The Box Man

by Kōbō Abe

“We did too well!” said the fake box man in a nasal voice, scornful of himself. “But I’m an easily satisfied rascal. I arbitrarily assumed that I had the power to keep her. I’m the weird one. I would shave twice a day, morning and night. I acted like a seducer. Further, since our relationship was one of doctor and a patient who had come for a D and C, we could talk about her uterus and her clitoris as if we were discussing the ripeness of figs in the garden. Our relationship after that went like Newton’s apple … and the law of gravity. The nurse I had had up until then promptly upped and left.”

  (There is a marginal entry in red ink and an arrow marks the insertion between these lines.

  “I didn’t know the nurse who left was your wife, for heaven’s sake.”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference if you had. She was thoroughly fed up with her part.”)

  “I don’t like to see anyone hurt.”

  “Hm. I wonder … When was it that I asked you …? If it were established that the world were going to end, I wanted to know if you would spend the last moment together with me. You answered that if you could you would like to spend it alone looking at the sea.”

  “Liar! I must have said I’d like to be with as many people as I possibly could … someplace like a station, a department store … a bustling place.”

  “It comes to about the same thing.”

  “I can’t believe that the world will come to an end so simply.”

  “Anyway I’ve got you to pay what you owe me. You don’t owe another yen.”

  The yellow skirt became a tube and slipped to the floor at her feet. Standing over it on her left leg, she hooked it with the tip of her right foot and propelled it lightly into the air. The skirt described an unexpectedly heavy movement and fell to the floor on the near side of the examination couch. The buttons clicked against each other, making a sound as if someone were treading on little mussels. Incredibly tiny sheer blue panties cut into the flesh of her hips. She bent her legs slightly and put the flat of her hands on the outer sides of her thighs. It resembled the posture of one about to dive into water, but there was a more comical feeling to it. One by one her movements made creases in space, brought about a chiaroscuro, created currents, and carved out a whole new world. I was stricken by a wretchedness as if suddenly catching a cold. It was a kind of feeling of jealousy at seeing all these things for the first time.

  “Just a minute,” interrupted the fake box man just as she put her fingers on the band of her panties. She stopped moving, looking somewhere into the distance beyond my head.

  “Say, you’re almost not looking at her at all. After all you’re the one she took her clothes off for. Use those eyes of yours, man, and feel her up. Do you know those figurines made of white rice-flour paste? That’s the feeling I get from the stretch from her neck to her arms … it’s a flowing sensation as in the elongated paste just before it gets hard. But what I like best is the curve that runs from her waist to the swelling of her buttocks. Somewhere a little something still remains of a girl’s body before she blossoms into womanhood.”

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, I like her legs best.” As I said this, my jaw suddenly stiffened and my teeth ground together. My eyeballs were heavy, and I was unable to raise my eyes to her face. What, I wondered, would her expression be now? Nevertheless, I was suspicious about the fact that there was no sign of cigarette smoke rising from the box, nor did the fake box man even begin to cough. “But I don’t understand … well-shaped legs, poorly shaped legs … it’s like being forced to read a foreign language I am unacquainted with. Why do I cling so to legs? I myself find it strange.”

  “It’s because they’re closest to the sexual parts.”

  “I don’t agree. If that were true then any leg would do the trick. I wonder if it doesn’t have something to do with flight, running away. I am tempted to chase after legs that look fast for running away.”

  “Pretty far-fetched, don’t you think? She’s not running away, she’s waiting. Shall I tell you what’s wrong? You’re too far away. Since you won’t try taking a half pace forward, you can’t even lift your face. And I’m going to tell you just why you can’t take that half step forward.” The fake box man cleared his voice and left the corner where he had been standing; he shifted his position to the tip of the isosceles triangle whose base formed the line connecting her with me. “Fish, birds, animals—all engage in strange courtship ceremonies before mating. According to specialists, it’s apparently a modified form of attack and threat. All living things have their individual area of influence, and they demonstrate an instinctive reaction in attacking any encroaching invader. But mating would never come about if you based yourself on the single principle of attack no matter what. Since coupling is the contact of epiderms, it will never take place unless somewhere the boundary lines are broken or some door is opened. Therefore, in mating, by a modified movement or gesture that at first glance resembles attack but that somehow is different, a technique is born by which the protective instinct of the other party is scrambled or made to relax. It’s the same for humans. We talk about romance, but this is after all merely aggressive instinct camouflaged with makeup and feathers. Whichever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that the ultimate purpose lies in breaking down and disregarding the lines of demarcation of a given area. From my own experience the line in the case of humans seems to be located at a radius of about two and a half yards. Courting is good, making the other party hesitate with sparkling beads and all that is good; anyway when you get through that line of demarcation you have already taken possession. At this very close proximity it is difficult rather than easy, as one would expect, to distinguish the true character of the enemy. Only touch and smell are of any use.”

  “When all’s said and done, what do you mean?”

  “If you take a half pace forward, you’ll be right on that line.”

  “So what?”

