The Ark Sakura

by Kōbō Abe

  “It’s probably caused by the difference in temperature and humidity between the subterranean water and the open air.”

  “After making sure which way he went, I grabbed the ladder and took off after him. But when I got down there, damned if he hadn’t disappeared.”

  “I’m telling you, he dove underwater. There’s probably a tunnel below the surface of the water.”

  “It couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. I still can’t believe it. There wasn’t any of this fog then, either.”

  “Well, let’s go down.”

  “And just what do you intend to do when we get there? Be honest, Captain.”

  “Well, I think it’s probably better not to come on too strong—no needless provocation. I know, I know, attack is the best defense, but still I’d prefer to try talking things over. We could try to reach some sort of compromise, with this river as a boundary between us… .”

  The shill glanced at his watch, in the light from his miner’s hat.

  “Eighteen minutes.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Since we left, I mean.”

  “It doesn’t seem that long.”

  “What are you going to do, Captain? You suit yourself. I’m going back.”

  “Back where?” I couldn’t grasp what he meant.

  “Where we came from. That’ll be just over half an hour, round trip. Perfect timing.”

  “But why? The river is right down there.”

  “That was just an excuse. I don’t really give a shit about it.”

  “Well, I still think it’s worth investigating. If we look around, we might even find some wet footprints.”

  “Nah, that ladder is too risky. It’s not worth it.”

  “You’re the one who started this.”

  “I told you—it was an excuse.”

  “For what?”

  “Look, I’m not crazy enough to go picking a fight with some guy when I don’t even know if he’s an enemy or a friend.” He glanced at his watch again, and kicked the dirt like someone getting ready for a foot race. “But I’ll tell you this: whoever underestimates me is going to live to regret it.”

  He went even faster on the return trip. I tried to call out to him, but I was gasping for breath, and it was all I could do to keep up with him. I couldn’t understand. Who was he accusing of underestimating him? The insect dealer was drunk and asleep, and I couldn’t recall any particularly stormy exchanges between them. But there wasn’t anybody else. I had the feeling that cancer wasn’t the only shadow hanging over him.

  He did not stop until he reached the firing range. I had no intention of asking questions, but even so he fitted an arrow into the crossbow, drew the bow full, spun around and took aim at my feet.

  “From here on, don’t utter a sound. Better take off your shoes too.”

  “Komono was drunk, you know. I can’t believe he was only pretending to be asleep.”

  “I said shut up!”

  His voice was so charged with electricity that it all but gave off sparks. I took off my shoes and stuck them in my belt. I wanted to hold him back, but he gained another big lead on me at the lift. By the time I had lowered myself back onto the floor of the work hold, he was way across the room.

  I tiptoed into the last tunnel. I had no great mind to stick up for the insect dealer. In a sense, he had it coming. His overbearing ways—especially his overly familiar way with the girl—had riled me too. But the shill was not a terribly good shot. Whether the girl was on the top or the bottom, he might err and hit her instead. Even if he did hit his target, things would be sticky. Calling an ambulance would be bad enough; once the police were called in, the ship was doomed even before its launching. Perhaps a mortal wound would be better. Once the body was chopped up and flushed down the toilet, nothing would remain but a lingering unpleasantness. And in six more months (following the worst-case scenario), burdened now with two cancer-ridden corpses, I would go back to being a lonely captain, probably never recovering sufficiently to seek other buyers for the tickets to survival.

  The shill was standing stock-still in the tunnel entranceway, weapon poised. The arrow was still fixed in place, with no sign that he had fired. Below the bridge, the blue-and-red-striped sleeping bag was rolled up like a potato bug, and from it emerged deep snores.

  The shill put his weapon on safety and smiled awkwardly. “I have a feeling … I’ll bet those old geezers in the Broom Brigade are planning an attack for right around tonight.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just a feeling I have. Anyway, Komono should be ashamed of himself—knocked out flat by a few beers!”

  15

  THE MEMBERS OF THE OLYMPIC

  PREVENTION LEAGUE WEAR

  PIG BADGES ON THEIR CHESTS

  The girl too lay asleep, face down on the chaise longue, with a light blanket pulled up over her head (by which I do not mean to suggest that the lower half of her body was exposed), her snores rivaling those of the insect dealer. The shill sat down in the middle of the stairs and wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He said:

  “I wasn’t really going to shoot. That’s the honest truth. Even if the worst possible thing was happening right before my eyes, I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. I’m not as tough as I look and talk, really; it’s all an act… . I’m just a failure. And I go into jealous fits over her. Even though in six months she’ll never belong to anyone again. She’s something, isn’t she? I mean, don’t you think so?”

  “Yes, I do. I have from the first.”

  “Back when I was with the gangsters, I happened to read Darwin’s theory of evolution. In comic book form—but still, it changed my whole view of life. Yakuza pride themselves on living dangerously, but you know, if their fights are real, so are everybody else’s. If a gangster is somebody who lays his life on the line every day, then everybody’s a gangster. But gangsters can see only their own little world. Life is reduced to a bunch of fights over territory. You wouldn’t believe how spiteful they are.”

