by Kōbō Abe
I looked into the subway entrance. The deadly silence had returned. Even the stirring of the air reverberating in the long tunnel was inaudible. There was a snack bar close by and I looked in through the half-open door. No one was there, but some uneaten curry stew on the table was still giving off steam. I began to run. I ran back toward the foot of the slope. Stopping, I looked up at the top, and when I had made sure that my memory of what lay beyond the curve would not return I called out, first in a quite weak voice and then somewhat louder. The sound melted into the deserted, blank scene and was absorbed by it; not even a deadened echo came back.
Again I passed by the foot of the slope and ran back into the town. I passed through the passage beneath the elevated tracks and turned left at the corner, beyond which one after the other stood a tobacconist’s, a plumbing store, and a cleaner’s. When, at the next intersection from the gas station, I saw a parking lot I thought I had reached the place that somehow fitted in with my own feelings of how things should be. Perhaps that was not my destination. But I had the feeling it was some kind of starting point. I stood in front of the entrance to the parking lot, looking in; the tall chimney of a public bath rose up at an angle beyond the street and before it stood a coffee house. It was a scene that had remained tucked in my memory, clear as a picture postcard. My heart beating in anticipation, I cut obliquely across the street and thrust open the door to the coffee house. Then, exactly as I had expected, I was at last able to come face to face with a living human being. Seated high on a stool at the front of the shop was a woman with a girlishly slender neck, her legs crossed. Apparently she had just turned on the radio as I was coming in, for suddenly a cacophonous sound welled up. When I looked back over my shoulder, I could see, through the black mesh curtain, people coming and going in the street and a solid stream of cars. The relief made me forget for a moment the lost town at the top of the slope. It was, of course, only a fraction of an instant. I had been unaware that outside the evening dusk was gathering; the sky was still lighter than the skyline of buildings, but the cars had already turned on their lights. I had no idea where time was going. When I thought about it, it seemed strange that my breathing was almost unaffected, although I had been running for so long.
I NOW took up my position by a window in the backmost seat in the shop. I scrutinized the woman on the stool as I grasped with two fingers of my right hand the wallet in my inside pocket. The stool was near the door, and the woman on it was sitting with her legs crossed.
Though I was seated in a window corner, there was only a single row of seats, and from the back of the shop, where I was, to the door there were only five tables with four seats each, lined up in a row. The woman on the stool was the only employee, being both cashier and waitress. Behind the counter there was a window like the opening in a dovecote, through which orders were passed out. The window was about the size of a sheet of newspaper; the wall was of a different color. I could see the hand that passed out the orders, but I did not once set eyes on the face. The hand was soft and white, but both age and sex were unascertainable. If it was a man it would be an effeminate one, and if a woman a masculine one. But in my fancy, the owner of the hand must surely be a man, perhaps the woman’s husband or someone she lived with. Perhaps consumed with jealousy he had shut himself off behind the wall. Imagining the eyes of the customers creeping over his wife’s body, he was surely agonizing behind the wall. Perhaps there was a peephole somewhere in the wall through which he secretly observed the customers. Otherwise, there was no need for her to be perched like a bird, her legs exaggeratedly crossed, on the high, round stool which had been installed in front of the counter. When she had languidly finished taking an order from a customer, she would return at once to the stool, flicking her shoulder-length hair. The hair in front fell becomingly across her forehead. The freckles under her eyes suited her languid expression. Then she remained motionless in that strange pose, her legs crossed as if she were advertising stockings. When she sat thus, her small body, which seemed as delicate as a girl’s, suddenly became a woman’s, and yet one had the feeling she was absolutely defenseless. She was worth being jealous of. Even I, who had no relationship with her at all, could only be jealous—in spite of myself.
Of course, if I could remove the wall, things would be resolved at once. They say that people are much happier in coffee houses and restaurants if the customers can see the work procedures. Without the wall the girl’s performance would at once appear rather artificial, and depending on the man’s attitude, quite comical. Of course, the price would be high. Her worth would be reduced by half at least. On consideration, her being worth jealousy was a part of her value, and it would be a severe loss. Regardless of who was responsible for the performance on the stool the man would never give up his own place. He is compensated in his own way by locking jealousy behind the wall with its agonizing thoughts. Indeed, I would do the same thing and would continue to patronize the shop. Providing, of course, I recognized beyond any doubt that I really was a regular customer here.
The two people near the door, engaged in what appeared to be a business discussion with much gesticulating, arose. The woman, uncrossing her legs and arranging her skirt, got down from the stool. The outline of her shin seemed to be shaded with a faint light. The down on it gave the impression of shining, but she couldn’t possibly be barefoot. Yet for all of that, the hair style and the short skirt were ill-matched. Taking advantage of being the only customer, I boldly took the wallet from my inside pocket. It was square-shaped and made out of black converted cowhide; the corners were nappy and gave evidence of having seen considerable use. First I wanted to take out all the contents and line them up, but they would be much too conspicuous on the light-pink tabletop. I decided to take them one by one, starting with the money. I loosened the clasp almost noiselessly. The flap turned into a key holder with two keys, one large and one small. One was for a regular cylinder lock, but the other was of a very simple form. Each was stamped with a number, but there was no other indication on them. Unfortunately I had no recollection of their use.
