The Box Man

by Kōbō Abe

  —Well, I suppose so, but …

  —Let it go. And then what?

  —He lost patience and insisted on helping me unfasten the brassière … he wouldn’t listen.

  —Strange.

  —Why?

  —It was pitch black, wasn’t it? How did he know you were having trouble with the brassière?

  —Oh, he just knew … some way or other.

  —Then you did get him to help?

  —Not at all.

  —Why?

  —I made a promise, didn’t I, absolutely not to let him touch me? Besides, see how long my arms are. I can shake hands behind my back.

  —All right. So then you took off your clothes in the dark, and after you had finished, you turned on the light. Is that right?

  —Yes, I think so.…

  —Well, what about the shot?

  —I gave it, of course.

  —Naked?

  —You can’t break the capsule by feel.

  —Being naked’s enough. It’s ridiculous to go so far as giving a shot naked.

  —It comes to the same thing, doesn’t it?

  —There’s a big difference

  —Don’t raise your voice so.

  —Listen to me. You’re a lot more frankly naked when some of your clothes are off than when they’re all off. The same logic holds true for shots. A naked body doing something is more completely naked than a simple nude. You can’t get away with saying you didn’t know it.

  —I realize that. I’ll be careful from now on.

  —Try repeating what happened in order once more from the beginning.

  —So I took off my clothes, turned on the light …

  —Before that, the light was out, wasn’t it?

  —So I turned out the light, took off my clothes, turned on the light, and then gave the shot.

  —Pretty amazing. During all that time you didn’t say a word … isn’t it?

  —I don’t mean that …

  —We’re going to be in trouble if you abridge whenever you want.

  —He didn’t say anything important. It’s true. I recall we talked about the weather … as he patted my hair like this …

  —You promised not to let him use his hands.

  —But it was only my hair.

  —It’s the same thing … anywhere …

  —But he just happened to touch my hair just by chance, and …

  —Don’t shield him.

  —It was just when I was leaning over to turn on the lamp by the pillow.

  —The lamp?

  —He asked me to.

  —What?

  —There are places you can’t see very well with the light coming only from above.

  —Drop it there. There’ll be no end to it if you spoil him so much.

  —You’re right. I’ll be careful.

  —Then what did he say?

  —He said it looked like rain … since my hair was winding into little curls.

  —You were just wet with perspiration.

  —Yes, I was dripping.

  —But just a minute. Before his weather report, you were asked to put the light on, weren’t you?

  —Yes, the light came first.

  —You’re not reliable.

  —I’m sorry. I’m already exhausted. I’m not suited to this sort of thing. Look, my legs are trembling as if I’d got on top of an electric washer.

  —Well, come over here. My lap’s better than any washer.

  —I’d like a smoke.

  —Smoking late at night makes your skin rough.

  —It’s better than being naked.

  —You’re exaggerating. Don’t go thinking a fellow like that’s a man. Being naked in front of him is no more than taking your panties off in the bathroom.

  —You, Doctor, are the one who’s concerned with my nakedness in front of him. You ask too many questions.

  —I only want to know the truth.

  —I’d at least like to forget what’s over.

  —Apparently there are things you want to forget at any cost.

  —Unfortunately they’re nothing you imagine, Doctor.

  —If that’s true, fine.

  —It is. First he wiped away the eye mucus and made me take all kinds of poses; he watched me as if he were on a treasure hunt. But the shot began to take effect at once, and the look in his eyes gradually became strange. In less than five minutes he was staring at the fluorescent light and seemed quite oblivious of me.

  —It’s all right to let him dream the way he wants.

  —But last of all he made me give him an enema.

  —An enema?

  —It was too much. The same question over and over. I wondered if he would never tire of asking. Imagine it … he asked me to check to see whether he had an erection or not. I was so annoyed I fooled him and told him it looked about eighty percent up. Immediately he got angry. He told me to stop talking nonsense, that he should know best about himself.

  —If he knew, he didn’t have to ask you, did he?

  —Then he began badgering me. When he smelled my perspiration he apparently got an erection, so he told me to get more to the side.

