by Kōbō Abe
“Isn’t there a village nearby?”
“No, there’s not. And we wouldn’t be welcome even if there were.”
“Why not?”
“No welcome is given to someone who can’t be determined as friend or enemy.”
“I’ve got a certificate.”
“Certificate? Plenty of people have them. This area marks the very border between friend and enemy. What good is a certificate if you haven’t yet decided who is an ally?”
“We could offer money.”
“You’ve got that much? At any rate, best not to play tag in a land-mine field.”
Shivering, Wang spat and began walking back to their previous place.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“Mr. Wang, aren’t you going south?”
“Yes. But I want you to stop calling me ‘Mr. Wang.’ I’ll soon tell you a new name. But only if you decide to come with me. What do you want to do? Shall we go on together?”
Kyūzō hesitated slightly. As if overtaking that hesitation, however, he quickly answered. “Yes.”
“Then wait there. I need to take care of something in the train.” He started off and then turned around. “Meanwhile, why don’t you scrounge around?”
“What?”
“Various things fall out of the pockets of the dead.”
Kyūzō didn’t reply. This of course indicated his refusal.
“In any case, someone will clean them out.” Snorting, the man who was no longer Wang climbed into the passenger car. “Tell me immediately if anything strange happens.”
Crossing his arms, Kyūzō dug his hands into his armpits and rocked up and down on tiptoe. He wanted hot water, if only a sip. The man groped around inside the passenger car. Crouching down in the middle of the car, he removed his right glove and used his frozen hand to take from his inner coat pocket a match, which he struck against the floor. He used his left hand to cup the match so as to prevent the light from scattering as well as to avoid blinding himself. Blood flowed from his wrist from beneath the glove. But he could not think about that now. Between the seats lay a small old man whom he had kept his eye on. The match went out. The man thrust his hand under the old man’s bellyband and grasped his thick billfold—indeed, it was so thick that he was unable to hold it with one hand—before trampling on the old man’s belly and ripping the cord. Kyūzō watched the train window become slightly brighter, feeling the inside of his mouth grow numb as if he had tasted electricity. His reaction was partly out of fear and partly because he was now reminded of the window of the room where the stove burned red. There was a sound as of paper being crumpled in the distance. Or perhaps it was of many legs treading on thin ice as it began to crack. Taking a step forward, Kyūzō was about to convey this message when the man suddenly jumped down from the deck.
“You there?”
“I’m here,” Kyūzō replied in a murmur, and with those words unwittingly began to feel a bond with this man who was no longer a stranger. “It seems that someone’s coming.”
The nameless man now pricked up his ears. There was certainly some noise. But it was unclear whether or not it was footsteps.
“In any case, it doesn’t seem to be people we’d be glad to see.”
“Is it all right not to wait?”
“Not now, in these circumstances.” He began walking away and then added brusquely, “Let’s go.”
Kyūzō started after him.
“How about the baby?” he asked and then immediately regretted it.
The man, however, said nothing.
XI
For a long time the two remained silent as they continued walking south on the western side of the tracks. Frozen lips made it difficult to speak, while frozen ears made it irritating to listen. Their entire bodies were focused on their legs—and rather miserable legs at that—so as to avoid straying from the embankment and stumbling. There were stones and hollows, the weather was freezing, and it was after all pitch-dark. The only thing in their favor was the tailwind.
They crossed two small rivers and one large one.
While crossing the large river, Mr. Anonymous turned around and spoke. “This might be the Taoer River.”
On their right the wind began howling especially loudly. It seemed as if the very mouth of the wind were right there. After walking for a while, there appeared a large black mass. This was the edge of an overflowing forest.
The man stopped, suddenly changed direction, and began walking toward the woods.
“Let’s have our meal there.”
Kyūzō hesitated.
“Won’t there be wolves?”
“We’ll build a fire. Besides, dead bodies are scattered about over there.”
“But they’re frozen and so won’t stink.”
