by Kōbō Abe
One morning about six months after I’d started doing this, Sengoku’s mother was out, and he was manning the counter himself. I’d seen him working in the back before that, but this was the first time we’d ever spoken.
“Ah, Mr. Inokuchi,” he says. “That is your name, isn’t it?”
“No. You’re thinking of the old fishing inn that used to be down under the cliff. You can just call me Mole. Back when I worked as a photographer, that’s what everyone called me. I look like one, don’t I?”
“Not really. Moles have long whiskers. Are you sure it isn’t bad for you to eat so many of those?”
“Oh, no—sweet potatoes are an excellent source of vitamin C and fiber. An ideal food, in fact. Their only drawback is the price.”
“Goes up all the time. They used to be the poor man’s staple. No more.”
“Where’s your mother?” I asked.
“Busy, lately, with church duties. She just got promoted to junior executive. It’s a little hard on me—I’ve got to do everything here myself now, from laying in stock and mashing and straining potatoes to timing the ovens and minding the stove.”
“Church? You mean she’s a member of some religious outfit?”
“You mean she’s never invited you to join? She must have you figured for a hopeless degenerate.”
We both burst out laughing. It felt pleasantly intimate, like sharing a secret. I had no great need for friendship, you understand, but I did feel a bond of sorts with the man. As he lined up the cakes on thin strips of paper, arranged them in boxes, and rang up the bill, he went on talking in a quiet, unobtrusive way. He asked no questions, veiled or otherwise, about my life-style (of which he must have had some inkling). It seems now almost as if he was actively cultivating my friendship.
“My father ran off and disappeared,” he said, “and no one knows what became of him. Making sweet-potato cakes is damned boring. Not only that, it takes up all your time. There’s a big difference between just bored, you see, and busy bored. Too much of that can take away your manhood. I can remember my mother pulling down my father’s pants and blowing on his thing—which would be all shrunken up like dog crap—or winding her prayer beads around it and chanting an invocation. You try baking one hundred of these a day, and it’ll happen to you too, he said; I swore it wouldn’t—in fact, I wished it would. So maybe that’s it: both my father and I lack strength of character. When by some fluke guys like him and me get lucky, it’s about as fitting as a fur coat in July.
“One time about three years ago, a friend of my father’s who worked as a tipster for the bicycle races got sick, and Dad was hired to fill in for him. Racing tips don’t usually amount to much anyway, so you didn’t need any special knowledge or inside information to do the job. Racing tips always turn out wrong, and if his did too, so what? But for better or worse, three days in a row he picked a long shot that came home. That kind of news spreads faster than an epidemic, so all of a sudden there was a rush of business. Anybody with sense would have hightailed it, but after the monotony of sweet potatoes, Dad was having the time of his life. Finally he fell in his own trap. He took all the proceeds from those three days and bet the whole thing on the next race. I don’t have to tell you what happened. The tipster got after him to produce the money, and when it wasn’t there he beat him up. He had to go into hiding, bleeding heavily. It made me think: maybe our family name really is an old one. It must have taken a long time to produce someone as foggy-brained as my father. Of course, from his point of view it must have been a dream come true. No more sweet potatoes. He’s probably cured of his impotence by now.
“What about you?” I asked. “Is it your turn?”
“There are signs.”
“Shall I see what I can do for you, before your old lady starts chanting invocations over you?”
“It won’t work.”
“How do you know?” I said. “Don’t give up so fast. I tell you what—give me a hand in my business. It may not be as exciting as a tipster, but it’s a great opportunity for you to make use of any sixth sense you may have inherited.”
“Forget it,” he said flatly. “Remember what I said—sweet-potato-cake bakers are bored to death and busied to death. I haven’t got the time, and my mother would never let me, anyway.”
“As a junior executive, she must have a lot of financial obligations. What if you made enough money to cover them all?”
“No, no. I can see it now. I jump at some story that’s too good to be true and there I am, a replay of my father.”
“Whether you go for it or not is up to you, but let me at least explain the deal. Here’s a hint: suppose there was a secret manhole somewhere where you could get rid of anything. Nothing barred. What would you use it for?”
The answer wasn’t three days in coming. Like a thirteen-year-old wrapped up in a computer game, Sengoku became completely engrossed in looking for ways to use such a manhole. From the outside he and I may look as different as a pig and a mouse, I thought, but we are kindred spirits. Not only because we share the fate of having been born to a no-good louse of a father, but because we are both addicted to outlandish ideas.
He soon arrived at a Grand Manhole Theory. One summer years ago, he had tried to run a beachhouse. From this he learned that the issue is not whether to use real tatami mats or plastic covering; nor is it how many showers you install, how many gallons of hot water per minute you allow, how many blocks of ice or watermelons you lay in—none of that makes a particle of difference. Customers are smart. They let their noses lead them. The thing to do, in other words, is to pour as much money as you can into the rest rooms. Sanitation comes first and second. For that reason, flushing toilets are a must. In the end, you stand or fall by the size of your sewage tank. If you fail to appreciate that fact, then before you know it the smell of ammonia will permeate the place, business will fall off, and that will be that.
