The Woman in the Dunes

by Cobo Abe

  Would he find it enjoyable? Of course everything fitted, as if into a square of equally spaced graph paper: breathing, time, the room, the woman. Was this what the Mobius man called general sexual desire? Maybe, but what tight buttocks! You couldn't compare them to the frustrated bags of bones you picked up in the streets.

  The woman, sitting on one knee, had begun to brush the sand from her neck with a towel which she had rolled into a ball. Suddenly there was an avalanche of sand. The whole house trembled and groaned. A provoking interference! Before his very eyes, a mistlike sand covered the woman's head with white, collecting on her shoulders and arms. The two, clutched in each other's arms, could only wait for the avalanche to pass.

  Their sweat trickled onto the sand which had gathered, and on that still more sand fell. The woman's shoulders trembled. He felt like superheated water, as if he were on the verge of boiling over. Yet he could not understand why he was so terribly attracted by her thighs. But he was… so much that he felt like taking the nerves of his body and coiling them one by one around them. The appetite of meat-eating animals must be just this — coarse, voracious. He fought back like a coiled spring. This was an experience he had not had with the other. On that bed — with the other one — they had been a feeling man and woman, a watching man and woman; they had been a man who watched himself experiencing and a woman who watched herself experiencing; they had been a woman who watched a man watching himself and a man watching a woman watching herself… all reflected in counter-mirrors… the limitless consciousness of the sexual act. Sexual desire, with a history of some hundred million years from the amoeba on up, is fortunately not easily worn out. But what he needed now was a voracious passion, a stimulation that would sweep his nerves into the woman's loins.

  The sand avalanche stopped, and as though he had been waiting for it to do so, he joined the woman in helping to brush the sand from her body. She laughed in a husky voice. His hands became more and more insistent as they passed from her breasts under her arms and from there around her loins. Her fingers dug into his neck, and now and then she would give little cries of surprise.

  When he had finished, it was her turn to brush his body. He closed his eyes and waited, passing his hand over her hair, which was hard and rough to the touch.

  There was a spasmodic contraction, and again the same thing… the same changeless repetition to which he had devoted himself, dreaming of other things: eating, walking, sleeping, hiccoughing, bawling, copulating.

  21

  Man's convulsions go on building endless layers of fossils. Dinosaur teeth and glaciers were powerless against this reproductive drive with its screams and its ecstasy. Finally a white flash squeezed his writhing body dry… a meteoric swarm spurted out, piercing the limitless darkness… rusty, orange-colored stars… an alkaline chorus.

  The glimmer trailed on and disappeared at last. The woman's hands patting him on the buttocks to urge him on no longer had any effect. His nerves, which had streamed into her, had withered back like a frost-bitten radish, and his member was paralyzed between the lips of the conch. The woman, who had thrust out her hips, reluctant to let him go, also sank back exhausted in a breathless contentment.

  An old rag rankly sour behind a chest of drawers… an avenue in front of a bicycle track, from which he used to return covered with the dust of regret.

  In the final analysis, nothing had been of any avail, nothing had been finished. It was not he who had satisfied his desires, but apparently someone quite different, someone who had borrowed his body. Sex, of its nature, was not defined by a single, individual body but by the species. An individual, finished with his squalid act, must return at once to his former self. Only the happy ones return to contentment Those who were sad return to despair. Those who were dying return to their deathbeds. How could he possibly be convinced that such trickery was passionate love? Was there anything better in this passionate love than in commutation sex? If there were, it would be better to be some ascetic made of glass. Apparently he had dozed off for a moment, rolling over in the sweat and secretions which smelled like rancid fish oil. He had dreamed. It was a dream about a lavatory which he could never find although he could hear the sound of water, about a common bathroom where the toilet was filled to overflowing with feces, about a long gallery whose flooring was beginning to warp, about a cracked glass. There was a man, running with a canteen. When he asked him for just a swallow of water, the man scowled at him, making a face like a grasshopper, and rushed off.

  He awoke. A hot, sticky glue was melting on the back of his tongue. His thirst had returned twofold. He wanted water. Sparkling, crystalline water, with silver spurs of air bubbles rising from the bottom of the glass. He was an empty water pipe in a deserted house, covered with spider webs and smeared with dust, gasping like a fish.

  When he stood up, his hands and feet felt like heavy rubber bags of water. He picked up the empty kettle, which had been thrown on the earthen floor, and tipped it to his mouth. After more than thirty seconds, two, three drops finally dampened the end of his tongue. But it remained as dry as blotting paper. His expectant throat convulsed even more, as if it had gone insane.

  Frantic for water, he rummaged around in the vicinity of the sink for anything he could get his hands on. Of all chemical compounds water was the simplest one. It should not be impossible to find some somewhere… like a penny forgotten in a desk drawer. There! He smelled water. Without a doubt it was the smell of water. He hastily scraped some wet sand from the bottom of the water jar and stuffed his mouth full. A feeling of nausea welled up in him. He bent over, his stomach convulsed, and his tears began to flow as he vomited up a yellow gastric liquid.