“Idiot! I mean that the wolves will go there to take care of business.”
The ice gave off a terrible sound as it cracked underfoot. It seemed less like ice than ceramic. The overlapping layers of ice, snow, ice, snow clung tightly to the roots of the withered grass. The grass gradually lengthened until it felt like one were crossing a rough, solid swamp. When it sprang back, it felt painful, like needles. At times there were thickets that grew higher than face level.
The situation was even worse inside the forest. Stiff ice covered the fallen larch leaves, but when one became stuck in areas where the ice was brittle, one would sink all the way down to one’s groin, making it nearly impossible to extricate oneself without help. At worst, there was even a risk of breaking or spraining a limb. Moreover, one could only grope one’s way forward at such moments. The man experienced this situation twice and Kyūzō three times, sapping them of the energy to continue moving. Besides, there were signs of living creatures about.
Nevertheless, they penetrated quite deeply into the forest. From the perspective of the forest as a whole, of course, they were still only at its entrance, but they had come far enough so that the lighting of a small fire would not be visible from the outside. There was an archlike cave between two large, intertwined trees, beneath which the ground appeared to be dry. When they struck a match to investigate, a round bird the size of a human child suddenly appeared before them, flying off with a loud squawk like the sound of horse hooves.
Yet the place was quite suitable. They smashed the ice and collected withered grass and twigs, which immediately began burning when ignited. The blaze was perhaps slightly too strong. However, there is no resisting the lure of fire. Although the sparks singed their clothes and eyelashes, they opened their coats and embraced the flame. When the front of their bodies became hot, their backs became cold. Upon warming their backs, they once again heated their front. Repeatedly turning around in circles, they finally removed their shoes and warmed their feet. Every inch of their bodies became itchy, and then the itchiness turned to pain, until finally their entire bodies unwound, melted, and became engorged with blood. Groaning, they scratched themselves all over.
Screaming, the man slumped over clutching his left hand. There was a hole in his wrist, as if he had gouged it out with his fingers. The inside of his glove was filled with blood, which stuck to his hand and flowed all the way down to his elbow. He covered the wound with ashes, binding it tightly with a scrap of cloth from a hand towel.
The man put snow into his small cooking pot and placed it on the fire.
“Are we sleeping here?” Kyūzō asked. For some reason he appeared to be in good spirits.
“Don’t be ridiculous! We’ll only eat our meal here. We sleep during the day.”
With this blunt reply, the man removed something from a bit of wrapping in his bag and began chewing. It was beans.
Kyūzō unrolled his blanket (taking care to conceal his other belongings, such as the Dania spoon), took out some food, and placed it in the hat that he held on his knees. Tonight he would have dry bread and cheese as well as splurge on a slice of bacon.
But the man merely continued chewing beans. Convi
nced that he would begin his meal after first boiling water, Kyūzō chewed on his sunflower seeds and waited. The man stared into the fire. Yet was he was really looking at it? Once this doubt emerged, the man’s gaze took on a very suspicious air. It almost felt that he was looking at me. It was clear what his unmoving artificial eye was gazing at, but that made it hard to know where his seeing eye was looking.
The water began boiling. They each took turns drinking. The water smelled of earth, but it was sweet and delicious. Yet the man continued chewing on his beans, showing no sign of preparing a meal. Kyūzō grew slightly concerned.
“Aren’t you eating?”
“I’m eating now, aren’t I?” The man looked up, his lips curled in a smile. So his gaze had been directed at me! He had been peering inside Kyūzō’s hat. “But you’ve come prepared, haven’t you? You’ve got quite a feast there. I had no idea that all this would happen.”
Unthinkingly, Kyūzō replied at once. “Please have some.”
“I really shouldn’t, but …” The man immediately sidled up next to Kyūzō, skipping over the preliminaries.
Kyūzō quickly prepared some additional food for the man.
“You’re very kind,” the man remarked while reaching out to grasp Kyūzō’s hat, carefully dividing the food between them. “Is this all right? Will the food last?”
