Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [25]
Fortunately, thanks to the excellence of his techniques, the incident had become labyrinthine, and contrary to his expectations had resulted in his being cornered himself. In the end, it would get too hot for him and he would go into hiding somewhere. However, supposing the wife, who was the client, knew all about these events and was covering up his escape … Then I had no role to play here.
But if I did nothing at all, I would be sorry later. Whatever happened I could not give up—there was some hope, albeit slight. I had been numbed to the bone like a frozen fish by that frigid wind, but the faint light of the lemon-yellow window had transfixed me. I could not help but feel I was being beckoned in, that she wanted me to ignore the fence and come in. There was no basis for such a thought. Yet my heart throbbed. I had a nagging suspicion that my client’s fence was not necessarily one and the same as that of her self-styled brother. No, I was not happy with things. Somehow I had a terrible feeling of alienation from the brother. So I would be as watchful as a hunting dog, hiding myself in the breach in the fence ready to jump through at any time.
The breach in the fence was the matchbox …
There were no untruths in the report I had composed con cerning the Camellia coffee house. Not only were there no untruths; there was a definite line of thought. I had not been able to make a single discovery linking the husband with the Camellia. Providing I took into consideration only the exterior of the matchbox. Once I looked inside, there was that bothersome fact which I could not make jibe with the plot no matter how I might plead and entreat: the different kinds of tips—nine white tips mixed with twenty-six black tips. For, yes, the tips of the matchsticks which I had received this morning at the Camellia were white, and so the twenty-six black ones must obviously have been added later. Could there be anyone today who went around filling coffee house matchboxes? No matter how prices soar, matches and water are still free wherever you go.
But I had passed over that in my report. I had not broken down the protective fence. I wanted very much to, but I hadn’t got up enough determination … yet.
It was sometime last night that I had noticed the different kinds of matches. After I had been rejected by the lemon-yellow window and at last got in my car, the heater simply drove my cold numbness inward; and my frustration became a ceaseless trembling, which I could not control, so great, indeed, that I had misgivings about being able to drive. Impatient with the increasingly congested traffic, I decided to leave my car in the lot in front of S—– station.
I went past a movie theater and turned down an alleyway. Dark depressions, ripped asphalt, uneven walls crowded against expectant faces. But the commotion was illusory, and what I saw was in reality only a man, squatting in the shadow of a telephone pole plastered with advertisements. Hastily I finished urinating and with a blank expressionless face pushed open the left-hand side of the great double doors leading into a brightly lit saké cafeteria on the next corner. I was surprised at how late it was. I had an unpleasant feeling of quiet, for there was less than half of the usual number of customers. At the cashier’s box by the entrance I changed four hundred-yen coins into ten-yen pieces. Against the back wall, side by side, stood white rectangular boxes bordered in vermilion—eight in all—which, had brand names not been painted on them, would have looked for all the world like pumps in a gas station. Slipping between the long, narrow tables, which were arranged in five parallel rows, I at once placed myself in front of the machine on the far right, which happened to be free. A characteristic pungent smell. The city stench of foul water backing up when, after ten in the evening, the flushing of sewage suddenly slackened. I inserted