Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [17]
“That’s the kind of information I was looking for.” Immediately I recalled that there was indeed a manual on the repair of automobiles among the terribly indiscriminate yet practical collection of books that stood together on the shelf by the lemon-yellow curtains. Furthermore, I recognized my own negligence, and now took into account the cutaway sketch of the “Formula I” engine, on which there were entries in red ink, next to the Picasso. “You know, it’s a very distinct peculiarity, his having a first-class mechanic’s license. It’s not at all like a scar from an appendectomy or a mole. I’m hard put because you people don’t give me that kind of information.”
“You’re right. That’s bad.” He laughed, sticking out his thin lips. The finger which he suddenly extended grazed my side. “I’ll wager my sister’s mistaken you, a detective, for some tidbit to have along with her beer.”
“So what results did you get with your investigations?”
“Not a thing.” Turning in the direction of the attendant’s shack, he stuck out the little whitish tip of his tongue and spat. The spittle described a high arc and landed on the roof of a neighboring car. “The old fellow’s been penned in here all by himself for about a half year, I guess. But when you get into a conversation with him, he’s surprisingly alert for his age, a shrewd old guy. He sees things pretty well with that eye of his. It’s amusing to see things as a third person. You’re suddenly aware of things that would never have occurred to you otherwise.”
A line of dust flowed from the alley at the back—perhaps the direction of the wind had changed—whirling up the sand, surging and undulating among the cars. I could hear the continuous sound of some music box … no, it was the piping tune of a garbage-collector’s cart. Abruptly, the brother, his expression hardening, adjusted his muffler and said exasperatedly: “I don’t like that …”
“You mean the trash man?”
“It’s stupid—refuse and music, like that. If it’s all right with you, let’s go back to the coffee house and take a little breather.”
This time the invitation came from my companion in his restless voice, and I began to feel able to assess my own position, however vaguely.
“Among the things you have in your possessions, I would especially like to see the diary as soon as possible.”
“The diary? All right. But it’s nothing like a diary, you know. You’re only going to be disappointed.” He took a step forward, as if pressing me. “By the way, to change the subject, what do you think of my sister … as a woman? I’d like to hear your frank opinion.”
We were between two cars, with barely enough room for one person. If I did not move, we could only collide. Since I did nothing, my companion brought himself to a stop in the unnatural posture of taking a step forward.
“I really want you to tell me. Not as a professional detective, but seeing her as a man. I’ve been harping on a lot of things, but when I met you today that’s what I wanted to ask you most of all.”
“But we met by accident, didn’t we?”
An iron box, like an armored car with no loopholes, loudly spewing its saccharine tune, passed in front of the wire fence.
“Yes, sure it was by accident,” he said with his frozen laugh, twitching his cheeks. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. It looks as if I can rest assured about leaving matters in your hands.”
“The diary … when can I have the diary?”
There was an instant of sharp hostility in the glance he shot back at me. I withdrew a step, opening up the way. When he realized that I had no intention of accompanying him, he let the tenseness ebb