“I should have enough for seven days.”
“For both of us?”
Kyūzō felt his blood run cold. “No. If it’s for both of us …” he trailed off timidly. In his heart, however, he realized that there was nothing to be done, half resigning himself to the situation. He didn’t feel capable of walking through this dark wasteland alone. Indeed, he couldn’t even warm himself by the fire alone, as he was doing now.
The meal ended simply, as if they had gulped the food down.
“Now, let’s boil some more water and use that to fill our bellies.”
They gathered more twigs and threw them on the fire. Grease oozed up between the wood as the flame spread and the smoke rose. Lifting his injured left hand high above his knees, the man appeared relieved. “I like to think about things, lots of things,” he murmured.
Enjoying the sense of fullness that comes after digestion, the two waited for the water to boil. Once again Kyūzō observed the man’s clothes and facial features. He supposed that he wanted to put himself at ease. Other than a vague childlike quality in the middle of the man’s face, however, there was really nothing that reassured him. The light of the flame below threw into sharp relief an inch-long scar that ran along the line of his cheekbone underneath his artificial eye. Because of the man’s peculiar gaze, Kyūzō had not noticed this. It was a mark that told of the severity of the man’s past. Also, the base of his coat sleeves was pulled up toward the neck, barely covering his broad shoulders. And the worn-down area just below the line at the coat’s base was proof that he had bought it secondhand or received it from someone else. Dog fur could also be glimpsed below the collar—even Kyūzō’s collar was lined with rabbit fur—and the amateur craftsmanship could clearly be seen in the shoddy tanning of the hide. It could not really be doubted that the clothes were acquired hastily, and that the man had previously worn something quite different. But Kyūzō did not wish to think about this any further.
“I wonder where we are now.”
“We’re probably about twelve miles outside of Taonan.”
“Will we go into town there?”
“No, we won’t be able to. We’re still at the border between friend and enemy. When all is said and done, I think, the most dangerous thing is a border. They’re more dangerous than being in the midst of enemies. At least in my experience, they certainly are.”
“Then how about the next town?”
“The next town is Shuanggang. That’s also on the border. The towns after that, Kaitong, Bianzhao, Tanyu, Taipingchuan, as well as the towns thereafter, are all on the border. In times such as these, the border definitely expands.”
“Then where should we go?”
“We’ll make our way through areas without towns or villages.”
“All the way to Siping?”
“No, I think it’s best if we go to Shenyang.”
“Shenyang?”
“We should be there in two weeks.”
However, the Eighth Route Army officer had warned him against going to Shenyang. Various doubts arose. Yet he lacked the courage to confirm these. He felt anxious in feeling anxiety. Disappointment was terrifying. A phantom path was better than no path at all. In any case, it was important to get closer to Japan, even by one step.
Hearing a sound, the man pointed beyond the fire. A beast that looked like a filthy dog slowly passed by with slanted, faltering steps, its neck hanging so low that it nearly touched the ground.
“Is that a wolf?”
“Yes.”
“I guess I should’ve picked up a pistol too.”
The man offered no reply. The water boiled.
Putting down his cooking pot, the man waited for the water to cool to a drinking temperature. “Are you happy to be returning to the Japanese mainland,” he asked idly, as if half speaking to himself.
“Yes, very happy.”
“I imagine so. I like to think about things, and I’ve found myself wondering where I come from. It’s strange. Perhaps because of that, I guess I’ve got something like a conviction. Japanese people also tend to think about things. The Japanese are all right. But they lost. I think that in the next three years the Americans and Soviets will go to war. I’m quite certain. The intelligence is solid … How old is your father?
“He died a long time ago.”
“I see. Seriously, what nationality do you think I am?”
“You’re Chinese, right?”
“Do I not look Korean? How about Taiwanese?”
“I can’t really tell the difference.”
“All right … So who will take care of you when you return? Is your mother in the Japanese mainland?”