The middle flap was a commutation-ticket holder with transparent vinyl on both faces. As soon as I had opened the outer flap it was clear that it was empty, but it was common sense to have the purse separate from the commutation ticket. Unconcerned I decided to go ahead. I opened the fastener and counted what was inside: three absolutely new ten-thousand-yen notes and two thousand-yen notes. There were also 640 yen in small change—32,640 yen. Even though I couldn’t see my house, it looked as though I could somehow get by for the time being. Yet I needed some explanation for the amount of money. I thought that the sum was considerably in excess of which an average salaried man would carry around for a day’s expenses. Surely some special use for it had been expected. A thirty-thousand-yen purchase in cash would be no little matter. The point where the explanation that I was suffering a lapse of memory would hold good had long since passed. Of course, the use of the money was not restricted to buying something. It might have been collected at work and entrusted to me for the bereaved family of some colleague who had died. But if the explanation that it was only a temporary lapse of memory didn’t hold good, there was not much to choose between the two. I would take things easy and not overtax myself. When I considered things, there was absolutely no basis for me to think of myself as being an office worker. It was merely a far-fetched self-portrait. It did not necessarily mean that by deceiving myself, the truth was any different. Was I still incapable of getting a clue about my own name?
Suddenly a numbing pain shot from the nape of my neck to my forehead. The nausea, which I had fortunately forgotten about since I came here, again rose from deep within me. There was no doubt that I had quite forgotten even my name. The only thing left was the consciousness that I was myself.
Suddenly the cup on the table sprang off its saucer with a clatter. Fortunately it was empty and the cup itself was unbroken. I could only assume I had made it jump with my knee; and
if that were true, I myself had jumped up. When I put my elbows on it, the table made a clattering sound, and I rose in confusion. I hurriedly began searching my pockets with both hands. If only I could find a commutation ticket I could somehow get my footing again. I felt some reluctance about learning my name and my address before I knew who I was, but at this point I simply had to go on. I began spreading the contents of my pockets haphazardly on the table.
A handkerchief … matches … cigarettes … a button that had come off the sleeve of my suit jacket … sunglasses … a small three-cornered badge … and then a scrap of notepaper on which a sort of diagram was drawn.
The window glass emitted fire. The headlights of a bus licked at the pane. In their light the slender branches of the trees along the street appeared like a ragged net. At once I riveted my attention on the bus. Immediately I began to be able to feel it vividly as if it were all an extension of my body—the feel of the worn steps, the place and mounting of the stainless-steel rail, the whole inside, the strained search for an empty seat, the hanging advertisement behind the driver’s seat, the special smell blended of people and gasoline, the vibration of the motor, which differed according to the year of its make. Carried along by these impressions, I began to move with the bus. Numerous important stops, views with special features and well-known buildings, swam into view as a single structure in which they were all squeezed together. Must I still be suspicious of the intimate link between the bus and me? I wondered. If I really wanted to I could somehow explain even the business of the commutation ticket. Maybe I had dropped it, or it was picked from my pocket. No, better still, it had just expired and was being renewed. Yes, it could be that in part the thirty thousand yen were intended for that.
Putting forth such speculations served no purpose at all. Moreover, my bus went every place except, in the final analysis, to my destination.
The real bus accelerated and moved away. Again the window became a dark mirror. The woman’s figure was reflected just where the headlights had been. Since a part of the street light covered the reflection of her face I could not be sure, but somehow she seemed to be observing me. When I thought about it, it was not unreasonable. It was natural that she should want to observe me. An awkward scatterbrain emptying his pockets on the table. Of course, it was another question as to how much she was aware of the gravity of the situation. Surely it was some lost article, she would think; never in her wildest dreams would she believe I had lost myself. No, perhaps I was not the one who had lost himself but the one who had been lost. I had experienced a moment’s pain as if I had been thrown off the bus when it had started off a while ago. If that were true, the I here was not the lost I but the I that had suffered the loss. In other words, rather than saying that the town on the plateau beyond the curve had disappeared from my path, the other world had disappeared, leaving only me between the point just before the curve and this coffee house. Actually, when I thought back on it, I felt more strongly that midway up the slope my memory had begun rather than having been taken away. Surprisingly, the missing town was not the problem, but this very portion that remained and had not disappeared might well be. For me, this coffee house might indeed have more significance than I imagined. The woman who had summoned back to the streets the pedestrians and inhabitants who had vanished …
Not to be outdone, I returned the woman’s gaze. As the mirror of the window was too dark and the headlights of the constantly passing cars hindered my view, I looked directly at her. Indeed, she was quite aware of my gaze. But she merely continued her observation in the glass, not at all perturbed, a strangely self-possessed figure. Perhaps she was the one who held the key. Perhaps she was a far more important clue than the things on the table that I had taken from my pockets.
