Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [113]
The woman again returned to her stool and crossed her legs. The heel of the shoe on the upper foot was half off and the roundness of her ankle was more provocative. I lowered my eyes. Well, I would attempt some final challenge with these two clues. The badge with its slightly raised center was an equilateral triangle with rounded corners, and a border of silver lay on a blue cloisonné ground. In the center, in high relief, was an S, similarly of silver. It was a deformed character made up of straight lines, and at first glance seemed to be a flash of lightning. Or perhaps it was not an S, but had been lightning to start with. If it were a lightning flash I assumed it must have something to do with electricity, but for the present I had no clue. Yet I couldn’t go through the telephone book from the beginning for the name of a company that began with S, and I was quite at a loss what to do. But from the way it was made, it didn’t seem to be a child’s plaything, and I imagined it had a meaning of its own. As I looked at it intently, I began to have the feeling that it was the badge of some dangerous secret society. But except for the anxiety it produced in me, I had no idea what it might be. After all, it was only something that made me aware that I could not carry it in my hand.
The scrap of note paper was mystifying to me, and the result was the same as for the badge. It bore something like a map, and there were what seemed to be designs for water or gas conduits, and something like the cross section of a pump—they could be almost anything, according to how you looked at them. In the corner were seven finely written numerals … perhaps a telephone number. Naturally I had no memory of having written them myself, nor any recollection of having been given them by anybody. These figures were impossibly vexing as if one were presented with an unanswerable question. But what about actually trying to get the number on the telephone? Using it as an avenue to my past, I might be able to call back my memory.
The phone was in the corner next to the cash register. The woman’s stool was right behind. Even when I passed in front of her, she scarcely changed her position. The knee that was sticking out was about to graze my arm, but she gave no indication of trying to avoid me. She pursed her lips, compressing the air in her mouth, and when she released them made a faint sound like a kiss. It was like a greeting, but if so, it was a very dangerous one. If not, I had no idea what it could be.
But when I picked up the receiver, an uneasiness welled up within me. I had the impression I was undertaking to disassemble a bomb, the technique of which I was unfamiliar with. Perhaps I was jumping right into a waiting trap. Slowly, checking the number, I dialed. How should I start talking if there was an answer? The most important thing was not to let the other person become suspicious. Somehow I would have to prolong the conversation and find out the person’s identity and address. No good … I was getting the busy signal. I tried redialing, but the line was really busy. I let a little time go by as I smoked a cigarette and continued dialing, about seven times in all over a period of close to twenty minutes, but each time the same sharp busy signal sounded again.
Absently I shifted my gaze; the woman was intently biting on her thumbnail. The red-lacquered nail was like a peach stone. Her lips moved mincingly. The end of the nail was inserted between her two lips and was being gnawed by the upper and lower teeth. She had completely lost herself in the act of gnawing. Since it meant she had forgotten herself, she had surely forgotten about me too. I was suddenly uneasy. If she had completely forgotten, would not the street then return to its