  “So the problem is who the ‘fittest’ are.”

  “Exactly. Basically, everyone who’s alive is fit. Suppose Komono were to try to take her pants off and succeed—he’d be one of the fittest.”

  “Everything seems so clear to you.”

  “Not really. It’s just evolutionary theory.”

  “Speaking of fights over territories—the eupcaccia has a very small territory, doesn’t it? Barely the length of its own body.”

  His mind continued on its own track. “Religions aren’t fair,” he said, “with their heavens and hells.”

  I laughed. “I’m starting to see what you meant when you said a shipload of respectable people would be dull as hell.”

  “Absolutely. This is no Olympic village. No point in gathering a lot of clean-cut athletic types.”

  “Speaking of the Olympics—did you ever hear of something called the Olympic Prevention League?” He didn’t answer, and I dropped the subject.

  The coffee was ready. I placed two cups side by side on the edge of the toilet, and poured out coffee that looked like watery brown paint. The shill propped up the insect dealer and held a cup of scalding coffee to his mouth.

  “All right, Komono, wake up. It’s only nine-thirty. I’ve got to talk to you, so wake up.”

  Opening one bloodshot eye, the insect dealer slurped a mouthful of coffee, made sure he was holding the gun, shook his head, and went back to sleep without uttering a word.

  The shill and I went back up the stairs, and sat drinking our coffee and waiting for something to happen. Yawning without opening his mouth, he said, “I wonder if they’re really going to attack. What do you think, Captain?”

  “Shall I try again to get hold of Sengoku?”

  “Why?”

  “Based on circumstantial evidence, he’s a strong suspect, isn’t he?”

  “Why are they all old men in that outfit? Aren’t there any old ladies?”

/>   “Apparently not, although I don’t know why. Maybe the old ladies are too in touch with reality.”

  Too much coffee upsets my stomach. Thinking I’d boil myself an egg, I headed for the galley, when out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a human figure lurking around the tunnel entrance. I set down my coffee cup, snatched the converted Uzi out of the insect dealer’s sleeping bag, and took off.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s somebody over there.”

  The shill jumped down the stairs in a single bound, quickly overtaking me and running on ahead. As he planted himself in the entrance to the work hold, crossbow at the ready, he looked reassuringly strong and reliable.

  “Nobody in sight. There wasn’t enough time to climb the shaft; maybe he got out that way.” He snapped his fingers in the direction of the tunnel leading to the second hold (the future residential area).

  “Impossible. It’s a dead end, and besides—” I caught myself. That’s right, the shill still didn’t know. I took a step forward, held out the barrel of the Uzi, and waved it up and down. A bell rang. I turned off the switch under the rails. “I tested it before too. The warning system is all in working order.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “Maybe I only imagined it. The same thing’s happened before, more than once. This place is so big and empty, and the light is so dim, that even a piece of dust in your eye can look like all sorts of things.”

  “Are you telling me I only imagined what I saw?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “It’s not impossible, though. I’ve never lived anywhere as big as this.”

  “But if you caught sight of him repeatedly … I mean, if it was an optical illusion you’d have seen him once, period.”

  “I suppose so. You want to have a look in that pile of stuff over there?”

  The shill aimed his crossbow at the palisade of old bikes concealing the entrance to the storerooms. The bike handles were turned at odd angles, with no sign that anyone had been through. Whoever knew about the camouflage would also know that inside was a dead end. If he meant to use the arsenal, however, that was different. In that case, there was even the possibility of counterattack. I cocked my Uzi and held it ready. Lining up the handlebars in the right and left corners so they faced the same way, I swung the palisade out and switched on the lights. While the shill guarded the entrance, I checked out the interior, step by step. Nobody was there.

  “My nerves were getting to me, I guess,” I apologized.

  “You’re not the only one. I made a damned fool out of myself.” The shill ran his fingers lightly along the barrel of my Uzi. “Aha, so this was no toy after all. Now I see why it attracted Komono, with his eye for guns.”

  “It’s converted. If you go easy on the gunpowder, you can use it as a semiautomatic.”

  “Put it on safety, please. Things like that have a way of causing more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “Komono says a crossbow isn’t much use against more than one enemy, since you can’t fire in volleys.”

  “Have all the guns in here been converted?”

  “Yes, more or less.”

  “I’ll be damned. You’ve got yourself enough for a small army.”

  He sat back in the chair in the lowest armory and looked around excitedly. He’d spoken like a pacifist a moment before, but now that he found himself surrounded by weapons, it seemed to set his blood racing after all. It was certainly true that guns could be the source of much trouble. I kept them to use against rats, snakes, and stray dogs; to date, I had exterminated seven rats and one cat. For protection against human invaders, I had greater faith in dynamite. In the end, man-made cave-ins would protect us like the door to a safe.