  “You’re a vacillating fellow, aren’t you. You’ve gone to the trouble of getting the girl to make you out a laissez-passer over the demarcation line, haven’t you? If you go another half pace forward, like it or not, you will be asked to present that laissez-passer. It’s a free pass, of course. Naturally when you use it, you at once waive any pretext, any right to go back to the box. You’re frightened of recognizing that. You’re marking time because you’re afraid. You’ve got her tied hand and foot, there, see? You’ve sealed off time.”

  When I considered what he had said, I could see that it was quite true. She had made almost no movement from the tentative position in which she had poised her fingers on the elastic of her panties. Her eyes, vaguely fixed in space as if seeking something beyond my head, remained wide open like artificial ones.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ah … ‘There’s no villain among those who hate news’? I wonder,” snorted the fake box man, slurring the ends of his words. “Aren’t you, who don’t believe in change, being inconsistent? You’re afraid of getting what you yourself asked for, and so you’re stopping time.”

  “Such a feat is impossible, I should say.”

  “I read the story of the fellow who stuffed his mistress and lived with her that way. He says that a stuffed mistress is a lot more faithful than a real live one and a lot more sexy.”

  “Unfortunately I don’t have those tastes.”

  “That’s perfectly all right. That’s the conclusion we have come to, isn’t it? Anyway the only thing that’s clear is that you don’t want to get out of the box.”

  “I’ve told you, I disposed of the box before I came here.”

  “Well, then, let me just ask, at this very moment what are you doing and where are you doing it?”

  “As you yourself can see. I’m chatting with you … here.”

  “I see. If that is true, who is writing these notes and where are they writing them? Then it wasn’t someone writing in a box by the light of a naked bulb in a dressing room by the sea?”

  “Oh, that’s something bett
er left unsaid. If you talk about it you yourself will admit that you two are merely figments of my imagination.”

  “Hm … I wonder.”

  “It’s indisputable.”

  “Of course, only one of the three of us really exists. The one who is in fact continuing to write these notes. Everything that has happened is merely the monologue of that someone. Even you must recognize that. At the rate things are going, this someone intends to go on writing forever and ever in order to cling desperately to the box.”

  “You’re too suspicious. I’m just waiting for my underclothes to dry. As soon as they are, I intend to leave at once. I scrubbed myself so hard that when the wind blows on my skin it tingles. I’ve just stayed in the box to get out of the wind for a while. There’s no particular reason for me to have any lingering affection for notes like these. I’ll stop at once. I’ll make this the last line I write.”

  “When your underclothes are dry do you really intend to come to see us?”

  “I say I made preparations to visit you, but from the first I arranged for very little baggage. Strictly speaking, I need just one thing in order to get out of the box. But it’s indispensable. I can’t leave the box if I don’t have it—do you understand? A pair of trousers. If I were just in trousers, somehow I could go out into the world. It would make no difference whether I was naked from the waist up and my feet bare just as long as I had trousers on. Otherwise if you go walking around the streets without trousers, no matter how new your shoes and how elegant your coat, it’s enough to raise a big hue and cry. Enlightened society is a kind of trouser society. Fortunately I have made provision for what is to come and have prepared for future use a new pair of trousers only. When I came for treatment last week I was wearing them for the first time. If you use them as padding at the ceiling of the box, they don’t get in the way. And then a professional camera … and other things not especially important. If they’re troublesome I have no regrets about tossing them out. No, I don’t have to throw them away, I can turn them over to you. Toiletries, safety-razor blades, matches, paper cup, earplugs, thermos bottle, a rear-view mirror for a car, waterproof rubber tape … paregoric, eyewash, Mercurochrome, and so forth, but these may be omitted since you’re a doctor and already have them … six photos cut out of Volume Two of A Collection of Modern Nude Photographic Masterpieces and a tube for looking at them … as far as instructions for use are concerned, you’ll understand as soon as you try using it … and then, besides a pocket flashlight, a ballpoint pen and other sundries like a plastic board or a ring of wire and items of daily use it is difficult to describe. They seem to be trifling things, but they form a necessary and efficient living set endorsed by the experience of box living. I do not mean to put you in my debt, but I think this set a suitable parting gift for a new box man. And then it would be well perhaps to have a miniature radio for a while at first. Aside from being afflicted with total news addiction as I was, one is periodically overwhelmed, until one gets used to it, by an unspeakable sense of loneliness.”

  “Really, when do you expect your washing will be dry?”

  “It’s just stopped raining and the air’s pretty moist. They’re half dry, and when its gets light and the direction of the wind changes it won’t take long.”

  “Then you mean that it’s still dark where you are?”

  “See there, there’s something flashing around the horizon line and the sea. The squid boats are heaving to, I expect. It’s just about time for them. It’ll be light soon.”

  “I don’t care if your clothes aren’t completely dry. Put them on anyway, don’t be persnickety. Even the urine-stained shorts will dry by themselves while you’ve got them on. If you don’t hurry up, we’ll get tired of waiting.”

