by Kōbō Abe
“Is this horse dung?” Kyūzō used the tip of his walking stick to poke a gray, pebble-sized lump lying in the hollow between the furrows of the tracks. The lump easily peeled away from the ground, facing upwards. Stripped of the frost, it was the vivid color of horse dung. Drawing it closer, Kyūzō stepped on the dung with the heel of his shoe, splitting it apart. Raw grass fibers stuck out from the powdery opening. “It’s still fresh.”
“Dung always looks fresh once it freezes.”
“But the ice around it is still quite thin. And something would have come and eaten it if it had been here long.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe crows, dogs, or mice.”
“You should stop these empty hopes.” Stooping painfully but with no change of expression, Kō tapped the tip of his broken walking stick against the main part of his boot. “Nothing is going to come no matter how much you wait. No damn way anything would come! I’ll say it clearly, this area is the most dangerous. You can’t tell where or what kind of bastards might be lying in wait. No fool would pass through this place nowadays.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Stop talking so impudently. In any case, it’s for your own good.”
“In any case, I’m staying here,” Kyūzō replied dismissively, setting off to gather more kindling. “I’ve had enough of your advice.”
Slowly curling up his lips as the cartilage in his throat twitched vigorously, Kō heavily dragged his right foot and turned the other way. Only his face remained still as he stared at Kyūzō’s ear.
“Well then, I’m leaving.”
Returning to the fire with the kindling he had gathered, Kyūzō removed his shoes with an air of impatience. Half his right sock had become stiff with half-dried blood. Warming the sock over the fire, he replied in a flat, listless voice.
“Fine.”
“All right. Don’t regret this.”
Kyūzō pulled the blanket over himself and closed his eyes. Shivering, he felt that he was already half-asleep. Kō set off walking. For Kyūzō, the increasingly distant footsteps Kō made as he dragged his shoes, climbing along the slope in a roundabout way toward the left, sounded like a death sentence. Yet Kyūzō’s fervent desire for rest extinguished all anxiety. “After all, I’ve made the best decision,” he repeatedly told himself, nodding.
He tried to sleep cradling his knees to his chin, but for some reason it was quite impossible. The sound of the slowly moving air brushing up against the ground made him feel that the world was absurdly large, and the small bud of anxiety that was otherwise hidden by the relief he felt in unburdening himself now began to grow together with that expanding world. Suddenly he felt that he was already dead. The wagon had come just a moment too late.
“Oh, that poor Japanese man,” remarked one wagoner.
“He seems to be the same age as my daughter,” the other chimed in.
“Let’s remove his clothes so that it will be easier for the crows to eat him,” the first wagoner said, rolling Kyūzō over and stripping off his coat and inner jacket.
As the second wagoner began removing his pants, his magnificent knife with the engraving suddenly fell out. The first guy quickly picked it up. The second one complained. The first one then unsheathed the knife and suddenly … At that moment, the heavy heel of someone’s shoe trampled forcefully on Kyūzō’s exposed flank.
What a stupid dream! Kyūzō tried to collect himself, blinking repeatedly as he sat straight up. It was at that instant that he realized something crucial. His cooking pot! Kō had taken it with him. Without that he could not boil water. Reflexively he rose to his feet and pricked up his ears. Yet the only thing he could hear was the sound of the wind. He thought that he should follow after Kō. At that very idea, however, his body refused to listen. All the pain of a hunger march was ingrained in Kō’s presence, such that the very thought of returning to him produced in Kyūzō an instinctive sense of anxiety. Of course there was no clear guarantee that his present situation was any better. But the fact that he had finally arrived at a road, that he was actually on the road right now, surely meant that he might still hope for something.
He remembered that he had put the empty vodka bottle in the pouch that he had made from his shirt. Yes, that should do just fine. That’s a good sign! But it took a lot of time and energy to stuff it with snow. When the bottle was finally filled, Kyūzō buried it in the ash. So far so good.