  The pain of his headache slipped down over his eyes like a leaden visor. Apparently passion was simply a short-cut to collapse. Suddenly he rose to his hands and knees, and like a dog began to dig in the sand of the earthen floor. When he had dug to the depth of his elbows, the sand was dark and moist. He thrust his face into it, pressed his burning forehead against it, inhaling it deeply. The oxygen and hydrogen might conceivably combine.

  «Goddamn dirty hands!» he snapped, pressing his nails into the palms of his hands and turning toward the woman. «What in God's name are you going to do? Isn't there really any water any place?»

  The woman spoke in a whisper, turning the upper part of her body away, and drawing her kimono over her naked thighs. «No. There's not any.»

  «Not any? Do you think you can let it go at that? This is a matter of life and death! You bitch! Do something! And make it quick. Please! See, I'm even saying please!»

  «Well, if we just got down to work… in no time at all they'd…»

  «All right. You win. I can't help it. I give in.» In his heart he had not given in for a minute. But this was certainly no way to die… he was not a dried sardine, after all. Yet he would have made a fool of himself for anyone to see if only he could get hold of some water.

  «I really give in. But it's pretty bad to make us wait until the regular delivery. We can't very well work when we're this dried out, can we? Get in touch with them right away… please. Aren't you thirsty too?»

  «They'll know the minute we begin to work. There's always someone watching with binoculars from the fire tower.»

  «The fire tower.. what fire tower?»

  More than iron doors, more than walls, it is the tiny peephole that really makes the prisoner feel locked in. Distressed, the man hastily went back through his memories of the village.

  He remembered the horizon of sand and sky. There was no place for a fire tower to be. Moreover, he could not believe that he and the woman could be seen from the outside while they could see no one from where they were.

  «You'll understand if you'll take a look by the edge of the cliff out back.»

  He meekly bent down and picked up the shovel. To worry about his self-respect after all that happened would be like ironing a grimy shirt. He went out as if driven.

  The sand was burning li
ke an empty pot over a fire. The glare took his breath away. The air that filled his nostrils smelled of soap. But with each step he was getting that much closer to water. When he stood under the cliff on the sea side and looked up, he could make out the top of a black tower about the size of the tip of his little finger. The thornlike projection was doubtless a lookout. Had he already been noticed? The lookout had doubtless been waiting gloatingly for this moment.

  He turned toward the black thorn and, holding the shovel over his head, waved it furiously back and forth. He adjusted the angle of the blade so that it would reflect into the eyes of the watcher. A film of burning quicksilver spread over his eyes. Whatever was the woman doing? She had better come and help right away.

  Suddenly a cool shadow fell over him like a damp handkerchief: a cloud had crossed above, like some fallen leaf driven before the wind into a corner of the sky. Damn it… if it would only rain he would not have to do this. He would hold out his two hands and they would be filled with water. Streams of water on the windowpanes… pillars of water bursting from the eaves troughs… splashing rain veiling the asphalt.

  He did not know whether he was dreaming or whether his musings had become real, but suddenly he was aware of a commotion around him. Coming to himself, he found that he was in the midst of a sand slide. He took shelter under the eaves of the house and leaned against the wall. His bones seemed to have melted like those of some canned fish. His thirst burst around his temples, leaving fragments lying scattered on the surface of his consciousness like dots standing out in relief. He gritted his teeth and held his hands over his stomach; at last he contained his rising nausea.

  The sound of the woman's voice came to him. She was facing the cliff and hailing someone. He looked up, squinting between his heavy eyelids. The old man who had first brought him here was just letting down a bucket, suspended at the end of a rope. Water! At last it had come! The bucket tipped and made a splotch on the sandy slope.

  It was water, unmistakably the real thing! With a shout he fairly flew through the air to get to it.

  When he came within reach of the bucket he pushed the woman aside, trampling her with his feet, and took hold of it with both hands. He could hardly take off the rope before he impatiently thrust his face into the bucket, his body heaving like a pump. He raised his face and took a breath. The third time he rasied his head water spurted from his nose and his lips, and he choked painfully. His knees buckled limply under him and he closed his eyes. Now it was the woman's turn. She was not to be outdone, and, sounding as if her whole body had turned into a rubber plunger, in no time at all she had drained half the contents.

  Then she let go of the bucket and went back to the earthen floor; the old fellow began to haul in the rope. At once the man jumped up and grabbed it. «Wait!» he appealed. «Just a minute. I want you to listen to me. Wait, please! I just want you to listen to me!»

  The old man gave in, and his hands stopped moving. He blinked his eyes in a puzzled way, but he remained almost expressionless.

  «Since you've given me water, I'll do what I'm supposed to. I promise you that. But I still would like you to listen to me. You have really quite misjudged things. I'm a teacher in a school. I have my colleagues and the union waiting there, and the Board of Education and the P. T. A. too. Do you think people will accept my disappearance in silence?»

  The old man ran his tongue over his upper lip and grinned rather indifferently. It really wasn't a grin, but probably only wrinkles in the corner of his eyes as he tried to keep out the sand that was blown along with the wind. But not a single wrinkle escaped the desperate man's notice.

  «What? What's that? You realize, don't you, that you're pretty close to a criminal offense?»