“No, she died too. I’m still not sure where I’ll go.”
Repositioning himself, the man took a long, burning branch from the fire, tilting his head as he watched the smoke rise from the smoldering wood. The sound of the wind enveloped the outside of the forest like a wall.
“If I wanted to, do you think I could look Japanese? What do you think?”
“Of course you could.”
“Right? My mother is Japanese and her father was Korean, but I’m not sure about prior to that. In any case—ha-ha—this question of where I come from is quite something. I think about various things, such as not blowing my nose with my fingers when I become Japanese or that I must use tweezers to trim my whiskers when I become Korean. Either way, though, it’s not so important. One good thing about Japanese people is that they read. I like to read too. Still, I have a Fukuoka accent. Is it hard on the ears?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Well then, shall I tell you my new name? I’m going to trust you. My next new name is perhaps Kō Sekitō—kō meaning “high,” seki for “stone,” and tō as in “tall building.” Kō Sekitō. It’s rather distinctive, isn’t it? This name is somewhat well known in the south.”
“So it’s Mr. Kō, then?”
“Yes. My acquaintances all call me Kō xiansheng—Mr. Kō.”
“Shall we put on more wood?”
“No, it’s time for us to get going.”
Reaching into the bottom of his bag, the man who had newly become Kō carefully removed a crumpled cigarette. Tearing it in half, he placed one part in his bag and stuffed the remainder in a small brass pipe that he took from the earflap fold of his cap.
“This is a real Ruby Queen cigarette. I’m down to my last two.”
He inhaled slowly, getting all of it. Cradling his face in his arms, he remained motionless for some time.
“The soldiers haven’t seen this, right?”
“Haven’t seen what?”
“This fire.”
“It’s fine even if they have. They’re afraid, too. Isn’t there some proverb about shadows?”
It suddenly grew bright. The two looked up at the sky at the same time. Through the intertwined branches, the moon, shining painfully white, appeared slightly distorted. Above, clouds like old spider webs scudded across the sky. Their surroundings began to fill out, and the trees appeared like willed animals. Kyūzō was very glad not to be here alone.
“The moon’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Did you call the moon beautiful? Not for me. Only women are beautiful. But even women become unpleasant if they’re too beautiful.”
They gathered some snow and put it on the fire. Black steam spouted up, within which sparks like red glass appeared to be swimming. A greasy stink enveloped the air. It suddenly became cold, as if one were being skinned. Kyūzō recalled the moment when he opened the door when escaping from Alexandrov’s room. Hope was written on the front of that door, but perhaps despair had been written on the back. This was perhaps the nature of doors. A door always appears as hope when standing before it, but then turns to despair when one turns around. Kyūzō thus resolved to look only at the front of doors without turning around. He wanted to tell Kō about Alexandrov’s room. Yet he didn’t know how to speak of it.
9:45. Leaving the forest, they returned to the edge of the tracks and began walking, driven on by the north wind. Rocks lay scattered all about. While resting, their feet had become painfully swollen. Yet the moon was out, which made things somewhat easier.
With the forest gradually receding, they soon arrived at a waterless river. The riverbank was dense with willow shrubs, in which they stumbled over the bones of a large animal. If the previous river was the Taoer, Kō remarked, then this might be the Najin.
The area beyond the river was completely treeless, with only gentle swellings of the ground that continued on indefinitely. It was like an ocean that had been hardened and rendered motionless by lead. Yet Kyūzō knew about the ocean only through photographs and films. After four kilometers there stood a small wooden sign with a sharpened point, beyond which the tracks began to turn widely to the left. The sign was simply inscribed with the numbers “9.4.” Perhaps this meant that Taonan Station could be reached in 9.4 kilometers. The two argued there for a while. Kyūzō wanted to at least follow the tracks. But Kō was unyielding in his insistence that they take a straight course that led away from the tracks. They decided to use the North Star as a marker. At first, it was quite difficult to find. There were far too many stars in the sky.