Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [86]
“It’s already a long time ago, but I once had a terrible experience that still makes me shudder,” continued Tashiro, his gaze flitting regularly between me and the outside. I had the feeling he was quite off his guard. “At the time, I was relaxing on a bench in some park. On the bench right next to mine a beggar was stretched out asleep. He was over three yards away. Since the day was terribly hot, I was obliged to put up with him for a little. Meanwhile, it occurred to me that things had got pretty noisy around me, and then a huge demonstration came along from somewhere with a lot of red flags and blue flags. Groups singing songs, groups shouting threateningly through loudspeakers, groups imitating double time, their arms linked, streamed endlessly by. Before I realized it, the beggar had arisen and was looking at them. Suddenly he burst out crying. His lips were all contorted, and he was shedding great tears as he clutched the front of his torn shirt, his shoulders heaving. Never before or since have I witnessed such mournful sobbing. He was weeping for the demonstration, of course. Since the day was hot and he was covered with dust, beggar that he was, the teardrops falling from his chin were pitch black, like dirty water wrung from a mop. You’re pretty far gone if you get sad and lonely just watching people walking by.”
“Let’s go someplace else and have a drink, shall we? It’s on me.”
“You don’t have to do that … really …”
“That’s all right. Besides, I have two or three more things I’d like to ask about.”
“Ah. You mean blackmailing retailers and that sort of thing?”
“Where’s a good spot? Some place not very expensive … one that’s interesting.”
“Then let’s go to the bar next door to the studio where Saeko is. The models on call spend their time drinking there while they wait. It’s not exactly regular, but the management’s in on it and they give a discount to customers waiting to be called. In any case, you’d like to meet Saeko, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you a regular customer?”
“Absolutely not. How much do you think my salary is?”
FROM EVENING on, the cold was not so biting, perhaps because it had become cloudy. But the wind had ceased and apparently the fog was coming in; it was like looking through wet glass. The neon lights and the street lights fused, clinging together like cheap water-soaked gumdrops. The commercial main street was making preparations for closing, but the minute we turned into a side street we found ourselves in a section where the most animated hours of the day were just beginning. Coffee houses large and small, arcades with pinball machines, drinking stalls, eating stalls … and mixed in among them all, second-hand camera shops and book shops, shops with materials for Western clothes, and somewhat more elegant record shops. Last of all there was a whole block of nothing but bars and coffee houses and one pharmacy. We crossed another main street and there was a block of bars, small drinking stalls, and nightclubs. Buildings were sharply etched against the evening sky colored by the light of the neon tunnel behind us, but the sky where we were was strangely black, and men loitering in groups filled the street; gradually