Ruined Map - Abe Kobo [95]
Supposing he were standing here now and not I … supposing he had come stealthily, concealed under the cover of darkness, looking up at the house he had abandoned, what would he be thinking? I tried as best I could to put myself in his position, but it would not work. I didn’t know why, but the silhouette of the driver of the taxi I had just taken forced itself before my eyes. That slimy, malicious runt, from whose entire body rose an animal stench, breathing dissatisfaction instead of air, circulating in his veins venom instead of blood. Such a man would not stand around here. He would have no time to compare stealthily his own fate with the lemon-yellow window. But it didn’t mean that all drivers were always like that. For instance, there were also family men like Toyama, who had bought the car. Of course, the husband had to be himself. He couldn’t let himself be replaced with someone else. The husband … he had tried to run from the filing cabinets of life, turning his back squarely on whatever hopes he had for festivals. Had he not wanted to set out for some eternal festival that could never be realized?
One day, unexpectedly, he had come upon a poster pasted on some wall or telephone pole … a broadside telling of a great festival, inconspicuous with its faded colors, and blanched by the wind and the rain. The time and place were blank, but that only served to stimulate his hopes. Without looking behind, he set out in search of the festival that was announced … he went toward an eternal festival, one that would end only with death, one that was different from the pseudo-fêtes each night that only the darkness and neon lights could cover up. If darkness were indispensable for the festival ceremonies, it would be a world of perpetual night. He joined the unending, circling waltz, unrelated to the pieces of paper dancing in the wind, the sadness and fatigue that come after a festival.
Now he is standing here, balancing the weight of unfulfilled dreams with what he has lost. What will he do? I search and fumble for him … but in vain. This blackness I am seeking is after all merely my own self … my own map, revealed by my brain. I am the one standing here, not he. Properly speaking, the place where I should be standing is not here but in front of the board fence around the construction site from which the window of my wife’s room is visible. I stand trembling, seeking the window of a stranger who has only the accidental relationship with me of being my client. Perhaps the husband is standing under some unexpected window too, one that does not even appear on his own map. Is he sleeping now in that place, that place nobody else can ever reach? Or is he awake, is he laughing or crying … is he angry or bored … does he despair or is he in good spirits … is he helplessly drunk, does his tooth ache, is he frightened, is he fuming like a burning pot, is he all upset or is he relieved, has he lost his way, is he falling down with a crash, is he concentrating on counting out his pocket money, is he addicted to memories, is he gathering together his appointments for tomorrow, is he alone with his nightmares, is he tearing out his hair with remorse, or with faint breath does he keep forcing the blood from a deep wound?
But I was the one standing here now. There was no mistake, I was the one. I thought I was following the husband’s map, but I was following my own; I wanted to follow in his steps and I followed my own. Suddenly I was frozen still. But it was not only because of the cold … nor was it the fault of the liquor alone, nor of my shame. My perplexity gave way to uneasiness, and that changed to fear. My gaze traveled along the corner of Building 3, running up and down; looking back, I counted the buildings from the end. Again, a second time, a third time I counted. My eyes continued like a madman’s up and down, down and up along the corner of the same building.