by Kōbō Abe
You are now staring at the edge of the thick glass plate on top of the desk. A pure blue that doesn’t belong anywhere, that has no feeling of distance between its two surfaces. An infinite greenish blue. A dangerous color, filled with the blue temptations of flight. You drown in the blue. When your body sinks out of sight in it, you look as if you will go on swimming forever. You recall the many times you have had this temptation. The blue of the wake welling up from a steamship propeller … the stagnant water of an abandoned sulphur mine … blue pellets of rat poison that resemble jelly candy … the violet dawn that one sees, waiting for the first train with no place to go … it is the colored glass of the spectacles of love distributed by the Suicide Aid Society, or if you wish, the Spiritual Euthanasia Club. The glass is tinted with the thin membrane of a wan winter sun that a skilled technician strips away with great care. Only those who wear these glasses can see the terminus from which the one-way train sets out.
I wonder if perhaps you are not too engrossed with the box. Perhaps you are poisoned by the box, which is merely a means. I hear that the box is indeed a dangerous source of blue.
The color of rain that gives beggars colds … The color of the hour when the store shutters of the underground passages are drawn … the color of the graduation watch forfeited to the pawnbroker … the color of jealousy broken on the stainless steel sink of the kitchen … the color of the first morning of unemployment … the color of the ink of a useless I.D. card … the color of the last movie ticket the candidate for suicide purchases … the color of the hole that has been eaten away by hours of such strong alkalinity as anonymity, hibernation, euthanasia.
But by shifting my gaze only a few inches, you are already outside the hole. No matter how serious you pretend to be you are after all a fake box man. You can’t stop yourself from being what you are. You are now looking at a calendar from a pharmaceutical company, that you have laid under the plate glass on the desk. Monthly slogans are printed on it: to the left, “The Season for Vitamins and Cortisone Products;” and to the right, “September and the Lack of Harmony of the Autonomous Nerves,” between which is inserted the trademark representing a cream-colored Hippocrates surrounded by some Latin aphorism. The red letter in the left corner attracts your glance. The last Sunday in September. The day immediately before when the drowned man in a box is scheduled to be cast up on the outskirts of the seaside park … the next day … no, it’s already today by a few minutes. No matter how you pretend not to see them, the already printed letters do not disappear. It’s the same as your chronology written in the past tense. You place your two spread hands separated by shoulder width on the edge of the desk. Yes, that’s fine. By shifting your weight forward and supporting yourself on your elbows, you are able to rise easily. Once things are started you cannot stop.
Nevertheless, it’s that unfinished affidavit that annoys me. I beg you to destroy it and throw it away before you leave your seat. If things go as planned, such an affidavit will be a useless white elephant, and if they don’t, the situation will be a lot worse than the one you describe in it.
AFFIDAVIT—Continued
Now, concerning the incident of the corpse you ask about, I can tell you with certainty that the body is that of the doctor-captain whose names I borrowed in order to practice medicine. The reason why I call him doctor-captain is not because of his old rank but because I used the title for so many years half jokingly and it became a habit with me. Permit me to call him in this way. There was the danger of suicide from sometime past with the doctor, and I am deeply sorry that I was remiss and unable to stop him before anything happened. I regret that very much. I beg you to give me the opportunity of explaining the situation.
The year before the end of the war I was assigned as an orderly to the army doctor in a certain field hospital. Since at the time the doctor was absorbed in his research on producing sugar from wood, I had to take over a good half of the examinations and treatment of patients. Fortunately my memory was good and my hand more than averagely dexterous, and under the guidance of the doctor I was able to perform quite complicated operations. Let me say a word about his research: during the war there was a great shortage of sugar, and sweets were very precious. If he were able to extract sugar from wood, that would be a discovery of world-wide import. The doctor noticed goats eating paper, the raw product of which consisted of wood, and thinking that there must be some active enzyme in the goats’ intestines that broke up the cellulose into starch, he devoted himself night and day to separating and extracting it.
