Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [100]
“You unfeeling bastard. You’re a pig, not a man. How can you say such a thing to somebody who’s on the brink of death? You’re ridiculous. I don’t give a damn about his disappearance. It’s pretty sneaky … something a coward’d do. What’s the point of putting up such a great fuss about somebody like him? I’d never do that. There … I’ve put the rope around my neck. The position is right, it’ll bite right in. Pretty soon I’m going to feel the blood coming out of my nose. I’ll be gone further than anyone who’s disappeared … much, much further.”
“Suicides and missing persons are pretty much alike, aren’t they? And a corpse is dirty. But a missing person’s as transparent as air, cleaner than glass.”
“Damn, somebody’s coming. Well, then, this is it. I’m going to kick away the suitcase I’m standing on … now. Tell Mr. Nemuro’s wife … it’s too much, hiring a detective for a missing person.”
“What’s too much? For whom?”
But there was no answer. I thought I heard a sound like someone stamping on a rubber bag filled with water, but even that was canceled out by a terrible noise of something violently hitting the receiver … that was all … I could hear nothing more. There was a soft sound like that of a puppy scratching itself in a box. Perhaps I only fancied it. It was unbelievable that he would commit suicide. What should I do? If by any chance he had actually done it, as the last person present at the time I would be raked over the coals unmercifully by the police. Aside from being gone over by the police, whatever explanation should I give? It was absurd. Should I say that I had been piggishly insensitive? As far as the police were concerned, a satisfactory explanation would be that I had kept badgering the poor fellow to the point of driving him to suicide. It was inevitable, since for them that would be the only convincing, logical one. He had taken fine revenge on me. Revenge for what? It was so beautifully done that I had no idea why he had acted as he had. Of course, it could not be suicide. He was a sort of madman. It was his nature, he had to get people’s attention by doing something especially spectacular. Like someone who likes to wear a breastful of decorations. In a minute, would his voice come snickering or sobbing over the receiver? There! A sound … the squeaking of a door hinge. But a man’s sonorous cry struck my ear … a hoarse, panic-stricken, screaming voice.
It was true! I replaced the receiver, confirming the truth around me.
AND AGAIN the dark street. The dark, dark street. The women out shopping for the evening meal of course, and the baby carriage and the silver bicycle were already painted out by the darkness; most of the commuters too were already in place in their filing-drawer houses. A half-forsaken chasm of time where it was still too early for some laggards, playing at being truants, to return home. I stood still … precisely where he had vanished. The brown-and-white striped design hung in her window as it had the night before. There was a lot I should have to report … starting with Tashiro’s suicide, but somehow I hesitated. At least, when I pulled into shape the report on the Camellia, that would definitely touch on the husband’s movements. For instance, even if it were against the facts, by claiming I had made some progress, the outcome would be good, one I need not be ashamed of. But thanks to Tashiro my plans had gone completely awry. There was nothing for it but to go around to the Camellia tomorrow morning after all.
The wind whistled through the spaces between the buildings. The stream of cold air striking the corners set up a low, almost inaudible howl. Before I was aware of it, my pores froze over and my icy blood reached my heart where it became a red, heart-shaped ice bag. The ravaged asphalt side walk … and as usual the abandoned white rubber ball on the lawn … and my dust-covered shoes that shone as if they were gilded, under the street lights … and the crack-filled corpse of the street … and the manhole under the dry grass quite as forsaken as I.
Today