by Kōbō Abe
“What’s wrong?”
Kō said nothing as he returned to the fire with a blank expression, lost in thought. Kyūzō added more branches when the fire began burning strongly. Smoke billowed up as the sparks furiously scattered about. As there was no wind, the smoke swirled straight up to a considerable height and, trembling, fluttered slightly to the northwest before disappearing. Kyūzō suddenly grabbed Kō’s arm.
“The wind is coming from the south!” he said.
Absorbed in chewing on a grass root that he had plucked at his feet, Kō looked up at the sky and then yelled at Kyūzō.
“Idiot! Don’t let the smoke build up like that. Someone might see it.” Flicking at a branch with the tip of his walking stick, he waved his hat about, fanning the flame. As the flame spread, the column of smoke faded.
“Someone might see it.”
Kyūzō curled his lips in response to this foolishness. Staring at the map Kō had returned, he suddenly understood the reason why Kō had just gotten so upset. Following the arranged course, they should now be at a point forty kilometers west of Tanyu. There should be fields in this area, while in the south there should appear a series of hills that form the border with Inner Mongolia. Had they gotten lost?
“Where are we now?”
Kō made no attempt to reply, however, merely shooting a cruel look at Kyūzō. Boiling water with the snow he had gathered, Kyūzō then placed a fifty-sen piece in his hat and offered it to Kō. This was how they typically decided who would sleep first. Waving his hand, Kō replied in annoyance.
“Put out the fire. We’re pressing on today without sleep.”
Kyūzō was about to protest but, shocked by the cornered look in Kō’s eyes, decided to remain silent. Kō then staggered when trying to lift his bag. Hunger appeared first in one’s flesh before it was registered by the senses. Last night they had consumed the last of the beans that Kō kept in one of his socks. Other than water, they had put nothing in their bellies for twenty hours now. Also, the cold had returned for the past two or three days. Having expended a great many calories, their hunger would be that much greater.
“Damn it! My hand’s gone numb. Just wait a minute.”
There was fear in his voice. Stamping out the remains of the fire, Kyūzō didn’t wish to respond.
“Just wait. I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll give you a hundred yen an hour.”
Kyūzō removed from his pocket the rope that he had made at the marsh by shredding the wrapping cloth in order to bind together the sticks for the flagpole. He threw this over to Kō.
“You can use this to hang the bag from your body.”
Attempting to grab one end of the rope that had fallen at his feet, Kō pitched forward on his right side, his nose plunging into his bent arm.
“Well then, make a fire. Two hour shifts!” he said in an echoless voice.
Crouching down by Kō’s ear, Kyūzō pressed for an answer.
“So I guess we’re lost, right?
Kō, however, merely shivered slightly, closing his eyes and saying nothing. He had already begun snoring softly.
Yet Kyūzō now deeply regretted having given the rope to Kō. The bundle of his belongings wrapped in the blanket was nearly empty, but it now felt like iron in sharply digging into the top of his shoulders. Since their confrontation, what had sustained the two was not rational will but merely fear, phantoms, and a beastlike visceral impulse. The other one was sustained by that impulse, and it was only the stimuli derived from the fact that each continued his unyielding struggle that functioned as their final reserve of strength that even now spurred on their attachment to their own fading lives.
The hilly paths were especially painful. Even the barest slope stung deeply. The same distance felt several times longer, and Kyūzō tried to find any reason to make excuses, wishing to rest even for a moment. He felt something like a mystical awe for Kō’s strength of will in continuing to walk on. And no doubt Kō himself felt the same way about Kyūzō.
In this way, the two sustained one another. Hence if the stimuli from the other were to stop, thereby causing the support they received to waver, it would be quite doubtful whether either could have distinguished in any sensory way between stopping and continuing to press on. When the slope of the hills became steeper or a huge rock face suddenly appeared, Kyūzō at times believed he was walking when in fact he was on all fours. Or perhaps he thought he was going forward when, with stooped back, he rested his hands on bent knees and shook his body from side to side.
