The Ruined Map

by Kōbō Abe

  Using as a pretext the fact that the proprietor had reached the table next to mine, I closed my briefcase and left my seat. The shop extended along the street and was long and narrow. In order to make way for me, the proprietor had to wait for me to pass, standing sideways between the tables. With every step a black oil oozed up between the floorboards. I gave a two-hundred yen note to the girl, who raised a reluctant face from her magazine, and waited for the change. Well, I would give up visiting the other woman. I had told myself so many times that I had convinced myself not to go. But what about the brother? I thought it made little difference if I just wanted to inquire a bit into his past. Apparently, in the present instance, the advantages and disadvantages for the girl and her brother coincided, and even if there were no reason at all for me to include this in the report, the fraud, if there was one, would be unmasked by the facts and circumstances. In any case they would probably have a falling-out. She was the one who was the official client all the way, and I had no need to trouble myself about him.

  A public telephone, the dial holes soiled with use, was located next to the cash register. I dialed the office and asked to be connected with the data section. I requested that they go round at once to the precinct office where the girl was originally registered, some place downtown, if I remembered rightly, and look up the brother in the family dossier. Then I deliberately mentioned the girl’s present name as well as her maiden one, wanting to be overheard. Neither the proprietor nor the waitress showed any reaction. It was natural that they should not, I suppose. Even if my worst conjecture proved true for the moment, it did not necessarily mean that they contacted each other by using a real name.

  Caught in a fit of coughing, the proprietor was clearing my table. When I went out into the street, listening to the girl’s voice behind my back with its trace of Kantō dialect, the sky, a dirty white, was nonetheless dazzlingly bright. Immediately in front of the shop large buses squeezed by each other, cramped by the narrowness of the street. In a moment, when the flow of traffic slowed, I crossed the street and headed toward the parking lot. Three signs hung in a line on the barbed wire that enclosed it.

  PARKING—ONE HOUR 70 YEN

  SPECIAL MONTHLY RATES

  Underneath appeared a telephone number in red letters. A hotel sign was also suspended with a yard-long hand, on which appeared the words

  RIGHT HERE

  Then, acting as a kind of awning for the guard house at the entrance:

  HANAWA PRIVATE TAXI—OFFICE

  I paid my seventy yen to the wizened guard, who was seated with his legs wrapped around a brazier. I thrust the stamped receipt into my wallet, thinking that I must not forget to add this to my report. When I looked back, the curtain, which had seemed to be mesh when I was inside, was blocking the window of the Camellia coffee house like black paint, reflecting in all its gaudy coloring the front of the drugstore on the opposite corner. A cat as fat as a pig appeared on the eaves of the second story and composedly began to walk along the edge, but after five or six steps it suddenly vanished. Just at the point where the eaves left off, the chimney of a public bath rose up, trailing smoke as transparent as gossamer. My immediate reflex was to seize my camera, but it was not that important. The probability of coming back here was so slight, what particular evidence could it be?

  MY CAR was the third one in the left-hand row. It was hidden by the car in front, and I did not locate it at once. When I finally spied its pig-nosed snout, a man approached rapidly from the direction of the guard house, crunching over the gravel.

  Was he going to ask for more money?

  His face was covered in smiles as he boldly looked me over, slowly, from head to foot. He had an unpleasant glint about his eyes. He was on the slim side, and his black coat hung straight down from his wide shoulders, breaking sharply at the pocket, perhaps because of something in it. His somewhat too long sideburns gave him a rather rowdy appearance, which in turn gave the lie to his fixed smile. He had a peculiar way of walking, as if purposely wanting to attract attention with his swagger. Maybe the aggressive impression he made was due to his eyes, which were too close together.

  “Say! You from the detective agency?”

  It was a voice I remembered hearing. There was no stammering, but the timbre was heavy, as if too much saliva had accumulated in his mouth. So that was it: the voice on the telephone that had placed the request on behalf of the woman. My interrogator continued to smile, but I could not answer at once. I was confused, and more than anything I experienced a deep feeling of defeat.

  Frankly, I had given up hope of meeting the man. Perhaps it was because last night’s vigil had proved fruitless and had simply numbed me. I was beginning to have the feeling that it was more difficult to believe that the man existed at all than that he was the actual brother. She could have easily hired a man to make the telephone call in her behalf. On the other hand, suppose it had actually been the brother, the situation would be no better at all. The fact would remain that he was a man who could not be seen—any more than the one who had disappeared. Moreover, having to pretend at such a childish game suggested something very shady. He was playing a game, fully counting on being suspected of complicity. I realized this with a feeling bordering on resignation.

  Apparently, without my realizing it, things were getting to a point where I myself was being drawn into what could be a crime.

  And, yes, there was also the matchbox. I felt that the matchbox itself, independent of the Camellia coffee house, was suspicious. The box had already been opened, and it contained matchsticks with two different kinds of tips.

  White-tipped sticks and black-tipped sticks.

  If I thought about this too much, I had the perilous presentiment that I could not help but tread willy-nilly among the blank spaces on the map. I had no intention of rashly letting my opponent in on these misgivings. That much I knew. The money that had been paid was completely for the benefit and protection of my client, and the pursuit of facts was in all events secondary.

