Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [63]
Naturally, a gritty dust streamed and whirled with the pieces of paper, so that the structure of the wind was like lace. It blended with the dirt of my car, which somehow seemed unexpectedly conspicuous. Perhaps it was not dust that swirled in whirlpools, but light which assumed the form of dust. The odor and taste of February dust suggests something springlike. To me, the light today was the color of cream. In order not to stand out, I had not had the car washed for more than a fortnight, leaving it to collect dirt, but perhaps it should be cleaned the next time I stopped for gas.
The alarm stopped ringing and the arrow indicating the train direction went out; the barrier gate, wide for the four-track bed used for express trains, sprang up. The human wave, like the sand in an hourglass, flowed through the constriction, while the cars, fending the surge of people, slowly began to cross over. Before the head car had finished going over, the second alarm began to ring. I was the last car to make it across.
I turned left at the second alley. Fortunately, just beyond the first telephone pole a parking place was free. It was barely enough for one car, but by backing in at an angle I squeezed in. When I got out, I noticed that in the dust on the side of my car someone had written in big letters, FOOL—when I wasn’t looking. They must have been in a hurry, for the last part was blurred. There were signs of a thick glove.
I returned to the main street by the way I had just come. In a self-consciously modern display window on the right-hand corner, a mannequin decorated in tones of purple, its arms and legs detached, was suspended by wires; and various articles of clothing, each different, for hands, arms, torso, and legs, were cleverly hung onto the body. There was no other decoration, and the figure was lined up against mirrors, which stood in a complex arrangement. It all stimulated the imagination strangely, giving the effect indeed that there were more than ten mannequins.
Three years ago the street would never have accepted such a display, but now things were different. Every place has its ups and downs. Then, it was merely a typical suburban street with a pinball parlor bleating out its old records and variety stores carrying only cheap goods, all of this centered around a grimy movie theater that showed three-month-old films. It barely sustained a main-street atmosphere. Perhaps there had been a change in the up-down cycle, for the whole city was gluttonously gobbling up more and more. In this neighborhood, the structural appearance of a main street had been established without too much unnaturalness. Actually, across the way, a supermarket with an underground garage was under construction. It was useless to argue back and forth that it was because she was farsighted or that it was due to a stroke of good luck. Anyway, I had lost.
PICCOLA DRESSMAKING
From a flute-shaped arm was suspended a thick, milk-white acrylic board, inlaid with thin aluminum strips that formed a kind of massive cursive script. I could not help but recognize that it was very stylish and individual. Piccola had evidently been my wife’s nickname during her school years. I did not assume that the name bore an especially pejorative meaning, but also I definitely thought it had been given her not only in a good sense. My wife interpreted it arbitrarily as being a pet name, and carrying it further, a term of endearment. Maybe that quality was itself piccola. I was fascinated by this aspect of her. I still maintain it implies a virtue as well as a fault.
The door next to the display window was a single black acrylic panel. Like a mirror, it reflected the board fence around the construction site across the street, and in it appeared the image of my whole body. A disreputable character much more suitable to be sought than to be seeking, with his unsteady shoulders in the mirror, as if he