lays down a bet to encourage onlookers to do the same. Only nobody calls us that anymore. The job’s no different, but we have a respectable-sounding title: sales promoters, we’re called. The department stores treat us like proper agents, with our own accounts and everything.”

The girl grasped the man’s wrist to hold it still, as the excited swaying of his body interfered with her attempts to focus on the map on the back of the card. Now was my chance. I reached out for the ticket, my fingers moving to the precise spot, at the precise speed, that I had intended. In fat people, the bottom half of the body may be weighted down, but from the waist up, heaviness is no bar to agility.

Yet I failed. The ticket was gone from between his fingers. Sleight of hand. He waved his other arm with a flourish, and the ticket reappeared, ensconced between two fingers; he blew on it, and it spun like a windmill.

“I give up. Please let me have it back,” I said. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Say, this must be pretty valuable, from the way you’re carrying on about it.”

“Didn’t use the right psychology.” The girl laughed, glancing from the card to me. “You’re just encouraging him.”

“It is valuable,” I said, in a voice so feeble that I made myself sick. “It’s worth more than anybody here could begin to afford.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” That crazy insect dealer, I thought — how long could he go on peeing? “If you don’t know how to use it, it won’t do you any good.” Nothing to do but relax and wait to be rescued. “It would be a total waste.” Still, no telling how effective his reinforcement would prove until the time came. “It’s not like ordinary merchandise, where you pay the money and it’s yours.” In terms of sheer physical strength, the insect dealer might have an edge, but in actual combat the shill would probably prove the more adept. It was a good match. If the shill had the sharpness of wire, the insect dealer had the toughness. And I myself counted for something. Weight can be a valuable weapon, provided you use it correctly.

The girl spoke up. “A boat ticket can only mean some kind of boat. What kind, is the question.”

“The real question is the key,” said the man. “What does it unlock?”

“Finding the answer to that may be easier than you think. “ Her voice was brightly animated, as if she were leafing through a travel brochure. Then she dangled the key roguishly near the tip of her nose. The ticket might be gone, but I at least wanted the key back. Capturing sitting flies in my bare hands is one of my hobbies. I fixed my eyes on her hand. The man had put one over on me, but with the girl I had more confidence. Still, something made me hesitate. Perhaps it was self-reproach, a warning that I was getting too emotional. The insect dealer had been utterly uninterested, yet I had gone out of my way to press a ticket on him. Now, when the shills grabbed eagerly at the bait, I found myself trying desperately to retrieve it. Mustn’t be prey to impulse. The thing to do was play for time, and wait till I could join forces with the insect dealer. Above all, I had to see that tickets to survival did not start getting scattered around out of all control.

A furious rain came lashing down, bombarding us with great pellets of water. Spray obscured visibility. The concrete floor hummed in resonance. Shoppers ran en masse for the exits, while stallkeepers raced to take in their wares.

In the confusion, the pair ran off and disappeared. There was no time even to call to them to stop. I started to chase after them, squeezing out through the side opening of the stall, when the weight of accumulated rainwater on the canvas roof caused the supports to lean. My foot got caught in the crosspiece, and I fell forward, flat on my face. A sharp pain flashed though my knee like incandescent light. Weak knees are the bane of the very fat.

Someone helped me up from behind, so near I could smell the sweat in his armpits. It was the insect dealer.

“Where in hell have you been?”

“Sorry. I didn’t think it would take so long, but it turned out I had to take a crap too. I’ve had loose bowels off and on for a while. Maybe it’s the weather; who knows?”

“Go after them. Hurry!”

“After who?”

“The shills, of course.” I stood and started to run off ahead of him, but my left leg was rubbery and lacking totally in sensation. I clung to his shoulder, barely managing to keep upright.

“That woman is a looker, isn’t she?” he enthused. “That face makes me want to take her in my arms. That ass makes me want—”

“Never mind that. They ran off with my stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“The tickets. They swiped them and ran off.”

“Now why would they want to do a thing like that?” He pulled me back under the canvas, out of the rain. I would have resisted, but my leg wasn’t obeying orders.

“You wouldn’t take it so lightly if you knew how much those tickets are worth.”

“How should I know? I’m sure they don’t, either.”

“Their instincts were better than yours, though.”

The scanty hair on his big round head looked as if someone had scribbled it on with a ballpoint pen. Water dripped from his earlobes and the point of his chin, as if someone had left the faucet running.

“Relax,” he said. “I think I know where they went. If you can walk, I’ll let you lean on my shoulder.”

There was pain like a scattering of broken needles, but normal sensation was beginning to return. I gripped the shoulder of the insect dealer, who carried the suitcase, and we headed toward the exit, getting wet to the skin. The store loudspeakers were announcing closing time to the accompaniment of “Auld Lang Syne.” The man evidently in charge of dismantling stalls came dashing up the emergency stairway, pulled out a crowbar from the toolbag slung around his hips, and set to work, starting in a corner.