  —Don’t joke. What part of the castrated pig was up, I wonder.

  —Well, he wasn’t up. He began to cry instead. I was amazed. Or maybe he was pretending to cry. When I looked closely I could see he was crying, but only by the set of his mouth and his voice. And then … what halitosis! As long as he was badgering me, I could stand it only by holding my breath. He was apparently rather excited. He said he couldn’t stand looking up my crotch when I was on all fours.

  —Did you go so far as to do that?

  —Not at all. It was the fault of the shot. I just stood there stock still. And he just imagined what he wanted. But it’s strange, isn’t it. Maybe that’s hypnotism. He wasn’t actually seeing me, yet just by thinking that he wanted to, I somehow came to have the impression I was being seen. From the moment I thought I was being seen by him all my strength suddenly left me, and I was unable to give up imagining I was on all fours. The blood left my buttocks, and they grew pale and numb. I had the feeling of turning into a stone.

  —What about the enema, then?

  —Oh, that was later. Suddenly just when he stopped crying, he let out a scream like a patient with a heart attack, saying to hurry up, that he wanted nitroglycerine.

  —A weird fellow.

  —All the same, he didn’t have an erection, but apparently there was some reaction. He ground his teeth and panted, and when I listened closely I could hear him saying, “Thanks … thanks.”

  —Why didn’t you refuse the enema?

  —You yourself said not to take it seriously, didn’t you?

  —Quite true, quite true.

  —Please, let me rest. I wanted you to tell me that all this was unimportant.

  —Well, let’s take a pause here. Don’t just stand there … come over here. Take off your stockings.

  —I’m not wearing any stockings.

  —Hurry up, come on.… What sort of pose did he explicitly want you to take?

  —Turn off the light.…

  In Which It Is a Question

  of the Sullen Relationship

  Between the I Who Am

  Writing and the I Who

  Am Being Written About

  The naked girl on all fours. The inverted triangle formed by her torso, her thighs, and her upper arms was burned deep into the backs of my eyeballs; and wherever I looked a flesh-colored openwork forever overlaid my field of vision. The pores of my whole body opened their mouths at the same time, and tongues dangled limply from them. I was nauseous … abnormally tense … from lack of air. I had not had enough sleep either.

  Nonetheless, when and how did I get to this point? Apparently I’m deceiving myself. Eighteen minutes past three. Now I’m here at the municipal seaside bathhouse facing the Port of T across the harbor. A deserted sandy beach where hermit crabs crawl noisily about. A soaked green t
riangular flag flapping round a bamboo pole. No matter how much of the way back here is downhill, I couldn’t possibly have just come rolling down. I must have had some purpose, whatever it was.

  As a matter of fact, it was right here that I had made my preparations a week before to go to the hospital to get treatment for my wound. It’s an ideal place for a box man to leave his box unnoticed. I wanted to clean my underwear and my shirt, shave, and wash my hair, to say nothing of my body. I was free to use the hydrant at the station or the boat landing, but the crowds came here late, and if I choose my time well I can take it easy and use the shower in the dressing room without being questioned by anyone.

  I really don’t have to hide. Just a moment ago, I finished doing what I had come for. I had cleaned my underwear, shaved my beard, washed my hair and my body. To avoid catching a cold I withdrew temporarily to the box until my underwear and shirt were dry, but this was purely to tide me over, and I intended to leave it presently. Yes, I had the impression of being already half out. You don’t need any particular resolution to scratch where you’re bitten by an insect. The exit to the tunnel was visible right there. If the box is a moving tunnel, the naked girl is a dazzling light flowing in the entrance, waiting intently to be seen. I think that surely here is the opportunity I have been waiting for for three years.

