Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [11]
To say nothing of seven thirty of an early morning, that most cheerless of all hours … an hour like distilled water when nothing strange ever happens. What in heaven’s name could be the worst imaginable mishap in the life of a section head for a fuel wholesaler? They had tried to make a fool of me, or maybe I had chanced on a half-witted client. It made no difference which; in either case, invisible was invisible. There was no reason why one should be able to see, nor did I intend to look.
Something I wanted to see was already visible. I would continue to concentrate on the single point I could see. That faint rectangle of light … the lemon-yellow window … the window of the room I had taken leave of only a moment ago. The lemon-yellow curtains mocked me derisively—I who was frozen in the dark, who, for her sake, resolutely held in check the invasion of darkness. Yet, one way or another, I was the one who would betray her. I would wait. I would keep on waiting until then.
The sound of footsteps, as if someone were walking only on heels, drew hurriedly near, and for the first time I diverted my eyes from the lemon-yellow window. The clippity-clop of high heels of someone late … a woman’s timid footsteps. Even the darkness could not hide the white coat, furtrimmed at the collar and cuffs, and a paper sack carried under her arm. She pretended to take no notice of me, but she could not fool me; the upper half of her body facing me was still, armor-like. How would it be if, suddenly, I were to drag her over and throw her down on the grass? She would fall easily, without a sound, like a stone statue—and, of course, pretend to lose consciousness. Since the white coat would be too conspicuous, perhaps I should sprinkle some dry grass over her … a motionless girl buried under dead grass. Under the grass, she would quickly slip out of her clothes—naked. Only her arms and legs, projecting from the grass, would be uncovered. The wind would blow, carrying away the grass around her face … and then the face would suddenly change into that of the woman on the other side of the lemon-yellow curtains. A still stronger wind would arise and scatter the remaining grass. But instead of the naked body that I expected, only a black hole would appear. The white-coated silhouette of the girl turned directly under the street light, swelling out before my eyes, and then vanishing into the darkness. Her arms and legs disappeared too, and only the hole, like a bottomless well, was left.
She seemed to be wearing frozen fish bladders for shoes. But I would wait another half hour. If my expectations were justified—and I could only assume they were—the silhouette of the girl leaning over beyond the curtains would surely appear. This was a different situation from the one of the girl under the grass. The choice was not mine but hers.
I had verified this before: when she had tried telephoning, there was only one posture she could take, since the chair was in her way. By the window, facing sideways, the very top of her head seemed cut off against the light. The curtain material was rather heavy, but the weave was coarse and it was practically certain that a shadow would show through. If only I could catch her telephoning I would not have waited in vain, frozen as I was. The person on the phone was decidedly a curious fellow, someone she called “brother.” A strange one, who, she said, was kind, clever, self-sacrificing, and who, because of a profound philosophy of life, had no permanent address. He had acted on behalf of the applicant, yet at the crucial moment he was leaving negotiations in the hands of a woman in the early stages of alcoholism, drowning in her own monologues, rolling in laughter, tickled by a phantom husband, dreaming a nightmare with her eyes wide open. He was an irresponsible