Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [60]
“If it’s hard for you to talk just tell me where I can inquire … that’ll be fine.”
The old man’s troubled gaze, like a cornered mouse running around trying to find its hole, shifted in a triangle formed by me, the black window of the Camellia, and the burned spot in the blanket over his knees. He gave a short cough, plunged his hands under the blanket and then immediately withdrew them and rubbed them together. Resignedly, he wiped away the secretion from the corners of his eyes with the same finger he had used to wipe the dribble of his nose, and clicking his tongue, said: “Well then, please yourself. Try driving around here about seven in the morning.”
“Sort of accidentally …?”
“Yes, accidentally.”
Same day: 12:06 P.M.—Visited Mr. Toyama, the man to whom the person under investigation sold the car he had been using until two days before disappearing. Toyama was not at home, but I was told that he was expected for lunch, being under treatment for a stomach disorder. I decided to ask if I might not wait for him a while. Toyama’s house was not number 24, as my client had told me, but 42, and therefore it took me some time and pains to find it. Even so, I was obliged to wait. The silver lining to my cloud was that at least I reduced the waiting time.
It was a rather squalid corner of development housing. The fence was dilapidated. A ’63 Corona was nosed into the narrow yard. Perhaps that was the car Toyama had purchased from the missing man. It was in excellent condition and the tires almost new. Toyama’s wife is about thirty. Two children, two and four; both girls. In the yard there seemed to be something like a vegetable garden covered with vinyl—the whole complex revealed a thoroughly wholesome family atmosphere. For some time the sun had been shining and the garden was a pool of light. Since the temperature was such as to make me want to take off my coat, I declined the invitation to go in and asked if I might not sit on the verandah.
According to what Toyama’s wife said … (at this juncture there were two short toots of a horn; Toyama himself had apparently returned).
Same day: 12:19 P.M.—Toyama’s back. Since he seemed busy I took his deposition while he ate. Toyama’s meal consisted of bread and a souplike mush. He complained that he had to build up his strength a lot, that he had to watch out for his stomach, and that driving a taxi was exhausting. But he seemed genuinely concerned about the circumstances of the missing man and was most cooperative in answering my questions.
The following is the dialogue that took place between us:
Q. How did you happen to buy the car from Mr. Nemuro?
A. Through a friend who had bought one previously. It had been highly recommended as being reasonable in price and the repair work was good. In fact, I considered it a good buy.
Q. Didn’t you meet with Mr. Nemuro at the Camellia coffee house?
A (Somewhat surprised expression). Yes, I did. Just about the time I left my job over something quite insignificant and had been doing temporary work and fronting for some time.
Q. What is fronting?
A. Fronting is when you go directly to an office and stand in front of the door to get temporary work. As a general rule, big companies don’t use the fronting system to hire drivers, but they do when they have to lay off a car because a driver’s sick or absent. You can’t ignore the loss. The fronters and odd jobbers are out to make money, so they don’t pay any attention to the law and work a full twenty-four-hour shift. If you go round to two or three places somebody’ll generally hire you.
Q. Does the Camellia have anything to do with fronting?
A (Slightly perplexed). I’m back at my old office and don’t have anything to do with the Camellia