He unfolded the map, intending to assure himself further. He was now precisely where the projecting southern part of Heilongjiang Province bordered the crooked, hooklike eastern part of Inner Mongolia. It was possible that this road formed the boundary between those two regions. The road headed directly east from Baoshunhao before splitting off midway: one branch led to Tanyu, the other to Horqin Left Middle Banner. If Kyūzō’s reading of the map was correct, he would need to travel east for ten kilometers to arrive at that junction before going another forty kilometers southeast in order to make it to the Middle Banner. Altogether it was a distance of fifty kilometers. Walking, it would be a journey of two days at best. Two days at best? “Come on, human beings can survive on water for twenty days!” Repeating Kō’s pet phrase, Kyūzō quickly dismissed the cruelty of that blunt number.
Besides, walking was the worst-case scenario. Baoshunhao lay at the entrance to a series of hamlets in the plateau region, while the Middle Banner was the central village in the black soil region. Was it really nothing more than an unrealistic desire to hope that a wagon might pass through the one main corridor that connected these two regions? Of course Kyūzō didn’t know the frequency of such trips. He didn’t know whether wagons would come by twice a day or once every three days. In either case, however, there was no proof that a wagon would not be coming in the next hour.
Yet that thought was immediately replaced by another concern. If he were to go to the Middle Banner, he would find there a triangle of land wedged between the railroad where the soil was good and villages were everywhere. There would no longer be any desolate wasteland. With money, he could buy food and get water. There would be no need to have such frightening experiences. However, might not other terrors await him there? Could anyone promise that human beings were less cruel than nature? Another issue was whether the Middle Banner was now occupied by the Nationalist troops or by the Eighth Route Army. Kyūzō knew how to deal with the latter. He also had his certificate. He desperately wished that it was the Eighth Route Army occupying the area.
Come to think of it, Kō also seemed to harbor some kind of hope for the Middle Banner. Judging by his actions thus far, however, it was clear that he didn’t hope that the area was occupied by the Eighth Route Army. Besides, in considering this question alongside the train attack incident, it seemed just as dangerous to have too much hope. Yet the Eighth Route Army had planned to run the train directly to Tieling, so at least the area along that line should be under their control. From the Middle Banner, the distance to, say, Sanlin Station was at most only fifty kilometers. It thus seemed quite possible that the Eighth Army was indeed occupying the area.
(“As Kō said, this thing called a border region is really vast.”)
The fire made a small, very dry, slightly echoing sound. With a strong hiss, a bundle of ash suddenly spouted in the air. The fire continued hissing and ash continued spouting, and it didn’t stop until it had thrust its way through the blackened part. The bottom of the bottle had burst.
His heart racing, he felt as if he were about to choke. Just like the feeling one gets after running hard. Furious, he grabbed the neck of the bottle and flung it. Suddenly his throat felt intensely parched. Unable to stand it, he bared his teeth and let out a cry.
He was wide awake. Had he slept until now? Perhaps he was thinking while he was sleeping. Or sleeping while he was thinking. Imperceptibly the sun had risen quite high, glittering in the leaden sky like a polished sheet of copper, and everything shone the color of old porcelain. The wind wa
s mixed with the clear smell of spring.
With the southern side of the embankment at his back, shadows had already begun to engulf him from the waist down. If he moved to the northern side, he would receive sunlight but the wind would be rather bad. It was not only the wind that was a concern, for he might be choked by the smoke if he were not careful. Ultimately, however, the sunlight offered the greatest advantage. He plucked up his courage and changed position, discovering that neither the wind nor smoke was as bad as he had imagined.
But he wanted water. With water, he’d be able to survive for twenty days. Regardless of how much it smelled of spring, the temperature was such that it was still quite impossible to gnaw on unmelted snow. His body began quivering in irritation. He felt like he was still fighting for breath. He wondered if this pain would gradually increase, and he would finally reach his limit and die writhing in agony. It was unbearable to even think about that limit. He had heard of travelers in the desert who got lost and were forced to chew their own wrists in order to sip their blood. This area here was like a desert. I wonder if I, too, might soon be forced to chew my own wrists and sip my blood. No, I’ll definitely freeze in my sleep before that. Thanks to the cold, I’ll surely be spared such pain.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but he somehow felt his eyelids grow heavier. Opening his eyes wide in shock, he pressed his clenched fists against his forehead and began forcefully turning them.