  “I’ll go get the sleeping bags,” I said.

  “Wait a minute. This is where we are now, right?” The moment he set eyes on the wall map, he was absorbed. When I came back lugging two new sleeping bags, he was tearing off strips of red vinyl tape and sticking them on the map, like some big chief of staff.

  “Here, and here—see, the enemy has to cross at least three barriers. Especially climbing down the shaft here, they’ve got to go single file with their backs turned toward us. It’d be a cinch to wipe ’em out.”

  “As long as they didn’t attack while we were sleeping. This one with the yellow stripes is a medium. You can have it.”

  “Looks like we’d better have sentry duty tonight, anyway.”

  We went back under the bridge and laid out the sleeping bags, with the insect dealer at the far end, me by the stairs, and the shill in the middle. My brain felt suddenly exhausted, as if somebody had kneaded it in flour. Without asking, the shill helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator.

  “If the free drinks go on forever, that only reduces their value,” I said.

  “Is that a nice thing to say? Of course I expect you to bill me for anything I eat or drink. That’s a fundamental rule of community life, isn’t it?—pay for what you consume.”

  “About the night watch—you and I are the only ones awake.”

  “I know. Funny, isn’t it?” He opened the can and lowered his mouth to it as carefully as if it contained hot soup. “Get a load of Watermelon Head here, sleeping like a pig.”

  “Watch your language.” My voice went shrill despite myself.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He smiled apologetically, then quickly straightened his face and said, “After all, if I really thought so I’d never say so, right?”

  “You shouldn’t look down on pigs.” I took off my shoes, tore the label off the brand-new sleeping bag, unzipped it, and stretched out inside, propping myself up on my elbow. “Sure, they’re stupid. At least as stupid as people. But what’s really stupid is to go around thinking pigs are inferior to people. I’ve already told this to Komono too: I’m not having any muscle-worshipping types share this ship with me. It’s going to be a long trip.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you know what mark the Olympic Prevention League chose as their symbol?”

  “No—what?”

  “A pig. A round green pig, like a ball with legs. Olympic Prevention League members wear the badges on their chests. You may have seen them—round green badges trimmed in silver. When they march in demonstrations, the members carry a flag with the same design. Just so no one will think it’s an ad for pork cutlets, the mouth is slightly open, with tusks bared. OPL is still a tiny fringe movement, but I hear people with that badge are scattered all across the country, and all around the world. Most are obese, or at least fairly overweight. Which Olympics was it, now … remember, on the TV news? Members of the Olympic Prevention League marched boldly onto the playing field, waving their flags. I remember I felt a little bit sympathetic to their aims, but also a little put off, a little embarrassed, actually. The slogans began pouring in from hand mikes:

  “ ‘Down with muscle-worship!’

  “ ‘Down with vitamins!’

  “ ‘Down with the national flag!’”

  … They wanted to pull down all the national flags on display overhead. It certainly is true that that cluster of national flags in the Olympic stadium is presumptuous. People are all too ready to pick sides for no good reason. Showing the national flag only takes advantage of that inborn weakness. And why should any country get excited about a well-developed set of muscles? It’s unnatural. There’s got to be some plot. Besides, to raise the national flag and play the national anthem in honor of robust bodies constitutes a clear act of discrimination against the rest of the citizenry. There in that sports arena being used openly as a ceremonial hall to exalt national prestige, it was only natural for the pig group to launch an attack on the flags, and for the steering committee to take the defensive.

  Grounds keepers ran around blowing police whistles. Angry at having the games interrupted, the spectators began throwing things:

  hamburgers

  boxed lunches tin cans

  spectacles strings
tissue paper

  false teeth

  condoms chewing gum

  Next the players and guards together attacked the league members. The announcer issued earnest appeals, as if gargling in sand:

  “Players, please return to your assigned positions and stand by. The games will resume momentarily. Spectators are requested to wait quietly. The lavatories are presently all occupied.”

  But by then it was impossible to stanch the flow of waste articles that came pouring down the bleachers like lava. The conical stadium was soon buried in trash, and some of the judges announced they were leaving. The players became more and more crazed. Not content merely with ripping the prevention league pigs apart, they consigned the officials to oblivion and then advanced against the spectators. A sports commentator offered his analysis: “If things go on this way it will be a darned shame for the athletes.” Finally the whole stadium swelled up like bowels with the anus sutured shut, in the shape of a giant toilet. It also bore some resemblance to a dirigible with the back hollowed out. At any moment it would lift off tearing away from its anchor and go scudding over the seas where a hundred tropical low-pressure zones clustered.

  Better split before they come checking tickets.

  Everybody knows they were pork cutlet restaurant owners in disguise.

  [And they all lived happily ever after.]

  “HEY, Captain, isn’t there any TV here?”

  I awoke at the shill’s voice. I had a feeling we had had some sort of run-in over hogs, but I could not tell exactly where that had left off and my dream had taken over.