Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [68]
Perhaps so. If I were told it was true, I should begin to feel it was. Even if it were, I had been shaken by his brother-in-law’s death, and this was far better than my attitude up to this point: to put the essential him out of my mind.
Perhaps the husband’s silhouette had come into view. In some corner of the superimposed town landscapes there were empty black holes. Shadows of the nonexistent husband, he was not alone; there was a limitless number of different hims. Mine, hers, his. Apparently in my mind some great change was beginning to take place.
I drove into a rest area where there was a public telephone. No sooner had I got out of the car than the sun, as if it had been brushed away, went behind the clouds. Nevertheless, in the booth it was still warm and damp, and, doubtless because of its infrequent use, there was a pungent smell of mold.
“SORRY. I’m late in getting in touch with you.”
“It’s just as well. I’m exhausted with crying. I’m just about out of tears.”
The hoarse tone in her voice was quite the same as usual and she was unpleasantly self-contained, but the cause doubtless lay in the beer rather than in the passage of time.
“Everyone will be upset if you’re late, I imagine.”
“They’re not concerned about me at all. Of course, the expenses all come from the association. You’d think they were closer blood relations than I am. I got these mourning clothes at a rental place.”
“They suit you. I suppose it’s curious to say so, but black becomes you.”
A sharp slope cut across the high ground of the housing development to the south. There, a long flight of stone stairs lay between clumps of bamboo on either side. I could see the slender nape of her neck as she led the way down.
“Have you asked anyone yet about the conditions and the reason that such a thing would happen to your brother?”
“I can hardly believe it was my brother. After all, I really didn’t know anything about him.”
“It happened right after he left me last evening, apparently. I feel responsible in a number of ways.”
“But no one has mentioned anything about your being with him.”
“It’s getting chilly, isn’t it. Cloudy again.”
The bamboo gave way to a graveyard, immediately to the right where the stairs left off. There a small old temple was situated, only the roof tiles of which had any luster. The circumstances of the town had radically changed, the parishioners had decreased, and now, probably, the only source of income was funerals. The little temple was so dilapidated that braces were attached with heavy rope to the pillars, which had been eaten away by termites. Indeed, the growth in population had meant a proportionate increase in fu nerals. Perhaps the desolation was the fault of irresponsible financial management on the part of the chief priest, or else a measure to avoid taxes.
When we passed through the gate we could see the black and white mottled funeral drapery suspended in front of the temple. On either side of the path that led from the information desk to the hanging, holding their cold hands over small hibachi stoves, stood youths, who gave the impression of still being children. The intervals between them were as regular as the spaces between telephone poles. Every time we approached one, he bowed his head low, one following the other like machines. Their overly formal manner, their hands on their thighs and their legs slightly apart, made an eerie impression, but one which was also comical. In our office we had people who were syndicate-oriented like that too, but one didn’t expect to see such old-fashioned ritual.
Inside the curtain, it was still and hushed. The depressing fragrance of the rising incense suggested the smell of death. A lone priest kept up the soft, lazy droning of a sacred text. There were four wreaths and on each one were written the words Yamato Association. It would seem that the funeral was the second cheapest type.
In front and extending to the left