Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [14]
Underneath appeared a telephone number in red letters. A hotel sign was also suspended with a yard-long hand, on which appeared the words
RIGHT HERE
Then, acting as a kind of awning for the guard house at the entrance:
HANAWA PRIVATE TAXI—OFFICE
I paid my seventy yen to the wizened guard, who was seated with his legs wrapped around a brazier. I thrust the stamped receipt into my wallet, thinking that I must not forget to add this to my report. When I looked back, the curtain, which had seemed to be mesh when I was inside, was blocking the window of the Camellia coffee house like black paint, reflecting in all its gaudy coloring the front of the drugstore on the opposite corner. A cat as fat as a pig appeared on the eaves of the second story and composedly began to walk along the edge, but after five or six steps it suddenly vanished. Just at the point where the eaves left off, the chimney of a public bath rose up, trailing smoke as transparent as gossamer. My immediate reflex was to seize my camera, but it was not that important. The probability of coming back here was so slight, what particular evidence could it be?
MY CAR was the third one in the left-hand row. It was hidden by the car in front, and I did not locate it at once. When I finally spied its pig-nosed snout, a man approached rapidly from the direction of the guard house, crunching over the gravel.
Was he going to ask for more money?
His face was covered in smiles as he boldly looked me over, slowly, from head to foot. He had an unpleasant glint about his eyes. He was on the slim side, and his black coat hung straight down from his wide shoulders, breaking sharply at the pocket, perhaps because of something in it. His somewhat too long sideburns gave him a rather rowdy appearance, which in turn gave the lie to his fixed smile. He had a peculiar way of walking, as if purposely wanting to attract attention with his swagger. Maybe the aggressive impression he made was due to his eyes, which were too close together.
“Say! You from the detective agency?”
It was a voice I remembered hearing. There was no stammering, but the timbre was heavy, as if too much saliva had accumulated in his mouth. So that was it: the voice on the telephone that had placed the request on behalf of the woman. My interrogator continued to smile, but I could not answer at once. I was confused, and more than anything I experienced a deep feeling of defeat.
Frankly, I had given up hope of meeting the man. Perhaps it was because last night’s vigil had proved fruitless and had simply numbed me. I was beginning to have the feeling that it was more difficult to believe that the man existed at all than that he was the actual brother. She could have easily hired a man to make the telephone call in her behalf. On the other hand, suppose it had actually been the brother, the situation would be no better at all. The fact would remain that he was a man who could not be seen—any more than the one who had disappeared. Moreover, having to pretend at such a childish game suggested something very shady. He was playing a game, fully counting on being suspected of complicity. I realized this with a feeling bordering on resignation.
Apparently, without my realizing it, things were getting to a point where I myself was being drawn into what could be a crime.
And, yes, there was also the matchbox. I felt that the matchbox itself, independent of the Camellia coffee house, was suspicious. The box had already been opened, and it contained matchsticks with two different kinds of tips.
White-tipped sticks and black-tipped sticks.
If I thought about this too much, I had the perilous presentiment that I could not help but tread willy-nilly among the blank spaces on the map. I had no intention of rashly letting my opponent in on these misgivings. That much I knew. The money that had been paid was completely for the benefit and protection of my client, and the pursuit of facts was in all events secondary.
I gave up. How could I be anything but confused with the appearance of such a fellow