One time, I don’t know whether it was because he was infected by the goats’ intestinal bacteria or whether he was poisoned by tasting the processed wood, the doctor had the misfortune to fall ill. It was a strange sickness: he ran a high fever for three successive days, and after that in three-day cycles he experienced severe muscular cramps accompanied by spasms and nervous disorders. The doctor himself was unable to diagnose his case, and his colleagues gave up on it too. Since then, every time I have the opportunity I watch for literature on the subject, but as yet I have no indication even as to the name of the sickness. As I had long felt kindly disposed toward the doctor, I did my best to care for him. The condition of the sick man seesawed, and there was no satisfactory progress. I still regret to this day that unable to stand the sight of his suffering and in view of his persistent pleading I began to administer drugs to him daily. By the time the war ended, he had already developed symptoms of addiction. However, I did not leave him, and we were demobilized together.
Even after demobilization, I worked along with the doctor to open a clinic and participated as his assistant in both management and practice. Of course, his illness took no turn for the better, and outside of giving me instructions by means of medical charts the fact was that he was personally incapable of giving examinations or treatment.
Since you ask, I should like to tell you without covering anything up why I dared to continue to perform illegal medical activities, knowing they were illegal.
First of all there was the necessity of replenishing the doctor’s drugs. At this point there was no question of higher or lower rank between us, nor was I at all coerced by him. It was something I did out of a feeling of friendship, spontaneously, and I think that I should hold myself totally responsible. To your question of whether one should not pay special attention to the treatment of drug addicts, I should like to answer in the following way. The treatment of the doctor’s drug addiction—he was different from the usual patient—was extremely difficult, and further the actual rate of recovery from addiction is pretty close to zero. While I realize that giving drugs is euthanasia over a period of time, I did not have the courage to abandon him.
Second, I cannot deny the fact that my livelihood was guaranteed under the cloak of the doctor’s qualifications. But I did not take advantage of his weak point, his drug habit. The accounting was all in the hands of the doctor’s wife, Nana. Only later did Nana and I become intimate, but even so the doctor was afraid that I would abandon him, and he constantly resorted to strong pressure on Nana to establish a relationship with me as a device for keeping me from leaving. This type of persecution complex tends to be frequently observable in the later stages of drug addiction. Third, my realization that daily my reputation was increasing and that my skill was beginning to be recognized was one of the reasons why I dared to continue my practice. Of course, there is no objective measurement by which one can precisely appraise the techniques of a practicing physician. Indeed, I continued, I suppose, because I did not have a strong sense of the crime of charlatanry. What’s more, my interest in medicine was gradually growing, and I diligently and ceaselessly absorbed the latest information in medical books and specialized reviews. I considered that twelve years’ experience and a conscientious and inquiring mind gave me a confidence in myself that went beyond having or not having a license. In point of fact, I was frequently amazed, when I examined patients that came to me from other hospitals, at the irres
ponsible and mistaken diagnoses of those doctors who had graduated from the university but who had been poor students there. However, I don’t mean to excuse my own offense by that. Whatever my reasons, it is not permissible to infringe the law.
An important turning point occurred in the eighth year. Until then I had got the doctor to take charge of outside contacts such as attending medical meetings; but gradually his abnormal speech and conduct began to be obvious, and abuse and defamation of him, including the suggestion that he was mad, began to get back to us. In addition, since we were being investigated because of the excessive amount of drugs we were using, I also felt in danger; and after talking things over with the doctor we closed the clinic and moved here to this city. That is the course of events up to the present.
But because of this situation, the doctor’s mental state grew worse and worse, he became weary of life, and an inclination to suicide became obviously pronounced. At Nana’s suggestion we stopped having him appear in public even for outside events and decided that I should register myself as him. Although there were some formal modifications in our setup, the actual situation remained unchanged, even the doctor was in complete agreement with the plan. Fortunately the patients’ trust in me was strong here too, and even if my guilt were confirmed I can say that I was confident there would be no damage suits filed nor would I be prosecuted. If we suppose that an injured party that is not aware of being injured is not an injured party, I should like to say that neither was I, who had no sense of having inflicted injury, a person who had caused damage; but for all of that I do not think it is right to break the law. Since I receive protection of life and property as a citizen of the state, it is not possible for me to go against the law.