(“I wonder if there’s not a good way …”)
He suddenly thought of a wonderful idea. He could use half the wrapping cloth that he had made into a flag. Folding the cloth in two, he placed some crushed snow inside and tied the four corners to the walking stick, which he then held over the fire. The snow melted, soaking into the cloth. Squeezing the cloth, he then sipped the water from the bottom. The taste was bad, but it was drinkable. He had truly hit upon an excellent idea! (“I suppose I’ll get by somehow.”)
After filling his belly, Kyūzō felt nauseous and vomited a bit. This happened often, however, and so was nothing to worry about. He also felt slightly more calm. While staring at the burning branches as the oil bubbled forth, he realized that those small bumps on the surface, as yet unripe and covered by a thick sheath, were buds. They appeared to be an excellent source of nutrition. Why hadn’t he realized this earlier?
Removing those branches that were sufficiently burned, he cooled them off in the snow, held a piece at each end, and chewed as he rotated it like corn on the cob. The taste was slightly bitter but there was also some sweetness. The taste wasn’t much, but the smell was awful. His mouth was filled with a greasy stickiness and an intensely fishy smell rose through his palate, spreading viscously all the way to the back of his eyes. Nevertheless, Kyūzō chewed on three pieces, each approximately thirty centimeters long. Eventually he felt as if a soft rubber stopper had been crammed down his throat. His scalp twitched and he felt queasy. Believing the buds to be nutritious, he tried to hold them in, but finally could no longer endure it and vomited everything up. Writhing in agony on the hard ground, he still thought that he shouldn’t abandon the idea, that he had simply eaten too many buds too quickly, and that he must try again later, as things would certainly be better if he mixed in some grass roots.
XVIII
Kyūzō awakened to the sound of groaning. At first he saw the soles of the shoes of someone sitting cross-legged. The heels were worn down at an angle, extending all the way to the highest strip of leather. The toes wiggled nervously, covered by the shadow of the person’s upper body as it swayed rhythmically and vigorously back and forth.
Kō had returned unnoticed. He was groaning—his body shook and his facial features were distorted—as he held his left wrist aloft with his right hand. It took some time for Kyūzō to remember that they had separated. Squinting, Kyūzō cautiously examined him. The sun still hadn’t moved all that far. It must be between 1:00 and 2:00. The fire was burning well. A small pile of newly gathered branches had been placed in a spot where they would be immediately noticed. Kō must feel ashamed, Kyūzō surmised.
The two looked at each other. Instead of speaking, Kō suddenly screamed so painfully that Kyūzō rose up in shock. Kyūzō was dubious, as it seemed to be a trick, but reflexively began speaking first.
“What’s wrong?”
“Take out a cigarette and pipe from my bag,” Kō replied, theatrically gasping for breath. “Damn it, I fell and hit my injured hand. Remove half the tobacco from the cigarette. On the inside of this front collar—there—you’ll find a bottle. Ouch, damn it! Take just a tiny bit of powder from the bottle. No, about half that. Mix that in with the tobacco and then stuff it back inside the cigarette.”
“Is this opium?”
“You know what opium is? It’s heroin. Once you stuff it inside the cigarette, place it in the pipe.” Small flecks of saliva sprayed out from between his bared, clenched yellow teeth.
Lying on his back with the pipe pointed up at the sky, Kō lit the pipe with trembling hands, quietly inhaled deeply, and then held his breath for a while. As if solemnly performing a ritual, he repeated this action three times. His expression then began to change. His upper eyelids drooped heavily, his face became reddish, and his lips slackened. Licking the dark, fleshy sack of his lips with the tip of his tongue, he smiled meaningfully as his head slumped to his chest.
“How is it?”
