Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [50]
“Was the payment taken care of?”
“Yes. He even showed me the receipt.”
“I wonder if he was going to use that money to leave home on.”
“He couldn’t have done that. That’s inconceivable.” Suddenly her smooth, waxlike expression became severe and rough, as if sprinkled with sand, and lines of small white wrinkles formed around her nipplelike lips. Unconcernedly she picked at her tooth with her thumbnail. “Don’t say such things. You’ve no proof.”
“But proof is a part of fact, you know. What am I supposed to do … since you don’t seem to have much taste for facts?”
“Well, I can’t believe he’d do that. I suppose it’s a fact that he did disappear, but the question is what was he escaping from, isn’t it. It wasn’t only from me. I think it wasn’t from me at all, in fact. It must have been from something else, something quite different.”
I was suddenly dejected. I placed my briefcase on my lap and opened the flap. “Be that as it may, shall I show you my report? As you say yourself, only worthless facts.”
Predictably she shifted in her seat, and with a tense expression, at first hurriedly and then more slowly, began to read with the intent watchfulness of someone crossing a stream on a single log.
“Of course, the facts are like clams: the more you tease them the more tightly they keep their mouths shut, and there’s no way to pry them open. If you try to force them out they die, and you’ve lost the shadow as well as the substance. The only thing to do is wait until they open by themselves. The same with this newspaper. Perhaps the key is hidden, and looking back later, you’ll say: ‘Ah, so that was it!’ As things stand now, the newspaper’s no help. Why was it together with the matchbox? There would seem to be a reason for that too. Generally facts are not where you expect them.”
She raised her face from the report. She had until now assumed any number of different expressions, but this time it was a new one that I had never seen before. The rims of her eyes reddened and her frightened, entreating breathing was labored, as if, inhaling, she would forget to let her breath out. Her first words were inaudible; then after a moment, she said: “There is a relationship. Please don’t misunderstand me.”
“Bicycle racing or horse racing? Is that it?”
“No. The telephone number.”
“What about the telephone number?”
“I really didn’t mean to conceal it or anything like that.”
“What number?”
“The same one as on the matchbox. Now where is it …?”
Her finger ran irregularly, restlessly, like an ant with a broken neck, over the Help Wanted columns on the fourth page. The finger of a doll, unarticulated, slender, pliant—even though she lied—a fabricated finger without the slightest flaw.
“You mean Help Wanted—Female Clerk?”
“No, not that. Drivers … Here it is.”
Her finger had at length stopped. Driver Wanted. Best salary. No age limit. Bring statement for interview or send same. May live in or out.
The telephone number at the lower left of the page was indeed the same as that of the Camellia coffee house.
“I didn’t lie, really,” she said, shaking her head back and forth, as if desperately supplicating. “I have no idea why I didn’t say something. Yes, you may be right, maybe I am afraid of facts.”
“You don’t have to justify yourself, I’m not a prosecutor or a judge. I’m merely your employee, hired for money. Furthermore, I give preference to the protection and the interests of my clients over facts. If there is some terrible fact, tell me, please. It’s my responsibility to protect you from it. For heaven’s sake, can it be that bad?”
“No, it’s not. It’s already been settled, anyway,” she said, lowering her eyes. Abruptly she arose. “Can’t I bring you a beer or something?”
“All right … just to keep you company.”
At this point it served no purpose to concern myself with her health. She needed beer. I needed the one who needed the beer. I was fed up with unnecessary setbacks. She darted into the kitchen beyond the curtain like a dog unleashed.
“Yes, I might as well call the issue settled. I went myself to