New customers entered, a young boy and girl. I had the feeling that the boy was a clerk in a nearby store. The girl was his friend, a younger sister, or maybe a cousin from the country. They sat down at the second table from mine and the boy, holding up two fingers, ordered coffee in a loud voice. At once they were absorbed in a muted conversation, their expressions tragic, as if they were discussing the medical expenses of a dying parent. Since the woman had left her stool, I too ordered another cup of coffee for myself. I hardly thought that that gave me a real excuse for still being here, but it had been almost forty or fifty minutes and I was beginning to feel uneasy about the man behind the wall. Of course, the man behind the wall was merely my imagination. But it would seem that this imaginary person shared the same fate as I. Since he was imaginary I must not make fun of him. If I assumed that there was a law and logic about loss of memory, then this imaginary person was also, naturally, a crucial element and it was fitting that he be assigned a place equal to the woman’s.
I stared at the woman. I kept on staring. I persisted, trying by sheer force to draw her gaze through the part in the hair which fell over her face. I secretly adjusted my breathing to the hollows that formed behind her knees, extending and contracting smoothly in harmony with the movement of her legs under the very short skirt. At the same time I kept my ears pricked to the wall. I was in a dither at the thought that, deranged by jealousy, he would drop a kettle of boiling water. But wait as I did, I could hear not a single click of the tongue, to say nothing of the sound of breaking china. Instead the same white hand reached out. I could not see any trembling of the glass on the tray. Rather, I was the one who was trembling. The thumb I placed on the edge of the table to steady myself continued to tremble like the wrist of a drummer concentratedly thinning his strokes, trying to leave a melancholy afterbeat. Unbelievable! Explosive power is proportionate to the power of compression. Well then, I would really try seducing her. Even if I left the shop my world would come to a dead end just before that curve. For the present, the only place I could feel at home was here. The relationship between me and this shop had become more than that of a regular customer linked to it by several cups of coffee. It was not at all impossible that the hidden meaning of the ordeal which had visited me really lay in the task of seducing the woman. Peering into the mirror of the window, I smoothed down a recalcitrant wisp of hair above my ears. I stuck out my chin and adjusted the knot in my tie. It was not a very expensive one, but it had a fashionable design that had just come out. Of course, I didn’t pride myself on being a qualified seducer. But my position was definitely strong. It was like a simple chemical equation, for I would be snatching from a man who knew only jealousy a woman who knew only of being loved. Anyway, it would be sufficient, my just being a seducer. She would finally begin to show the required reaction. At the right point I would give her money and ask her to close early and take me home with her. Her reactions would gather speed according to rule, and then at length reach their climax. The man would explode through the wall, I supposed. Naturally, I too would be liberated from my role. I felt some reluctance to leave, but on the other hand I was regaining the world beyond the curve.
Again the hand was extended through the little window, apparently this time with my coffee. Carrying the tray in one hand, the woman approached through the narrow space between the tables and the wall, pushing back the chairs that stood in her way as she came. I too quickly cleared the table, returning to my pocket those items I clearly realized were superfluous.
The handkerchief (no initials were embroidered on it) … matches (from this shop) … cigarettes (four left) … the coat button … sunglasses …
Sunglasses? Perhaps my eyes were weak. As long as I looked into the window I had the impression that the self-portrait I had painted as an office worker was not far off. My business suit was of average quality, plain with matching pants, and could not suggest someone out of the ordinary parading as a salesman with sunglasses. Yes, indeed, it was not particularly strange for salesmen and public relations men, who went from place to place, to wear sunglasses most of the time—except when they were meeting clients. Furthermore, that would explain why somebody like a consignment buyer for a company located in some remote
locality, who had his office in his own house, wouldn’t be carrying a commutation ticket. Yet, considering that, weren’t my personal effects a little skimpy? I could not understand why I didn’t happen to have a single calling card. Or maybe I was in the habit of keeping them in my briefcase, which I had checked in some station for a while.
When the woman arrived at the table, I had purposely left out two items: the scrap of note paper and the badge. Somehow it seemed a tale hung thereby, and these articles alone would not interfere with serving the coffee. Further-more, I wanted to check the woman’s reaction. Certain articles are significant and might conceivably afford me the opportunity of unraveling the threads of my memory. The woman placed the coffee on the table, arranged the creamer and sugar bowl, and filled my glass with water—during which time she glanced at least twice at the two objects. But I could perceive no real reaction. Would it have been the same with the cigarettes, matches, and button? I wondered. In my disappointment I failed to get out even the two or three innocuous questions I had prepared; I was fascinated at the strange expression with its freckles that grew darker toward the corners of her eyes. One of the questions, for instance, was to ask what day it was—meaningless in itself. Her reply would furnish a clue that would tell me how I affected her, and it would be instructive as to whether to ask her further and more probing questions. One way or another, at this point she was the only one I recognized; how much help would she be if she would lend me her aid? I wanted, if possible, to get her to tell me everything she knew about me. All the more because I would need to proceed with caution, trying to avoid any mistakes.