The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [41]
But it was not the movement alone: I had been straining all my nerves, really laughing when I laughed, really angered when I expressed anger.
Anyway, in that time even the most trivial expression became deeply etched on the surface of my face as an unalterable coat of arms. For example, if I had repeatedly made artificial smiles, then my mask would be forever branded with artificial smiles. So I was obliged to be prudent of even casual imprints when I considered that they would be formally recorded as a part of my life.
I prepared a hot towel and massaged my face. The steam penetrated my skin. As I had stimulated the sweat glands with the infra-red lamp and blocked the openings with adhesive material, the skin was naturally inflamed. It would surely have a bad effect on the keloid scar too. But the condition could not get any worse than it was, and at this point it served no purpose to be concerned about it. It makes no difference to a dead man whether he is buried or cremated.
For three more days I repeated the process in the same order. Since I had corrected what needed correcting and the mask had arrived at a stable state, on the third day I decided to try eating my supper while wearing it. I should have to try it sometime, of course; why put off what could be done now? And I would be prepared when the situation demanded it. After the adhesive had set sufficiently, I tousled my hair to conceal the hairline, put on some amber sunglasses so that the line around my eyes was not obvious, and completed my preparations just as if I were going out.
Avoiding looking into the nearby mirror, I first laid out on the table the dishes of food left over from the evening before and, imagining that I was dining in a restaurant with a lot of people, I slowly raised my face and looked in the mirror.
Of course, my companion raised his face too and looked back. Then adjusting the movements of his features with mine, he began to chew his bread. When I ate my soup, he ate his. Our breathing, exactly coordinated, was most natural. The dullness of the nerves around my lips slightly reduced my sense of taste and made chewing awkward; but when I got accustomed to it, I would certainly be able to forget the feeling of the lips as easily as of a false tooth. Yet drops of saliva and soup tended to escape from the corners of my lips, and I realized I needed to pay constant attention.
Suddenly my companion arose and came to look at me with an expression of suspicion. At that instant I was enveloped by a strange feeling of harmony, sharp yet rapturous, shocking yet smooth, as if too many sleeping pills were all at once beginning to take effect. Perhaps cracks were opening in this husk of mine. For some time we gazed at each other, but my companion laughed first. Drawn in, I too chuckled, and then with no resistance I slipped into his face. At once we fused, and I became him. I wasn’t particularly envious of his face, but I did not find it unpleasant; I had apparently begun to feel and to think with it. Everything was going perfectly, so that even I who knew the trick scarcely suspected it.
Surely the glove fitted too well. I wondered if, swallowing the thing whole as I did, some reaction wouldn’t occur later. I stepped back five or six steps and shut my eyes, then judging the moment when I looked most cantankerous, I snapped them open. But my face was laughing as before, vibrating like a tuning fork. There seemed to be no mistake. Moreover, I appeared to have grown, at a conservative estimate, five years younger.
Yet why had I been so worried until yesterday? I had rationalized that one need have no scruples about the skin of the face, because it is unrelated to a man’s personality; but this was merely prevarication, bound after all by prejudice. Compared to scar webs or bandages, this plastic mask was a far more living face. The former were trompe l’œil doors