by Kōbō Abe
Suddenly he paused in his tracks. Something had stirred near the roots of a clump of grass. It was a spider. Spiders were of no use to him. He sat down to smoke a cigarette. The wind blew ceaselessly from the sea and, far below, turbulent white waves beat against the base of the sand dunes. Where the dunes fell away to the west a slight hill crowned with bare rock jutted out into the sea. On it the sunshine lay scattered in needlepoints of light.
He had difficulty getting his matches to light. Out of ten tries not one had caught. Along the length of the match-sticks he had thrown away, ripples of sand were moving at about the speed of the second hand of his watch. He focused his attention on one wavelet, and when it arrived at the tip of his heel he arose. The sand spilled from the gathers in his trousers. He spat, and the inside of his mouth felt rough.
So probably there weren’t too many insects. Perhaps the movement of the sand was too violent. No, he shouldn’t be so quickly discouraged; his theory guaranteed that there would be some.
The line of dunes leveled off, and a section jutted out on the side away from the sea. He was lured on by the feeling that in all probability his prey was there, and he made his way down the gentle slope. Here and there the remains of what seemed like a wind fence made of wattling marked off the point of the promontory, beyond which, on a still lower level, lay a plateau. He went on, cutting across the ripples of sand, which were hewn with machine-like regularity. Suddenly his line of vision was cut off, and he stood on the verge of a cliff looking down into a deep cavity.
The cavity, over sixty feet wide, formed an irregular oval. The far slope seemed relatively gentle, while in contrast the near side gave the feeling of being almost perpendicular. It rolled up to his feet in a smooth curve, like a lip of heavy porcelain. Placing one foot gingerly on the edge, he peered in. The shadowy interior of the hole, set against the luminous edge, already announced the approach of evening.
In the gloom at the bottom a small house lay submerged in silence. One end of its ridgepole was sunk diagonally into the sand wall. Quite like an oyster, he thought.
No matter what they did, he mused, there was no escaping the law of the sand.
Just as he was placing his camera in position, the sand at his feet began to move with a rustle. He drew his foot back, shuddering, but the flow of the sand did not stop for some time. What a delicate, dangerous balance! Breathing deeply, he wiped his sweaty palms several times on the sides of his trousers.
A coughing broke out next to him. Unnoticed, an old man, apparently one of the village fishermen, was standing there almost touching his shoulder. As he looked at the camera and then at the bottom of the hole, the old fellow grinned, screwing up his face, which was wrinkled like a half-tanned rabbit skin. A sticky secretion encrusted the corners of his reddened eyes.
“Are you inspecting?”
It was a thin voice, blown by the wind, rather as if it came from a portable radio. But the accent was clear and not particularly difficult to catch.
“Inspecting?” Flustered, he concealed the lens with his palm. He shifted his insect net into full view. “What do you mean? I don’t understand. I’m collecting insects. My specialty is sand insects.”
“What?” The old man did not seem to have understood.
“Collecting insects,” he repeated again in a loud voice. “Insects. In-sects. I catch them like this!”
“Insects?”
The old man appeared dubious. Looking down, he spat. Or perhaps it would be more exact to say he let the spittle ooze from his mouth. Snatched from his lips by the wind, it sailed out in a long thread. Good heavens, what was he so nervous about?
“Is there some inspecting going on in this vicinity?”
“No, no. As long as you’re not inspecting, I really don’t mind what you do.”
“No, I’m not inspecting.”
The old man, without even nodding, turned his back and, scuffing the tips of his straw sandals, went slowly away along the ridge.
Some fifty yards further on—when had _they__ come?—three men dressed alike, apparently waiting for the old man, squatted silently on the sand. The one in the middle had a pair of binoculars, which he was turning around and around on his knee. Soon the three, joined by the old man, began to discuss something among themselves. They kicked the sand at their feet. It looked as if they were having a violent argument.
Just as he was trying unconcernedly to go on with his search for the beetle, the old man came hurrying back again.
“Then you’re really not someone from the government office?”
“The government office? You’re quite wrong.”
Abruptly he took out his business card, as if to indicate that he had had enough. The old man’s lips moved laboriously.
“Ah! You’re a schoolteacher!”
“I have absolutely no connection with the government office.”
“Hmm. So you’re a teacher.”
At last he appeared to understand, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled up. Carrying the card respectfully, he went back again. The three others, apparently satisfied, stood up and withdrew.
But the old man returned once again.
“By the way, what do you intend doing now?”
“Well, I’m going to look for insects.”
“But the last bus back has already gone.”
“Isn’t there any place I can stay here?”
“Stay all night? In this village?” The man’s face twitched.
“If I can’t stay here, I’ll walk on to the next village.”
“Walk?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m in no special hurry.”
“Well, why go to all that trouble?” He suddenly became loquacious. “You can see this is a poor village,” he said in an accommodating tone. “There isn’t a decent house in it, but if it’s all right with you I’ll put in a good word and see what I can do to help you out.”