  I gave up. How could I be anything but confused with the appearance of such a fellow as this, just as I had drunk my hangover away with coffee?

  I was at a loss for a reply, and the fellow followed up his advantage, motioning with his head in the direction of the coffee house.

  “Any results? What a coincidence, meeting you here. I imagine we’ve a lot in common to talk about.”

  “A coincidence?” I shot back, my voice unconsciously taking on a challenging tone.

  “Well, it was happenstance, I should imagine.” He looked over his shoulder back to where I had parked my car. “I certainly couldn’t have trailed you here. If I had, our roles would have been reversed.”

  “How did you know me?”

  My companion’s glance dropped an instant to my briefcase with seeming interest.

  “You knew me too, didn’t you? It’s the same thing.”

  It was that strange voice of his that had let me recognize him. And also the too perfect combination of time and place. I wondered if there were not, in this self-styled “brother,” characteristics closely resembling those of the sister. The slim neck in proportion to the wide shoulders. But that could be the result of padding or the cut of the clothes. And then his muffled voice, as if produced through woolen vocal cords. The swarthy skin that suggested shrewdness. One could not claim there was no resemblance; any human being could more or less resemble any other, for that matter. The face, stiff with a sizing of hostility, was quite out of keeping with the smile. Piercing eyes that never slept, never dreamt. And too, the extravagance of his formal way of speaking, to which he was not accustomed, fitted in poorly with the atmosphere he created. But that did not alter the fact that he was associated with the applicant, and I had no intention of opposing him. What a great mistake it is to suppose that with thirty thousand yen one can engage people’s likes and dislikes.

  “I expected to meet you, of course, last night. Looking for two people is simply beyond me.”


  The man peered again into my face, flipping the metal fitting of the windshield wiper of my car with the tips of his black gloves.

  “You tend to a heavy beard, don’t you? I envy you that. I can grow only a pretty sad excuse for a mustache. Maybe it’s a hormone deficiency, I don’t know.”

  “Anyway, she’s at her wit’s end—I mean your sister—she persists in saying she doesn’t have a notion or even a clue. When we start talking about the basic facts, she says it’s her brother who knows. But where is this brother? She doesn’t know. And then she just drinks her beer alone. It’s as if she didn’t want the riddle of her husband’s disappearance solved.”

  “Hmm. You seem to have a good head. Yes, indeed, you’re pretty quick to catch on.”

  My companion undid the two top buttons of his coat, his smile lingering at the corners of his lips. He slipped his white muffler to the side and turned out the underside of his jacket lapel. There was a thick badge about the size of a thumbnail. It was in the form of an equilateral triangle with the corners rounded and was made of blue cloisonné bordered in silver. In the middle, likewise in silver, stood an S in relief. It was a modified form of letter composed of straight lines, and according to how one looked at it, might just as well be representing lightning. Or maybe originally it had not been an S, but lightning all along.

  Unfortunately it was a badge I had never set eyes on before, but I could grasp at once that it was something intended to suggest a special threat. I could understand indeed, but I deliberately said nothing.

  “I think you understand,” he said, quickly flipping the collar of his coat closed. “I don’t want you to have any funny prejudice about me. My sister’s husband’s a fine fellow, the real thing. On that score, I want you to understand perfectly that you can’t call him—how shall I put it?—you can’t say he’s a tramp.”

  “Well then, all the more reason you should be open and tell me anything that might provide a clue.”

  “To say I’m hiding something isn’t nice.” He burst out with a single, abrupt laugh and, after a pause, added: “My sister’s been saying some pretty tall things, I’m afraid.”

  “Unless a disappearance is deliberately planned, it’s impossible to vanish without leaving a single trace of one’s life.”

  “Actually, maybe it was deliberate …” Suddenly he lowered his voice and bent his head, kicking the car tire with the tip of his shoe. “On that score, my views are somewhat different from my sister’s. Because she’s a girl. She can’t stand being thrown out like an old rag. Maybe she wants some other reason. She’s a girl. If she could, she’d accept an absolutely unexplainable fairy story. But how will you be able to prove something unexplainable? It’s a big order. I know how she feels.”

  “There’s such a thing as amnesia, you know.”

  The man gave the tire another kick and, as if making some estimate, walked slowly along the side of the car toward the board fence of the parking lot. “Yes, I realized that. I even consulted a doctor. According to him …”

  “Let’s go back to the Camellia over there and have a cup of coffee or something.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean ‘Why’? Because it’s getting pretty chilly.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he replied, slipping through the space between the car and the fence, and then even more slowly approaching me. “Sorry. I seem to be excitable. Do you have anything left to do over there?”

  “No. It was a complete miss.”

  “You know, the doctor claimed there were two types of amnesia,” he said, thrusting his joined hands at me suddenly, pawing at my chest as if he were kneading an invisible piece of clay. “One is where you only forget about the past; present events—how shall I say …?”

  “You don’t lose your discernment.”

