Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [41]
When we drew near the site, I could sense an even greater animation than I had from the river bank. They had placed boards for shelter from the rain over the folding doors in the back of the buses, and the rear alcove was turned into a counter where, standing up, one could consume boiled vegetables, saké, hot dogs, and noodles. Behind the counter was a gas range and, at the moment, what appeared to be a cook with a white apron was seated cross-legged on a rather thick cushion. As the counter rose only about four inches from the floor, one had to bend rather low to pick up the food.
There were six miniature buses in all—I wondered if the fuel supply workers had lied to me or whether only tonight there were fewer than usual—and three of the six had a number of customers. In the center of the semicircle of buses, three girls and two men stood round a bonfire burning in a drum. The men wore low black boots and quilted jackets with wild vertical stripes and tawny waistbands—no doubt about what kind of crowd they were. The girls were swathed in heavy coats up to their ears, and the tops of their heads were all one could see. Their vulgar hairdos, teased by the blaze that spurted from the drum, were quite appropriate for a dirty mattress. A young man, carrying kerosene drums in both hands, clumped heavily over the stones from the direction of the river. Perhaps he had gone for water. It might be a good idea to disinfect the boiled vegetables here with a little saká. He went straight toward the bus at the right-hand edge of the semicircle. For some reason no customers were there nor were the lanterns burning.
Indeed, as the fuel supply workers had said, he seemed quite well known. In the livid light, the cook’s yellow, conspicuously dropsical, unshaven face displayed a nonetheless friendly sloe-eyed smile as he wiped his hands on his apron.
“Pretty chilly.”
“What about a cup of warm saké?” said the brother invitingly.
“I’ll take noodles, since I’m driving.”
I was not bluffing or being particularly obstinate. I had the tendency to arouse a policeman’s antipathy more than was necessary. Perhaps it was because in some way our professions seemed to have too many points in common. For my own protection, I should try not to hurt feelings. If I could drink I would, of course. But if I did, I would have to leave my car here. If tomorrow, with the trouble of coming all the way out here again, I could still make the money seem right on the books, well, that would be another story. Supposing, for instance, that by coming again I was clever enough to put my hands on M and be able to get hold of some conclusive testimony …
He put the noodles, newly made, which were cleverly wrapped around his chopsticks, into the boiling kettle, carefully stirring them so they would not spread out. The characteristic smell of lard and flour stung my nostrils pleasantly.
“Say, if you’re cold, I’ll borrow a muffler for you.” He turned to the unshaven cook and said: “Give him something.”
I had refused before the cook began searching the shelf behind him, whereupon the brother said hurriedly: “Come on, give us a raw egg on the house.” He stood up abruptly and walked off in the direction of the bonfire. The men there greeted him as they stood with their arms stiff by their sides, their legs apart, their shoulders back, only their heads bent. He simply nodded. Apparently, he was the leader. But the girls disinterestedly waved their hands. He was apparently more than a good customer. Well, the men at the fuel supplier’s had described him as a tough. This self-styled brother met the description.
“You in the same gang as that guy?”
“No, only a friend.”
The cook looked down at his hands; perhaps it was my imagination, but he seemed to be faintly smiling. With his empty hand he vigorously began to scratch his crotch. In an instant my appetite left me—-but, well, his hand was on the outside and the crockery had apparently already been boiled. I would stand it this time.
If it were true that the brother was a thug, my intuition