He did not seem to bear any ill will. They were just being cautious—perhaps on the lookout for some prefectural official who was scheduled to come on a tour of inspection. With their sense of caution appeased, they were merely good, simple fisherfolk.
“I should be very grateful if you would. Of course, I will expect to show my appreciation… I am particularly fond of staying in village houses.”
4
THE sun had set and the wind had slackened somewhat. He walked along the dunes until he could no longer distinguish the pattern hewn by the wind in the sand.
There seemed to be nothing that faintly resembled crops.
Orthoptera—small-winged crickets and white-whiskered earwigs.
Rhynchota—red-striped soldier bugs. He was not certain of the name, but surely it was a type of soldier bug.
Of the sheath-winged insects which he sought: white-backed billbugs and long-legged letter-droppers.
He had not been able to spot a single one of the beetle family that was his real aim. And indeed for that very reason he was anticipating the fruits of the next day’s battle.
His fatigue brought faint spots of light dancing on his retina. Then, in spite of himself, he stopped walking and fixed his eyes on the surface of the darkening dunes. It was no use; anything that moved looked like a beetle.
As he had promised, the old man was waiting for him in front of the cooperative offices.
“I’m sorry for all this trouble.”
“Not at all. I only hope you’ll like what I found for you.”
A meeting seemed to be in session in the offices. Four or five men were sitting in a circle, from which shouts of laughter rose. On the front of the entry hung a horizontal plaque with large lettering: LOVE YOUR HOME. The old man said something; abruptly the laughing stopped, and he walked out leading the others. The shell-strewn road floated vague and white in the twilight.
He was escorted to one of the cavities on the ridge of the dunes at one end of the village.
From the ridge a narrow path went down the slope to the right. After they had walked
on awhile, the old man leaned over into the darkness and, clapping his hands, shouted in a loud voice: “Hey! Granny! Hey, there!”
From the depths of the darkness at their feet a lamp flickered, and there was an answer.
“Here I am! Here! There’s a ladder over by the sandbags.”
Indeed, without the ladder he could not possibly have got down. He would have had to catch hold on the cliff with his bare hands. It was almost three times the height of the house top, and even with the ladder it was still not easy to manage. In the daytime, he recalled, the slope had seemed to him rather gentle, but as he looked at it now, it was close to perpendicular. The ladder was an uncertain thing of rope, and if one lost one’s balance it would get hopelessly tangled up. It was quite like living in a natural stronghold.
“You needn’t worry about anything. Have a good rest.”
The old man turned around and went back, without going all the way to the bottom.
Sand poured down from overhead. The man had a feeling of curiosity, as if he had returned to his childhood. He wondered whether the woman was old; she had been called granny. But the person who came to meet him, holding up a lamp, was a smallish, nice sort of woman around thirty. Perhaps she was wearing powder; for someone who lived by the sea, she was amazingly white. Anyway, he was extremely grateful for her cheerful welcome, from which she could not conceal her own pleasure.
Indeed, if it had not been for the warm reception, the house itself would have been difficult to put up with at all. He would have thought they were making a fool of him and would doubtless have gone back at once. The walls were peeling, matting had been hung up in place of sliding doors, the upright supports were warped, boards had replaced all the windows, the straw mats were on the point of rotting and when one walked on them they made a noise like a wet sponge. Moreover, an offensive smell of burned, moldering sand floated over the whole place.
Well, everything depended on one’s attitude. He was disarmed by the woman’s manner. He told himself that this one night was a rare experience. And, if he were lucky, he might run up against some interesting insects. It was certainly an environment in which insects would gladly live.
His premonition was right. No sooner had he taken the seat offered him beside the hearth, which was sunk in the earthen floor, than all around there was the sound of what seemed to be the pitter-patter of rain. It was an army of fleas. But he was not one to be overwhelmed by such things. An insect collector is always prepared. He had dusted the inside of his clothing with DDT, and it would be wise, before he went to sleep, to daub some insecticide on the exposed parts of his body.
“I’m just fixing something to eat. If you’ll just wait a few minutes more…” the woman said, half standing and taking the lamp. “Can you get along without the light for a moment, please?”
“Do you only have one lamp?”
“I’m sorry, yes.”
She laughed, a little embarrassed. On her left cheek a dimple appeared. Apart from her eyes, she had undeniable charm, he thought. Perhaps the look in her eyes was the result of some affliction. No matter how much make-up she used, she could not conceal the inflamed corners. Before going to bed, he decided, he would without fail apply some eye medicine too.
“It doesn’t make any difference, but first I would rather like a bath.”
“A bath?”
“Don’t you have one?”
“I’m terribly sorry, but could you put it off until the day after tomorrow?”
“The day after tomorrow? But I won’t be here the day after tomorrow.” In spite of himself he laughed aloud.
“Oh?”
She turned her face away with a drawn-up expression. She was disappointed, he supposed, and, of course, with country folk there is no attempt at pretense. He ran his tongue several times over his lips with a feeling of embarrassment.