It was the most dangerous for Kyūzō to consider such thoughts as “I should experiment and try walking with my eyes closed” or “I’ll try to experience what it would have been like to drive a car.” The gap between fantasy and reality virtually disappeared, and his senses became gloomily clouded, like the small, dirty peephole of an ice room enclosed by thick lead walls. The cruel world of lies at once flickered and vanished. The large steaming basket under the eaves of an eating house on a street corner, hens that run about and push their way through the narrow alleys, the cat that is so fat that it cannot move, fading advertisements on a telephone pole, a room with a bed, hot water, and soap in a washbasin, the silky white surface of a boiled egg … The uncertain, wobbling ground, filled with dark noises and screams, would intermittently rise up and try to swallow his feet, leaving Kyūzō unable to press forward. Absentmindedness occurred frequently, if only instantaneously, but those instants might form a continuity and hold him back.
In fact, didn’t Kō just now fall asleep while walking?
Rather than rouse Kyūzō’s courage, however, his companion’s stumbling seemed to unnerve him. Although he vaguely sensed that the distance between himself and Kō was gradually increasing, there was nothing he could do about it. Previously that was all right since he was the one walking ahead, but now the situation was reversed. Now it was Kyūzō’s turn to be left behind. Somehow this thing called stumbling seemed to be contagious.
Kyūzō recalled the dispute he had had last night with Kō. The night was pitch-dark, enveloped in clouds. He had opposed the idea of continuing on, since at such times it is easy to get lost and merely circle around the same area. Also, he thought that at several moments he had heard the sound of wolves howling in the distance. Yet Kō made no attempt to listen. If they ended up getting lost, it would doubtless be his fault. In so saying, however, they of course did not have a precisely determined course and were at any rate trying to head south, so they would probably not stray so far that it would be impossible to correct. With their limited strength, however, there was a danger that even the slightest detour might prove irrevocably fatal.
Unbearable fear gradually paled, turning to despair. It then paled further, turning to anger. That anger took on form and became increasingly focused on a strand of rope. This was the rope that Kō was using to drag his bag. Kyūzō began to become obsessed by the strange idea that his entire fate was now hanging by that rope.
Startled by the sound of the bag sliding on the ground, Kyūzō returned to his senses. He was on his knees, lost in thought. Leaning on the walking stick, he finally got back up.
(“Yes, I need to get that rope back.”)
Just in case, he used his elbow to confirm that the knife was still tucked under his belt. However, it required a great deal of effort to begin walking again. A new blister had peeled on the outside of his right little toe, and it stung painfully.
He finally arrived at a ridge. The distance between the two of them was now over fifty meters, and Kō was already approaching the swell of the next hill. Kyūzō despaired at the shortness of the descent on the current hill. The bones in his shoulders felt as if they were about to crack. He felt his stomach convulse with severe nausea, as if he were seasick. While descending the hill, he found himself instinctively yelling, “Wait!” His voice was blocked by frozen lips, however, and the sound produced was merely a weak shout: “Ay.” Even that sound was swallowed up by the thick, frozen walls o
f the wasteland. If someone were ten steps away, the only sound he might hear would surely be no louder than that of paper being torn. At its end, the yell had turned to crying.
The next slope was the longest and felt even steeper. Kō did not bother turning around. Kyūzō felt that he could go no further. Grabbing some dry snow entangled in withered grass, he placed it in his mouth. Although it didn’t feel the least bit cold, the unmelted snow scraped his upper jaw as if he were chewing rock dust. Thinking that he might feel more energized if he chewed on some grass roots, he kicked at the ground with his heel only to find it unyielding, wounded only slightly with a small, white cut. Instead, he felt a pain so sharp that he wondered if his tendons had snapped, rendering him immobile for a while.