Now we come down to last year. I have already described how I engaged a new apprentice nurse and how this became the cause of my living apart from Nana. But I report all revenues and expenditures to her and continue to recognize her rights as co-manager. Furthermore, as Nana has recently opened a piano school and is coaching students in the city, after more details on the situation from her I should like to request that you recognize that there are no errors in my statement.
Now no immediate reason occurs to me why the doctor fled the hospital and chose the path of solitary death. He used a room on the second floor; but since he went to bed and got up at varying hours and frequently used the emergency stairs to come and go as he wished, it is impossible to assume responsibility for all his acts. I must tell you of a little dispute that occurred recently. The doctor developed a morbid preference for sweets under the pretext that he missed his old research where he produced sugar from wood. When I tried to curtail his hunger for reasons of his health, he became exceedingly angry. But I cannot believe that that was the cause of his death. Since the corpse was wearing a cardboard box over its head, it is conceivable, I think, that he did not originally intend to die. It is possible he simply slipped during his walk on the embankment still wet from the rain of the day before.
Further, you ask why he was wearing cardboard over his head. I have absolutely no idea. For several months derelicts have been wandering around town wearing cardboard boxes, and there are witnesses too; if you ask whether the cardboard wasn’t the doctor’s disguise, I cannot go so far as to deny the possibility that he had so dissimulated himself without my knowing it. The doctor seemed to believe that along with his name, address, and license, he had handed me his personality and had become a nobody. Since he also fell into extreme misanthropy, it is not incomprehensible that when he went out he felt like trying to hide himself by wearing a box over his head. As the findings of the autopsy made clear, the scars from the hypodermic needles on the inside of the arm and on the thighs had already formed scabs. When addiction progresses as far as this, it’s not worth, I think, being particularly surprised at such eccentric behavior.
There are eyewitnesses who saw a box man enter and leave the hospital; from their testimony and from the scars made by the shots over a long period of time, his connection with the hospital is under suspicion. As a result of that, I have been summoned. Without the eyewitness, the box man would have been disposed of as simply an unidentified body, and I must say, I would find it most regrettable if there were a hint of criticism that I was continuing in my illegal medical practice and not telling anyone. Both the nurse and I had promised not to visit the doctor’s room unless he rang for us. Any number of times until now, more than half a day has gone by without our being called. It was only late Sunday night, when we did become suspicious, that we checked the room. I was firmly resolved that if he did not return by dawn, it was absolutely unavoidable to file a search request with the police even though my illegal medical activities would be exposed.
It was the doctor more than anyone else who was strongly against my giving up my medical work. On the one hand, he plied me with flattery and even threatened me with repeated suggestions that if I gave it up he might commit suicide. It’s already common knowledge how very cunning and reckless a drug addict is in getting his hands on drugs. Indeed the doctor’s suicide would be very troublesome. First, even though I might draw up a death certificate, it would have the same name and surname as mine, and I could scarcely present that to the government office. Repeatedly I had had to entreat the doctor respectfully to put aside the idea of suicide. He, on the contrary, wanted even greater quantities of drugs; his highhanded directions to let him admire the naked body of Toyama Yoko, the newly arrived nurse’s apprentice, and to have her give him an enema naked caused me considerable concern. But I didn’t necessarily bear him any bitterness. Since those who are sick suffer pain that those in good health do not understand, I consider that they should always be treated with sympathy.
As the doctor had long since come not to need me, I too from now on had no obligation to go on deceiving the world by continuing to engage in illegal medical practice. Illegal medical practice causes trouble for the patient, economically and physically. It was the doctor’s view that if there was no claimant there was no crime, but I considered that being a fake doctor did constitute a crime, and I gave a lot of thought to the subject. I should like to use this opportunity of making a clean breast of everything and put paid to the heavy responsibilities I have borne in my heart for so long.