Japanese history books tell about “moving the capital,” a ritual that took place at fixed intervals in ancient Japan. The reason for this was the same, I think—people’s sensitivity to smell. With a dense population, waste disposal eventually becomes a problem. Sewage, trash … and dead bodies.
Once, when I was a boy on a school excursion to Kyoto, somebody explained that one particular ancient classical poem from that era (when, exactly, I don’t recall) meant roughly that whenever the wind blew a certain way, it stunk to high heaven. I remember how shocked I was. But back then, of course, they didn’t bury their dead. They piled them up on the ground, say in a bamboo grove on the outskirts of town. (Maybe that explains why Kyoto is famous for its bamboo shoots to this day; I don’t know.) Anyway, it’s obvious why they would have had to move the capital periodically. People can’t win out over waste matter; at some point it takes over and gets the better of them. In foreign countries, you often come across the ruins of abandoned cities and towns. Buildings made of stone couldn’t easily be moved, so raw sewage and dead bodies accumulated, epidemics were rampant, and the cities were left to fall into ruins. Wooden structures disappear without a trace, but they might have been that much more sanitary. The only way to avoid having to move, or leave empty ruins, is to build your city around a large manhole. The ideal sewage system, in other words, is like a giant umbilical cord: the lifeline of the city of the future.
Sengoku’s first practical application of his manhole theory was to take over the disposal of aborted fetuses from local obstetricians. The plan was successful as well as clever. Previously, the only recourse had been the makeshift device of mixing the fetuses in furtively with raw waste from the fish market. This system had never appealed to those involved, and they were only too glad to wash their hands of it.
Sengoku and I quickly set up a company that we called SWAMDI, or Special Waste Matter Disposal, Inc. “What title do you want?” I asked him. “You can be president, or executive director, or secretary-general. Take your pick.”
“What will you be?” he answered. “Chairman?”
“Just plain manhole manager is good enough for me.”
“Then I’ll be secretary-general. No president or vice-president. More democratic that way, don’t you think?” he said, adding, “Are there any other members?”
“For now it’s just you and me,” I said.
“Even better,” he said. “The more people, the less each one’s share of the take.”
“The fewer faucets,” I said, “the less leaking.”
“Exactly.”
“So for the time being,” I continued, “I want there to be just one. Not that I don’t trust you—I do, but I think you’re better off not knowing too much about the manhole. Then there’s no way you could tell anybody anything. I know it seems unfriendly …”
“No, I don’t mind,” he said cheerfully. “If anything ever happened, I’d get off lighter not knowing.”
The very unconventionality and flamboyance of this first project of ours made it difficult to attract orders. And unless you’re dealing in dead bodies or industrial waste, the disposal business pays next to nothing. Finally, in our third month, we began handling hexavalent chromium. Soon we were doing so at regular intervals, and this became our chief source of revenue. Sengoku gave spending money to his mother, who was still busy proselytizing, and talked her into letting him virtually close up the store. Sometimes, when he was in the mood, he would bake some of his prize sweet-potato cakes just for me.
That was all about a year ago. Since then everything had been going smoothly, until I ran into Inototsu in front of the Plum Blossom Sushi Shop. Sengoku and I worked together well, in a spirit of genuine friendship. Besides meeting once a week at 4 p.m. for the delivery of hexavalent chromium, we met often in a back room of his store (now closed), to drink coffee, chat, exchange last month’s magazines, and play an occasional game of chess. Sometimes we would drink a toast to the manhole. Sengoku used to declare that he had never known such a sense of fulfillment in all his life. The vague anxiety he felt was probably due to his recovery from impotence, but that, he said, smiling, was like the sense of exhilaration you get after washing your face with fine soap. Time seemed to weigh on his hands, so sometimes I had him help me with other things besides the SWAMDI work. Things like purchasing and transporting supplies for the ark: parts for air conditioners, materials for gunpowder, and so on. I realized now that I should have explained everything to him then. It wasn’t that I doubted him at all. I fully intended to give him a ticket to survival too, but I kept putting it off. My failure to include him owed solely to my own lack of decisiveness. He must have suspected something, but he never once asked anything approaching a question— either because he knew his place or because he had suffered a lot for a man his age. He had a habit of saying, “Peace is wonderful.”
“So we beat out your friend Sengoku, eh?” said the shill, upending his fourth can of beer and sucking up the last remaining froth. “He’d be mad as hell if he knew.”
“That’s why I feel guilty. I’ll have to tell him about you three, who’ve contributed nothing, and get his approval after the fact.”
“I wouldn’t trust that person Sengoku,” said the girl, leaning back and tugging at the hem of her skirt. Man-made leather hardly stretches at all, so the only effect was to accentuate the gap between her knees.
“Try to remember, Captain,” said the shill, stifling a yawn. “Was it before or after you ran into Inototsu that you began to sense the presence of an intruder?”