  “I feel as if I’ve caught a cold. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t had enough sleep, but my feet feel hot and I’m having chills. It feels good when I bury my legs in the sand, but it’s cold. Maybe I took too long in the shower. When I went to your hospital last week, my wound was hurting me terribly and I couldn’t wash thoroughly, but I intended here and now to get completely rid of the three years’ accumulation of dirt. I used up a whole new bar of soap. I just wanted to show it to you, it was special soap. I had plenty of time, or rather I suppose the work at hand tended to absorb me, because during this week I had many things to think about. I tried sculpting her torso. Just a woman’s torso, because it was quite beyond my capabilities to make it look like hers. I put some nostril hairs at her crotch, and though I tried to sculpt her absolutely realistically, frankly it resembled a frog more than a woman. Well, aside from the shape it was now in, the soap was a good brand and of the best quality. First I wet myself completely in the shower, then soaped myself all over, and scrubbed myself hard with my underwear in place of a washcloth. Then after I had scraped away with my nails until I hurt, I showered off. When I had repeated this four times, the darkish rinse water turned clear. The fourth time I washed my hair, a lot of what seemed to be bubbles began to rise. But after that everything went wrong. What I was looking forward to was the sensation of passing my fingers over a polished glass after having taken a long bath and got rid of the grease. It wouldn’t work. In the meantime the soap had wasted away and could no longer be used, my arms were heavy and would not rise, and my whole body smarted as if a thin layer of skin had been stripped off. I felt like retching. Anyway perhaps it was an error to try to get rid of three years’ worth of dirt with just one cake of soap. Perhaps I had become a pile of dirt, except for my bones. As soon as I flopped down exhausted on the sand, I heard from above me what sounded like a gravel truck falling down. It was nothing. Only the motor to the pump. I was defeated. If I took another three years, with the brinish water from the well dug directly on the seashore, I would never get the soap off.”

  “Which one of us will give up first? The one who wears out talking or the one who wears out listening?”

  “Ah! I’ve finally come to realize who you really are. I thought that the way you expressed yourself was simply too clever … a simple product of imagination. Saying you were not a product of my imagination would not particularly raise you in standing. This examination room itself, including yourselves, is the scribbling on the walls of my box. Simply scribblings. Judging from your box, you can’t imagine it, I suppose, but there’s a difference between a genuine and a fake box. I am now actually looking at that closed-off room big enough for just one person. The inside of a face that no one can imitate since no one can see it, a collection of graffiti written compactly all over the inner cardboard walls tanned by three years of sweat and sighs … this is the story of my life … there is a sketch map of the town for the purpose of collecting foodstuffs as well as memoranda for the purpose of these notes. Besides all this, ciphers and diagrams the sense of which I myself do not clearly apprehend. Everything I need is here.”

  “What time is it now by your watch?”

  “Ah … eight minutes … of five.”

  “You started writing on the beach at exactly three eighteen, didn’t you? It’s a weird watch. I figure that since you began, only an hour and thirty-four minutes have gone by.”

  “It would be better for you not to forget that you are merely my scribblings. You say that I tend to cling too much to the box? As soon as I dispose of it as you advise, you too will completely disappear with the scribblings.”

  “You’re rather an optimist.”

  “And thanks to you I rather dislike myself.”

  “See … the pages of your notes come to fifty-nine. Fifty-nine pages in an hour and thirty-four minutes. No matter how you look at it, that’s impossible, I should say. How many times did I warn you? You’re too long-winded. I’d like you to remember what you’ve done up until now. How many pages could you average an hour? Normally not even a page. When you were writing at your fastest the best you ever covered was four pages. And they were written in a horrible scribble.”

  “There have been times when I could write more.”
>
  “Well, then, shall we compromise and say that you can write five pages an hour? Fifty-nine pages divided by five makes eleven, leaving four. Eleven hours and fifty minutes, shall we say? Since these are your last pages, it comes roughly to twelve hours, wouldn’t you agree? A total of twelve hours of constant writing without food or drink. If you began at three in the morning, it would be absolutely impossible for it to be now something before three in the afternoon.”

  “May I remind you that these are my notes. Whatever way I write them it is purely up to me.”

  “Perhaps it is, in certain circumstances. Maybe, for example, you wrote all this nonsense for some reason I don’t know. Or maybe over twenty-four hours went by while you were unconscious. Or maybe the rotation of the earth was put out of kilter by some natural calamity. But if you go so far as to claim that, then I can set forth a completely different hypothesis. Yes, quite different. There’s no need to claim that you are the author of these notes. Because there’s absolutely no problem even if the author is someone other than yourself.”

  “Stop these false charges. I am actually writing. The seashore’s dark and enveloped in the smell of the sea. Right overhead tiny insects swarm like smoke around the naked, filthy light bulb in the bathhouse. For some reason when they fall on my box they make a sound that resembles raindrops, so I realize they’re larger than I thought. Now I put a cigarette to my lips, strike a match, the flame lights my naked knees, I approach the burning tip of the cigarette to my knees and look—I clearly feel the heat. These are realities that no one can doubt. If I were to stop writing here and now, no other character, not another line would appear.”

  “Hm … Then perhaps someone different is writing in some other place.”

  “Who?”

  “Me, for example.…”

  “You …?”

  “Yes, perhaps I’m the one writing. Perhaps it is I who am going on writing as I imagine you who are writing as you imagine me.”