Suddenly at his feet there lay the remains of a mouse. Its white belly was exposed, burnt, and swollen a pale pinkish color. It was a large field mouse. “What? It was right here?” he thought giddily, leaning over it, when the mouse disappeared. Kyūzō shuddered, stupefied. In the next instant, it occurred to him to build a fire. Above all, he needed heat, besides which it would surely force Kō to come back. It would indeed be a case of killing two birds with one stone. Yet there was nothing in the area that could be used as fuel. Handfuls of withered grass encrusted with weathered snow could be found scattered about here and there on the hollows and stone remnants, but it was virtually impossible to gather enough to make a fire.
In any case, though, Kyūzō wanted a fire. Although realizing it was meaningless, he used the tip of his walking stick to scrape off the snow from some grass, lighting a match directly upon it. Only bits and pieces of a few blades caught flame, and the fire went out without generating any smoke. The match ended up burning the longest. Holding on to the splint until it burned the tip of his glove, he then went on to the next patch of withered grass.
Kō suddenly stopped. Kyūzō lit another match. Kō shouted something in a hoarse voice. Ignoring him, Kyūzō continued lighting one match after another. Hearing Kō return, he finally lit many matches together in a bunch.
Kō grabbed Kyūzō by the shoulder, pulling him up.
“Idiot! What are you doing? Stop it!”
Shaking his hand free, he yelled back at Kō.
“Give me back the rope!”
“Rope?”
Kyūzō began lighting another match.
“Hey, I said stop,” Kō insisted, trying to brush Kyūzō’s hand away with the tip of his walking stick. “Stop it. You’re wasting them.”
Turning around, Kyūzō suddenly let out a growl and lunged at Kō. He missed him and fell over, digging up the ground with his elbow. Rising to his feet, he immediately struck another match.
“Idiot! People can see from far away!”
“It’s fine if they can. Give me back the rope!”
When Kō approached, Kyūzō merely turned his back to avoid him, seeming quite unwilling to stop lighting matches. He had finally finished off the first bunch. Removing the second bunch from his inside pocket, he tried to light them as well. Following closely behind, Kō raised his walking stick, striking Kyūzō on the right shoulder. The stick flew off, broken. Weeping, Kyūzō suddenly grabbed the knife handle under his jacket. Kō began to draw his pistol but, recalling that there were no more bullets, quickly put it back.
For a long time, the two remained glaring at each other. Finally, in a doleful, dreary voice, Kō slowly spoke.
“Let’s go. We’re almost there.”
“Almost there!” Kyūzō’s jaw quivered hysterically. “It’s your fault, you bastard! I’m the one who saved your wretched life!”
As Kō silently walked off, however, Kyūzō followed five or six steps behind.
XVII
With each ascent of the swelling ridges slightly before dawn, Kyūzō thought that he saw something off in the southern horizon. With the sinking of the moon, ringed on the bottom with its cloudy white crescent, that something gradually took shape and appeared as a forest or knoll, or at moments even a large town. But he knew only that it was a dark mass, and that with its constantly changing form it might simply be a cloud. Yet are there shapes in the night that do not move? Even a changing form might be an illusion in the eyes of the person looking.
Gradually the sky became brighter. Crossing over a slightly elevated hill, the dark mass suddenly appeared directly before Kyūzō. His visual confusion was to some degree correct. Clouds dirty as sediment settled in part of the southern horizon. In front of those clouds, the multilayered series of hills that they had seen on the map blocked off what lay ahead.
Yet that group of hills was completely bare. Although the hills didn’t appear to be particularly high, in the dry season they become barren as bone, and the grass was eaten away by mice before it could take root, leaving a ragged surface that was washed away and eroded by rain. When those peculiar slopes were illuminated in relief by the morning sun at their side, they shone in such colors as red, yellow, green, purple, and black. They were like some great mountain range, possessing an overpowering quality about them. Kō also didn’t know what the hills were called and they were not listed on the map, but Kyūzō would not have thought it strange if they were designated as some mountain chain.
“Are we crossing those mountains?”
With exhausted, half-open eyes, his feet dragging, Kyūzō asked this question in a voice that was no less dragging.
“Beyond them lies Horqin Left Middle Banner.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“I don’t know.”