  «Why? It's been ten days, but there's been no notice from the local police.» The old man repeated his words meticulously one by one. «Supposing there was no notice even after ten days… what then?»

  «It hasn't been ten days. A week!»

  The old man shut his mouth and said nothing more. Certainly the exchange of words had been to no purpose. He restrained his impatience and said in a tight voice: «Well, these are matters of little consequence. Won't you come down so we can sit and have a leisurely talk? I will do absolutely nothing out of the way. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do a thing against such odds. I promise.»

  The old fellow remained silent. The man began to breathe harder. «It's not that I don't understand how important this work of clearing away the sand is for the village. It's a matter of life and death, I know. It's very serious. I really understand that. If I weren't forced into it, I might even feel like co-operating with you voluntarily. It's really true. It'd only be human to co-operate when I see how things really are, wouldn't it? Do you really think this is the only way to make me work with you? I doubt it. Haven't you been able to think of a better one? The right man in the right place. If you don't put a man in the right place, you destroy the desire to co-operate. That's true, isn't it? Wasn't there a better way of making use of me without taking such a dangerous risk?» Had the old man heard or not? He turned his head blankly and made a movement as if he were shaking off a playful kitten. Was he perhaps nervous about the lookout in the fire tower? Would it be bad if they were to be seen talking together? he wondered.

  «You agree, don't you? It really is important to clear away the sand. But that's a means, not a goal. Your goal is to protect your life from the sand, isn't it? It is, isn't it? Fortunately I've done some research on sand; I'm especially interested in it. That's why I made it a point to come to a place like this. Sand has a strange fascination for people today. There's a way of taking advantage of this. The place can be developed as a new sight-seeing spot, for example. You take advantage of the sand, you follow it, you don't run against it. In short, you've got to try to make a complete change in your thinking.»

  The old man opened his eyes. «In any sight-seeing place,» he answered indifferently, «there's got to be a hot spring around. Besides, everybody knows that the only ones who make anything out of tourists are the merchants or outsiders.»

  Perhaps it was his imagination, but the man had the feeling of being laughed at; and he suddenly recalled the woman's story about the postcard salesman who, after meeting the same fate as he, had taken sick and died.

  «Well, that's just one example of what you might do, of course. You can assume also that there are special crops suited to the particular properties of sand, can't you? In short, you don't have to stick so unreasonably to the old way of life.»

  «But we've made all kinds of studies. We've tried raising peanuts and bulbs and things like that. I'd just like to show you how tulips grow here.»

  «Well, what about breastworks to protect you against the sand?… a full-scale breastwork against the sand? I've got a friend on a newspaper, you know. It's very possible to use the paper to start public opinion moving in your favor.»

  «No matter how much sympathy we get from the rest of the world it won't make any difference unless we get the necessary funds.»

  «Well, then. You've got to start a movement to get them.»

  «Maybe, but according to government regulations, damage from wind-blown sand doesn't seem to be recognized under disaster compensation.»

  «You should work to have it recognized!»

  «What can you do about it in such a poor prefecture as this one? We're completely disgusted. Anyway, our present way is the cheapest. If we let the government office have their way we'd be lost in the sand while they're fiddling with their abacuses.»

  «But I have my own situation to think about!» he cried out at the top of his voice. «You're the parents of children, aren't you? You surely understand the obligations of a teacher!»

  At that very instant the old fellow drew up the rope. Taken by surprise, the man released it inadvertently. What impertinence! Had the old man been pretending to listen to what he was saying only in order to seize the opportunity of hauling up the rope? He was amazed when his outstret
ched hands met thin air.

  «You behave like madmen. You've lost your senses. Even a monkey could shovel up the sand if it just had a little practice. I should be able to do a lot more than that. A man has the obligation to make full use of the abilities he has.»

  «Well, maybe, but…» The old man spoke casually as if to put an end to the chitchat. «Do what you can anyway. We'll do whatever we can to help you.»

  «Wait! Don't joke! Hey, there! Wait a minute! You'll be sorry. You don't understand at all. If you'd just wait a minute. Please!»

  But the old man did not look around again. He stood up, his shoulders bent as though he carried a heavy burden, and walked away. After three steps his shoulders were no longer visible, and with the fourth he had completely disappeared from view. The man wearily approached the sand cliff. He sank his arms and head into the sand, which ran in at his collar, forming a loose cushion at the point the shirt met his trousers. Suddenly the perspiration began to pour out furiously from his chest, neck, and forehead and along the insides of his thighs. It was the water he had just drunk! The sand, combined with the perspiration, formed a mustard plaster that made his skin smart and tingle, swelling it into a rubber raincoat.

  The woman had already begun to work. Suddenly he was seized by a profound suspicion that she had finished drinking what was left of the water. He hurried back to the house.

  The water was all there. Once more he gulped down three or four mouthfuls, and again was amazed at the limpid, mineral taste; he could not conceal his uneasiness. He couldn't possibly wait until evening. Of course, it would be impossible to prepare supper if he drank all the water now. The villagers had counted precisely on this. They intended to get around him by subjecting him to the fear of thirst.