  Furthermore, I unexpectedly met the fake box man. My replica was fixedly staring at the girl on all fours with her rump high in the air (defenselessly waiting to be seen). So far I had not felt that the box was all that unsightly. What was disagreeable was the recurrent dream where I became a ghost, and hovering at the ceiling, looked down on my own dead body. Could I still have a lingering attachment for the box at this point? Far from that, I was already thoroughly bored with it. A tunnel is functional only because it has an exit. It makes absolutely no difference if I tear these notes up and throw them away as soon as I finish this last line here.…

  It can’t be very long since I began living in a box. I once saw a broken and empty cardboard box roughly stuffed into the narrow space between a public john and a board fence (perhaps around some outdoor parking lot). The box with its resident gone was like a deserted house. The aging process had apparently been rapid, and the box had weathered to the color of withered grapes. But at a glance I was able to distinguish that it was the discarded skin of a box man. There, where it appeared half torn away, was what remained of the observation window … the curled vinyl curtain was still pasted on. On the sides the protuberant clusters of little holes for hearing were all swollen like some skin disease. I tried to strip away the surface. It sounded like adhesive plaster tearing off, and the inside of the box was visible. I instinctively inserted myself into the space and concealed this sloughed-off skin from the gaze of those passing by.

  On the inside of the box, like a handprint impressed in clay, the traces of the life of the former occupant (let us give him the name B for the moment) were vividly and negatively etched. There were the traces of the cheap chopsticks he had used to strengthen the torn places by attaching them with insulation tape, and clippings of nude photos, now faded and bearing stains the color of bird droppings. There was a red cord to tie to the trouser belt so that the box would not shake; a little plastic box was located underneath the observation window. Further, traces of numerous graffiti covered the entire surface. Large and small white rectangular spaces outlined the spots where such things as the radio, the bag, and the flashlight had formerly been suspended.

  My strength drained away and I felt cold. I had the feeling of witnessing the opening of the sarcophagus of B’s mummy. I quivered. I had never contemplated my own (my box’s) death in such a form. I intended to vanish naturally—when the time came—like a volatilized drop of water. But this was the real world, not imagination. How in heaven’s name had B met his end?

  Of course, it did not necessarily follow that the death of the box was exactly B’s physical death. Perhaps he just passed through the tunnel and threw the box away. The corpse of the box became a butterfly (if a butterfly is too romantic, then a cicada will do, or a May fly), the cast-off skin of a chrysalis that has flown away. I wanted to think it was possible. If I didn’t, I couldn’t have been able to stand it. And to do so I needed proof. I concentrated my gaze on the graffiti all around, searching for evidence. Unfortunately B apparently regularly used a felt-tip marker, the ink of which was water soluble, and deciphering was nigh impossible. There was a cover on the little plastic box. If there was some clue it would surely be in there. When I wrenched off the incrusted top the hinge split open. Inside were two ballpoint pens, a handleless knife, a flint for a lighter, a crystalless watch with only the minute hand, and then a small notebook with the cover missing. The first page of the notebook began in this way. Fortunately I copied it on the spot on the inner side of my box (at the time there was still a lot of blank space left), and I am able to quote it exactly.

  “His concern was excessive. When he was absent from his room even a little longer than usual, he worried lest in the meantime the room might not have disappeared, and he could not go out in peace. Gradually his proclivity to stay at home grew worse. It got to the point where he would shut himself up in his room, unable to take a step outside. In the end he died either from hunger or by hanging. Of course, I hear that no one has as yet identified the corpse.”

  When I tried turning the next page the notebook fell apart between my fingers like a soaked biscuit. With it my evidence crumbled away too, and I was still unable to assess the significance of the crushed and empty box-corpse.

  Now should I bid goodbye to the box? But my underwear and my shirt for some reason were taking a long time to dry. The rain had lifted, but because of the moisture-laden, low clouds they were long in drying. Fortunately I felt fine there naked in the box. Perhaps it was because I had carefully cleaned off the dirt, but the various parts of my body felt strangely fresh, and I even experienced an actual longing to embrace myself. But I did not intend to stay like this forever. I hoped the morning calm would end soon.