“How do I know?”
“But that’s the crux of it all: that’ll tell you if you can trust your secretary-general or not.”
“Why?”
“It only makes sense,” said the girl. “That man Sengoku sounds too reserved.” She covered the end of her sentence with a smile, to keep me from opening my mouth. “Are you sure he wasn’t in league with the Broom Brigade from the start?”
The question was not lacking in merit. I myself wondered at what point Sengoku had learned of Inototsu’s connection with the Broom Brigade. He certainly knew both that the hexavalent chromium came from there and that Inototsu was my biological father. If he had remained silent while knowing Inototsu to be the head of the Broom Brigade, that suggested not mere reserve but a deliberate lack of candor. Had he wanted to keep his trump card hidden until I was more open about my life in the quarry?
The insect dealer slumped from the table down onto the floor. He landed in a sitting position, eyes half open, but the angle of his neck showed he was fast asleep. Too bad—he was back in position to look up her skirt but unable to do anything about it. Now if only the shill would go to sleep too. I threw him his fifth beer.
“Shall we get ready to turn in?” I said.
“Are you serious?” The shill opened his can, peering under the table.
“That’s right—don’t you know what time it is? It’s still only five after eight.” The girl too looked under the table, pressing her cheek against the chaise longue.
Everyone but me disappeared below the surface of the table. As I kept my gaze level, I was assaulted by a wave of loneliness. Along with quiet came unrest.
“The evening is young. Shall we be setting off?” said the shill.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Cave exploring, of course. Spelunking.” He was still under the table. “What’s this in the bag next to the Styrofoam box—a sleeping bag?”
“Could be, if it’s got dark blue and red stripes.”
“It’s covered with dust.”
“That’s a top-quality brand, I’ll have you know. It’s in a different class from the chintzy stuff they palm off on you in sporting goods stores.”
“What’s the difference?” asked the girl.
“Enough so that a little dust doesn’t matter. The bottom is triple-layered, with nylon, carbon fibers, and a spring, so that whether you’re lying on rocks, gravel, or whatever, you can sleep as comfortably as in a hotel bed.”
The shill tucked the crossbow under his arm, inserted the remaining aluminum arrows in his belt, and stood up. Going around the table, he pulled out a sleeping bag and threw it down from the parapet. Then he grabbed the shoulders of the insect dealer, who was asleep, leaning against the table leg, and began to shake him roughly.
“Okay, Komono—time to go downstairs and go beddy-bye. Wake up, will you!”
“There’s no point in moving too fast,” I counseled. “At least let’s wait till Komono is sober. The more help we have, the better.”
“It’s worse to let the enemy get an edge on you. Don’t forget, the best defense is a good offense. When politicians want to sound tough, they start talking about their indomitable resolve. In a fight, the trick is to let fly a stiff punch that will put a damper on your opponent. You can’t let guys like that Sengoku have it all their own way. Corrupts discipline.”
“But there’s no hard evidence that he did turn traitor. It’s all circumstantial, isn’t it?”
“The best way to check it out is to go back there for a look.”
“Why are you so eager for a fight?”
“Drink sharpens my faculties, remember? What is there to be afraid of?”
“All right, then, let me contact Sengoku. His radio is set up in the store. If he’s there, that’ll give him an alibi, and disprove your idea that he’s in league with the Broom Brigade.”
“I haven’t got anything personal against the guy, mind you,” said the shill. “He’s just one possible suspect. But go ahead and try to contact him, if that’ll make you feel better. If he’s there, he may have some new information for you, and if he isn’t, the cloud of suspicion will deepen and you can throw away your doubts.”
“I’ll give it a try—but somehow I just cannot believe that he’s that rotten.”
My radio set was in locker number three. The lock combination was easy to remember: 3-3-3. I set the dial and switched it on.
—Channel check. Channel check. Is anyone using this channel?
No answer.
/> —I repeat. Hello, this is Mole. Mole here. Come in, please.
No answer.
Twice more I repeated the call; still there was no answer.
“That settles it.” The shill clapped his hands. “You’d better give up, Captain. You want to take your camera along when we go? I hear you’re a professional. A photograph of the evidence could be worth a fortune. And, Komono, you wake up. We’ve got to get moving. Come on, I’ll take you downstairs.”
He gave the insect dealer’s shoulder another hard shake, until at last Komono stood up, his whole body emanating sleepiness. Even so, he never loosened his grip on the converted toy Uzi.
“I’ve got to pee,” he mumbled.
The insect dealer leaned on the shill, whose knees buckled. There was a good four-inch difference in their heights, and their weights must have differed to a corresponding degree. Using my head as a prop as he went by, he passed in back of me, nearly knocking over a chair in the process. He had terrible body odor. The odor itself was menacing, and even apart from that there’s something about big men I don’t like—probably from association with Inototsu. As he wavered, unable to negotiate the turnabout, the shill grabbed his belt and held him up. Their unsteady footsteps receded down the staircase.