Yet Kō’s stride appeared more forceful now, and this in turn affected Kyūzō, who recovered some energy. The clouds gradually rose higher in the sky, and Kyūzō felt a slight southern wind on his eyes and cheeks. Sensing a kind of roundness when he inhaled, he suspected that the temperature was climbing.
Traversing two more hills, they came upon a broad expanse of lowland that lay between them and the series of hills. There a road heading in an east-west direction cut across their route. Shaking irregularly, the road headed east along the edge of the hills before turning right, where it stretched off a long distance before disappearing into the shadows of a ravine.
“It’s a road!”
Kyūzō’s voice was shrill with excitement. It had been exactly ten days since they had last seen signs of human existence. Yet Kō made no reply.
Lying one level lower than the surrounding ground, the road might have been mistaken for a dry riverbed were it not for the traces of wagon tracks. While it was not a riverbed, the road obviously became something of a stream during the rainy season. It had been built up as much as possible before freezing over. An unusual abundance of withered grass appeared on each side, and in the shadow of the embankments grew trees that were somewhat undernourished. They were less trees than a pile of twigs measuring no more than thirty or forty centimeters in height. They looked like elm stumps that failed to grow. The buds that annually appeared on them were probably picked off by rabbits or mice or perhaps even hungry travelers, leaving them no time to develop. Nevertheless, it was interesting that the trees by the roadside were more protected than others. One reason for this, no doubt, was that rain gathered and flowed there, allowing the trees to better conserve water. Another reason was that the signs of human presence perhaps functioned to discourage the approach of small animals.
Alighting on the road, Kyūzō breathlessly turned around and laughed. Kō slid down from the embankment next. Immediately crossing the road as if to avoid Kyūzō’s gaze, he prepared to climb up the opposite side.
“Aren’t we going to rest, Mr. Kō?”
“We should get to the Kai River while it’s still light.”
“But why? It’s fine here.”
“Stop joking. Resting by the road after all this?”
“I’m not going. I’m resting here.”
“It’s only another six miles or so. Having come so far, it’s pointless to rest now.”
“Then we don’t need to push ourse
lves so much.”
Putting his belongings down on the embankment, Kyūzō began gathering branches by the roadside.
“Hey!” Holding his breath, Kō hailed him in a blurry voice. “I’m saying this for your own good, so let’s go.”
“Please help me with this.”
“I’m saying this for your own good. I’ve got a plan.”
“If we’re going to rest anyway, then it makes the most sense to rest here. I hope that a wagon passes by.”
“Stop talking nonsense!”
“I’m hungry!”
“That’s why I’m telling you to listen to me. Don’t you want to get back to Japan? Then listen to me. It’s dangerous here. That’s why I made such a fuss about the flag. Let’s go. We should get there while it’s still light and find out about the Middle Banner. Come on.”
“But I don’t have any reason to be afraid.” Piling up a bundle of branches on the road, Kyūzō quickly began gathering some withered grass. “It’s been very dangerous until now. There’s no need to worry at this point.”
“That’s why I said that I’d explain things!”
“That’s what you said. But you haven’t done so yet.”
“I’m …” Quickly licking his bottom lip with the short, dark tip of his tongue, Kō then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m being pursued.”
“I knew that. Even I could tell that much.” Crumpling up the withered grass, Kyūzō stuffed it among the branches before striking a match. The first match went out before lighting the splint. The wind was up. Shivering, he struck the second match.
“Damn it, you bastard! If you hadn’t played around with those bullets …”
“I know.”
The fire caught and white smoke billowed up. The smoke flowed west alongside the road, scattered rapidly at that part of the embankment where Kō was standing, rippled over the wasteland, and then swirled off toward the north. Coughing violently, Kō slowly moved away from the smoke before walking over to Kyūzō’s side of the embankment. Yet he did not go near the fire. The firm resolve with which he sought to overcome temptation caused him to raise even his artificial eye, and in the shadow of the eyelid his pupil appeared small and dark as a hole.