“If you don’t have a bath, some water that I could pour over me would do just fine. My whole body’s covered with sand.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have more than a bucketful of water either. The well is pretty far away.”
She looked quite abashed, and he decided to say no more. He was soon to realize, unpleasantly, the uselessness of bathing.
The woman brought in the meal: clam soup with boiled fish. Very much a shore meal, it seemed. That was all right, but as he began to eat she opened a large paper umbrella and put it over him.
“What’s that thing for?” He wondered if it were some kind of custom of the region.
“Well, if I don’t put this up, the sand will get in your food.”
“How is that?” he said, looking up in surprise at the ceiling, where, however, there were no holes at all.
She followed his eyes to the ceiling. “The sand sifts in everywhere. Almost an inch piles up if I don’t sweep it up every day.”
“Is the roof faulty?”
“Yes, pretty much so. But even if the thatching was brand-new, the sand would sift in anyway. It’s really terrible. It’s worse than a wood borer.”
“A wood borer?”
“An insect that eats holes in wood.”
“That’s probably a termite, isn’t it?”
“No, no. It’s about this big… with a hard skin.”
“Ah. Well, it’s a long-horned saw beetle then.”
“A saw beetle?”
“Long whiskers and reddish, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s sort of bronze-colored and shaped like a grain of rice.”
“I see. Then it’s an iridescent beetle.”
“If you let it go on, beams like these rot away to nothing, you know.”
“You mean the iridescent beetle?”
“No, the sand.”
“Why?”
“It gets in from everywhere. On days when the wind direction is bad, it gets up under the roof, and if I didn’t sweep it away it would soon pile up so heavy that the ceiling boards wouldn’t hold it.”
“Hmm. Yes, I can see it wouldn’t do to let the sand accumulate in the ceiling. But isn’t it funny to say that it rots the beams?”
“No. They do rot.”
“But sand is essentially dry, you know.”
“Anyway, it rots them. If you leave sand on brand-new wooden clogs they fall apart in half a month. They’re just dissolved, they say, so it must be true.”
“I don’t understand the reason.”
“Wood rots, and the sand rots with it. I even heard that soil rich enough to grow cucumbers came out of the roof boards of a house that had been buried under the sand.”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed rudely, making a wry face. He felt that his own personal concept of sand had been defiled by her ignorance. “I know a little about sand myself. Let me tell you. Sand moves around like this all year long. Its flow is its life. It absolutely never stops—anywhere. Whether in water or air, it moves about free and unrestricted. So, usually, ordinary living things are unable to endure life in it, and this goes for bacteria too. How shall I put it… sand represents purity, cleanliness. Maybe it serves a preservative function, but there is certainly no question of its rotting anything. And, what’s more, dear lady, to begin with, sand is a respectable mineral. It couldn’t possibly rot away!”
She stiffened and fell silent. Under the protection of the umbrella which she was holding, the man, as if hurried, finished eating without a word. On the surface of the umbrella so much sand had collected he could have written in it with his finger.
And the damp was unbearable. The sand of course was not damp; it was his body that was damp. Above the roof the wind moaned. He drew out his cigarettes, and his pocket was full of sand. He had the feeling he could taste the bitterness even before he lit one.
He took an insect out of the bottle of potassium cyanide. Before it stiffened he fixed it with pins; at least he could preserve the shape of the legs. From the washstand outside came the sound of the woman cleaning dishes. Did no one else live in the house? he wondered.
When she return
ed she silently began to prepare the bed in a corner of the room. If she put his bed here, where in heaven’s name did she intend to sleep? Naturally, in that inner room beyond the hanging mat. Besides these two there didn’t seem to be anything that faintly resembled a room. But it was a very strange way of doing things—to put the guest in the room by the entry and let the hostess sleep in the inner one. Or did she have an invalid unable to move sleeping in the inner room? he wondered. Maybe. Certainly it would be much more natural to assume so. In the first place, one could hardly expect a solitary woman to go to much trouble looking after passing travelers.
“Are there other people…?”
“What do you mean, ‘other people’?”
“People in your family or…”
“No, I’m quite alone.” The woman seemed to be aware of his thoughts and suddenly gave a forced and awkward laugh. “Everything really gets so damp because of the sand, even the blankets.”
“Well, what about your husband?”
“Oh, yes. Last year in the typhoon…” she said, busying herself unnecessarily with smoothing and patting down the edges of the matting which she had finished spreading out. “Typhoons are terrible around here. The sand comes thundering down like a waterfall. Ten or twenty feet pile up in a night no matter what you do.”
“As much as twenty feet?”
“At times like that, you can’t ever catch up with the sand no matter how much you shovel. He ran out with my little girl—she was in middle school then—yelling that the chicken houses were in danger. I was too busy taking care of the house and had to stay in. When morning finally came and the wind died down, I went out to look. There wasn’t a trace of the chicken houses… or anything else.”