The above is all true.
The Executioner
Bears No Crime
You have apparently decided at last to take some action. The vague metallic sound I hear now is that of a syringe being placed in the sterilizer. I could distinguish that noise alone from any distance. Like a sand rat that catches the scent of water over six miles away.
To go on … The skylight on the stair landing seems to be rattling in the wind … there’s no mistake … it is the sound I can hear only at those times when the door to your room opens and closes. I can hear … the sound of your bare feet treading cautiously along the corridor of plastic tile. You are coming slowly along at the rate of about one step every second. Of course, your head is completely covered by the box. With the eleventh step the sound changes, and you seem to be treading on wet mats, and now I imagine you have just placed your foot on the stair. You are mounting, one step, and then another, and gradually your pace slows down. Soon you arrive at the landing and stop for a moment, whereupon you shift your box half around and look up. Following the banister along the corridor on the second floor, you come to a small room at the very end set back the depth of the stairs. The door is varnished cryptomeria boards, almost indistinguishable from the walls and extending the full width of the narrow passage.
Mortuary.
The room is not treated differently because it has dead bodies in it; it is inconspicuous out of consideration for the feelings of patients entering the hospital (or of those who have been there for some time) who are especially sensitive to death. Furthermore the emergency exit is nearby and it is convenient for carrying out the corpses.
Of course, I am not yet a corpse. I am not all that perky, but still I am not a corp
se. The reason I who am not dead am in the mortuary—for your sake I should stress this strongly—is not particularly that I am receiving the usual treatment accorded a dead body but that I requested being here. I like this room. That there are no windows more than anything else suits my present mood perfectly. Lately the regulatory function of my pupils seems to have noticeably declined, and daylight makes my eyes tingle as if irritated with sand. Further, I have completely lost human defensive reactions such as feelings of anger, discontent, and hatred and feel very much at home in this room proportioned quite like a coffin … the depth being two and a half times the width.
Since you have come to this room you seem motionless. Just as I look for signs of you on the other side of the door, so you too look for signs of me, I suppose. If the door is aware, it is surely having a big laugh over us. However, I understand your feeling of hesitation. No matter how much sympathy you have for me, you must under any circumstances perform the duties of executioner. It is natural that you should be heavy-hearted. Even I, if our places were switched, would tremble and hesitate. Moreover, the one whom you kill is well aware of being killed. You don’t look as if you could chatter casually with the one you are cutting up and who is aware of being killed. I wonder if you will feel more at ease if we engage in a debate on death than in small talk. It probably won’t work. A debate is even more grotesque. However, as we exchange looks in silence, soon the covering of our nerves will wear thin and produce a short circuit that will burn us badly.
The best thing for you is that I be fast asleep. The best thing is to send me quietly into that other world while I’m asleep. But the light slap of a drug-addicted patient is something you are quite aware of. Though he is drowsy all year long, his sleep is not deep. You are not so foolish as to expect me to sleep soundly. Actually, like this, I’m awake. I am sitting up in bed, and my pen is running right along. I’m wiping away the secretion in my eyes with boric acid, and this is a condition you don’t want me in. But you may be at ease. Before your hand touches the handle of the door … as soon as you show signs of moving a single pace from there … I intend to pretend I am sleeping. You obviously will see through this pretense, I dare say, but you will be more at ease than if I really go to sleep. If I really go to sleep, there is the danger of waking up, but you don’t have to worry about that when you feign sleep. Anyway before that I shall drop the notes on the floor and attract your attention and let you know that I am in a consciously feigned sleep. The principal offender in killing me will always be me; you are no more than an accomplice. I have absolutely no intention of pushing the responsibility off onto you alone. Since any time’s as good as any other, I want you to begin. Even at this very instant, it makes no difference. The moment you take action will be the end of these notes.