  Perhaps it was imagination, but I sensed his strong bad breath and stepped back involuntarily, whereupon my companion bent forward slightly and peered into the car.

  “Right … discernment … and then he said there was another kind … where even discernment is lost. In the end you get to be a moron, batty. With the first kind you change completely into another person and apparently can live in a different world, but you usually get back your memory in about two or three months. The problem is the kind where you really go insane. But then you’re soon picked up by the police. Right? And they check the list of missing persons and you’re identified in no time. Besides, Nemuro’s not like us; he always carries his driver’s license and what not.”

  “If that’s so, you for one accept the explanation that his disappearance was deliberate, don’t you?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind. He’s not a child, and it’s a little childish to leave the way he did with no reason.”

  “If the disappearance was scrupulously prepared, then I suppose he left no clues. However, so far as I can judge from what your sister told me last evening, that’s still uncertain. Undoubtedly, the address book is in your possession, isn’t it?”

  I had intended to take him by surprise, but he showed no sign of perturbation.

  “Oh, if that’s the type of thing you’re after, there are other things: the diary and the calling cards from his desk at the office.” Innocently he looked up at the sky, and on either side of his Adam’s apple his well-developed muscles tensed like the neck of a barbecued bird. “But more than half a year’s gone by since he disappeared. I haven’t been just an idle spectator for all that time. I looked into every one of them. I suppose you think I’m a bungler … anyway, I spent a lot of time and money. Of course, I’ll show you what I’ve got any time you need it. But to tell the truth, I don’t want you to waste time on such things. I say that because my own investigation was a big flop. I’d like you to start from the beginning.”

  “With only a matchbox and a photograph to go on, it’s like trying to find a house that has no number.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He slowly took off his gloves and firmly rubbed the corner of his right eye with his middle finger—perhaps a piece of dust. “I realized very well that the coffee house was a wild goose chase. But the matchbox is interesting. While I was imagining the scene of your investigating the place, it suddenly occurred to me. My brother-in-law’s real objective was not the coffee house, but very probably the parking lot. And then I smelled a rat, a sour tomato. My brother-in-law’s pretty clever with his fingers. He got a first-class mechanic’s license for fixing cars. He takes advantage of that. When he’s lucky enough to discover some old rattletrap, he buys it for practically nothing. While he’s fixing it up, he rides around in it, and then sells it for a good price, I guess. Perhaps there’s some hope. Surprisingly enough, he uses this place for his transactions.”

  “That’s the kind of information I was looking for.” Immediately I recalled that there was indeed a manual on the repair of automobiles among the terribly indiscriminate yet practical collection of books that stood together on the shelf by the lemon-yellow curtains. Furthermore, I recognized my own negligence, and now took into account the cutaway sketch of the “Formula I” engine, on which there were entries in red ink, next to the Picasso. “You know, it’s a very distinct peculiarity, his having a first-class mechanic’s license. It’s not at all like a scar from an appendectomy or a mole. I’m hard put because you people don’t give me that kind of information.”

  “You’re right. That’s bad.” He laughed, sticking out his thin lips. The finger which he suddenly extended grazed my side. “I’ll wager my sister’s mistaken you, a detective, for some tidbit to have along with her beer.”

  “So what results did you get with your investigations?”

  “Not a thing.” Turning in the direction of the attendant’s shack, he stuck out the little whitish tip of his tongue and spat. The spittle described a high arc and landed on the roof of a neighboring car. “The old fellow’s been penned in here all by himself for about a half year, I guess. But when you get into a conversation with him, he’s surpris
ingly alert for his age, a shrewd old guy. He sees things pretty well with that eye of his. It’s amusing to see things as a third person. You’re suddenly aware of things that would never have occurred to you otherwise.”

  A line of dust flowed from the alley at the back—perhaps the direction of the wind had changed—whirling up the sand, surging and undulating among the cars. I could hear the continuous sound of some music box … no, it was the piping tune of a garbage-collector’s cart. Abruptly, the brother, his expression hardening, adjusted his muffler and said exasperatedly: “I don’t like that …”

  “You mean the trash man?”

  “It’s stupid—refuse and music, like that. If it’s all right with you, let’s go back to the coffee house and take a little breather.”

  This time the invitation came from my companion in his restless voice, and I began to feel able to assess my own position, however vaguely.

  “Among the things you have in your possessions, I would especially like to see the diary as soon as possible.”

  “The diary? All right. But it’s nothing like a diary, you know. You’re only going to be disappointed.” He took a step forward, as if pressing me. “By the way, to change the subject, what do you think of my sister … as a woman? I’d like to hear your frank opinion.”

  We were between two cars, with barely enough room for one person. If I did not move, we could only collide. Since I did nothing, my companion brought himself to a stop in the unnatural posture of taking a step forward.

  “I really want you to tell me. Not as a professional detective, but seeing her as a man. I’ve been harping on a lot of things, but when I met you today that’s what I wanted to ask you most of all.”

  “But we met by accident, didn’t we?”

  An iron box, like an armored car with no loopholes, loudly spewing its saccharine tune, passed in front of the wire fence.