“This always works best.” He tried to lift his head, but the base of his neck was too wobbly. “You can try some if you want,” he offered, swaying back and forth unsteadily. “But I’m not an addict. You shouldn’t get addicted—just do a bit. I nearly got addicted when I was young. It’s a powerful drug, and I had a hard time quitting. But addicts are all worthless. They don’t have any definite goals. In my opinion, it’s not that people fall apart because they do drugs, but rather they become addicted because they’ve fallen apart. A real man doesn’t get beaten by drugs … Regulating opium is stupid.”
“Why did you come back?”
“Why? There’s not much of a reason why. After walking a long way, there was a very steep, rocky hill, and I slipped and hit my finger. Damn it! It’s strange to feel pain in my fingertip when it’s no longer there. There’s only a tingling feeling. Let’s boil some water. I’m very thirsty. It must have been hard for you without a cooking pot.”
“I melted some ice by wrapping it in cloth.”
“I see, I see. You’ve held up well. I suspected as much. Didn’t you get lonely being alone?”
“I’ve decided to travel along the road … Shall we go to sleep?”
With a vague laugh, Kō blew his nose with his fingers, which he then wiped on his knee.
“There seem to be rabbits in these mountains. If only we had bullets …”
His gaze fixed on the hollows of the tracks, Kyūzō made no reply. His skin, darkly sunburned and downy, was permeated by a light coat of dust, which made it that much thicker. The rigidity of his expression seemed to extend all the way to his heart. He was himself shocked by the psychological change he now felt in remaining silent upon hearing Kō’s words.
Kō scratched his back against the embankment. Kyūzō gathered snow and placed it inside the cooking pot. Muttering to no one in particular, Kō began speaking.
“People say that it was opium that ruined the Chinese people, but that’s a lie. It’s because they’re so ruined that they began smoking opium in the first place. It’s the fault of their leaders. Still, the Chinese are not ruined yet, as if that were possible! They’re like pigs, constantly producing new young. Such a pathetic bunch of people.” Suddenly his tone changed. “Do you know anything about Hitler’s early life?” he asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Hitler was just a corporal. The story that I heard took place before he became a corporal.”
“I don’t know about it.”
“Really? Neither do I.”
The sky suddenly began to grow red. There was still some time before sunset, but
everything now looked like a summer evening. Invisible particles of dust rained down on them. In an instant, the radiant swells of the hills rusted and clouded to a yellowish gray. Kyūzō noticed that a thin, milky white film had formed on the water in the cooking pot. When touched by the wind, this film rippled slightly as it was blown over and again to one side.
“It’s spring,” Kō said flatly, rubbing his chin with the back of his glove.
Hearing this comment, Kyūzō felt his lips grow numb as something in his face became unraveled. He swallowed quickly. Everything was so unfair, he felt, as tears began to well up. “Shit!” Kyūzō exclaimed, clutching his knees and squeezing them tightly.
Having nearly fallen over, Kō gave a cry and lifted himself up. It seemed that he had momentarily fallen asleep.
“I just had a strange dream. Where was I? Around Fukagawa, I guess. I often dream about Japan. It’s because my mother’s Japanese. I went to elementary school until my third year. I can’t recall her face very clearly. When she appears in my dreams, she always has her back to me. Her hair was dark and thick, and her toes were curled tightly inward, always stretching her sandal straps. She ran around all the time and often ended up breaking her sandals. ‘Brat!’ she used to call out in a small voice, suddenly picking me up by my ears. Hah! I wonder if she’s still alive somewhere.”
“Won’t you try and get some sleep?”
“Wait a minute. In the dream, I was in a small gutter under the eaves of a house somewhere. No one could see it from the outside, but some canned food was lying at the bottom. When I grabbed it, I realized that it wasn’t a can but an insect. The insect had a thick shell, like a rhinoceros beetle, but when I peeled off the skin there was canned food on the inside. It was surprising to see what kind of canned food it was. It was fresh …”
“That’s enough. It’s foolish!”