  The dark, wet sky and the black sea fused at eye level. The water was much darker than the sky. A deep black like an elevator falling. A bottomless black that you could still see even if you shut your eyes. I could hear the sea. I could see the inside of my own cranium. A dome-shaped tent whose inner struts are exposed. Exactly like the inside of a dirigible. My complete lack of sleep sends my blood pounding. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sleep at least two or three hours before leaving the box. I tried shutting my eyes even tighter than they were. Waves became visible. Waves in regularly receding, gradually narrowing parallel lines kept rolling ceaselessly toward the open sea. There were a front and back to the successive waves, and the front part glinted slightly. As I leaned forward, trying to see through them, my right and left eyeballs popped out and dropped straight down. And from where they had fallen a wisp of smoke came wafting up. As the eyeballs bounced against each other, they kept rolling between the waves. I felt nauseous. I opened my eyes. Sea and sky stood still, blackly, and everything was as it had been originally. I was miserably small on the hard, wet sand. Apparently I could only wait with my eyes open until I was overcome with sudden sleep.

  But even if I can’t catch a nap, I must, under any circumstances, begin the planned course of action when the time comes. After disposing of the box that I have taken off, I shall visit the hospital again at precisely eight o’clock. Since outpatients start coming at ten, I shall anticipate as much extra time as possible before that. However, if I am too early, I will incur their displeasure and that will cause problems. Eight o’clock is a good time, and I won’t disturb them while they are still asleep. I estimate that I can get them to spare me a couple of hours for negotiations, though I can’t go so far as to say that that will be sufficient. It’s possible that I could get them to take the day off from examinations and to make them accept going on with the negotiations. At any rate the negotiations will take plenty of time … but what negotiations �
��?

  (Let me put this down before I forget. A clincher has just occurred to me that I should like to use when I see her. “I don’t want you to laugh or get angry. I don’t care about others laughing or getting angry, you’re the one who’s important.”)

  Now calm down. Let’s go for broke. If I manage without a breakdown in the negotiations, I imagine they’ll come to an agreement, and if they don’t there’s nothing to do but break off the negotiations. Rather than worrying about the negotiations, what is important now is to calculate the procedure necessary to arrange things so that I can be there at eight o’clock. I say arrange things, but there is nothing particularly troublesome. If I tear the box up into three or four pieces and fold them up, it will be ordinary trash. That will take scarcely five minutes at the most. Even if I liquidate my possessions, in any case they are articles of daily use for a life on the move, and they won’t amount to much. For example, this plastic board that I am using now as a pad for my notes. It’s simply a piece of rather thickish board, ordinary, milky white, sixteen by eighteen inches, but it is an absolutely essential item that I cannot do without in my life. First of all, it replaces a table. A stable level surface is necessary at all costs for eating and telling fortunes with cards. It also becomes a chopping board when I cook. It’s a shutter against the rain over the observation window on winter nights when the wind is strong, and on summer evenings when there’s no breeze at all it conveniently takes the place of a fan. It’s a portable bench for sitting on the wet ground, and it becomes a perfect worktable for undoing the cigarette butts that I have collected and for rolling them again.

  Of course, as it is, it has taken time and trouble to cull out my personal possessions as much as I have. When I first started living in a box, there was a time when I was quite unable to abandon the common idea of convenience and stored away willy-nilly things I didn’t even know how to use, not to mention those articles that seemed as if they might come in handy. My baggage was endlessly increased with various items: a tin can on which were embossed three Technicolor nudes holding a golden apple (surely that would serve some purpose), a precious stone (perhaps an ancient implement), a slot-machine ball (it would come in handy for moving heavy things), a Concise English-Japanese Dictionary (indispensable sometime, one never knew), a high heel, painted gold (the shape was interesting, and it might be used in place of a hammer), a one-hundred-and-twenty-five-watt, six-ampere house socket (it would be a problem if it wasn’t around when I needed it), a brass doorknob (attached to a string, that could be a dangerous weapon), a soldering iron (surely useful for something), a key ring with five keys (it was not impossible that sometime in the future I would come on a lock one of them would fit), a cast-iron nut one and five-eighths inches in diameter (suspended from a string, it could be a seismograph and would also be handy as a weight when I dried film). When it got so that I couldn’t move for the cramped quarters and the weight, I was at last vividly aware of the necessity of throwing them all out. What a box man needs is obviously not a seven-appliance, all-purpose knife but some device that uses a single safety-razor blade for any number of purposes. If the article is not used at least three times a day, it should be disposed of with no regrets.