Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [46]
“Things look pretty funny. You’d better be taking off.”
“Funny? In what way?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, glancing around restlessly. “I have the feeling they’re plotting against me.”
“I just saw a funny drunk. On the verge of blubbering. Says he’s being investigated as a missing person.”
“Such stupid morons, really.”
“I hope the fuel supplier’s boss is not in the plot.”
Dropping my arm, he stopped an instant and peered at me. “Stop imagining such nonsense,” he said. “I’ve been telling you. It’s a waste of time to come snooping around here. Money comes and money goes, but thirty thousand yen is still quite a bit. I’m asking you … get out of here quick.”
“But I’m drunk.”
“Being drunk’s nothing, if those guys really get rough. Don’t be silly,” he said. At that very instant a gang of men—seven or eight of them—who had slowly cut across near the bonfire, as if to move among the buses, suddenly changed direction and surrounded the fire. It was unclear who struck out first, but suddenly the dark silhouettes turned into a tangled mass. Two of the girls shrieked and began running toward us. But they were captured at once. More reinforcements came, and the girls, like sacks of potatoes, were hoisted on shoulders, several men to each one, and carried away into the darkness beyond the circle of buses. Their cracked voices, shouting abuses and calling for help, came wailing back. Instantly, outcries and sounds of things breaking exploded from the bus nearest the embankment, drowning out the girls’ screams. There came the sound of breaking glass; and thrown rocks, clearing the bus, landed at my feet. Around the bonfire the situation had changed, and the three men had already shifted to counterattack. A screaming workman had been dragged in between them, something was swung over his head, and he was thrown violently down. He was kicked—possibly his arm was broken—and he fell writhing on the stones of the river bed. Several workmen knocked over the burning drum and, brandishing flaming pieces of wood, set upon the three men. But the reactions of the three youths were instantaneous and smooth. Apparently, they had got hold of some effective weapon, for they at once put their attackers to retreat. The workmen then began to use the fire to attack the buses. They began throwing the burning brands through the broken windows. They launched an attack against the three youths by throwing rocks. The three returned the fire, but victory went to the larger numbers. Little by little the young men gave ground; by that time all the buses had become objects of attack. The gas range had been dragged out. The gas tank had begun to send out flames. Pieces of crockery were smashed one after the other. But the destructive power of the mob could not be totally effective, for the force of the attacks was dispersed by the seductions of the saké and cheap whisky, which were now being swilled greedily, and, of course, by the two women who had been carried away down the river bed.
“I’m going to talk things over with the office people,” yelled the brother, threading his way through the confusion and beginning to run. Just as he was crossing the semicircle of buses, he was overtaken by several workmen and thrown to the ground. Nevertheless, I made no move toward him. As I intently observed the black, agonizing, squirming mass, I did not regret nor did I feel particularly responsible for not extending a helping hand.
But, strangely enough, a bus came to his aid at the critical instant. The one situated at the deepest point in the circle—one that had been able to escape the destruction,