The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [45]
Blue smoke enshrouded the place. An ancient electric fan made a clattering noise. Fortunately the three customers all seemed to be Koreans. At first blush, two of them were indistinguishable from Japanese, but the fluent exchange among them in Korean was unmistakable proof they were the real thing. Although it was mid-day, the three had emptied a good many bottles of beer, which had greatly speeded up their usual hurried manner of speaking.
As I ran my hands over the cheeks of my mask to check it, I was at once infected by their cheerfulness. Perhaps I was predisposing myself to getting drunk, feeling that I could if I really wanted to. Or was my state of mind like that of the beggar, a frequent type in novels, who wants to talk with his rich relatives? Anyway, sitting down at a table, I ordered some barbecued meat, preening like a movie hero.
A cockroach crawled up the wall. Rolling up a newpaper that someone had apparently forgotten, I struck it down. I absently glanced at the headlines; there were the usual columns of Help Wanted advertisements, guides to movies, music halls, and other amusement centers. As I threaded through the columns of the advertisements, a scene characterized by enigmas and whisperings began to unfold, to which the endless chattering of the three men was appropriate accompaniment.
Attached to an ashtray was a fortunetelling device. You put in a coin and pushed a button; out of a hole underneath came a tube of paper rolled to the size of a matchstick. My mask had apparently become so zestful as to want to try such a trivial thing. I opened the roll of paper and read my fortune:
Moderately lucky. If you wait, there will be fair weather for a sea voyage. If you see a “weeping mole,” go west.
In spite of myself I let out a suppressed laugh, and one of the three Koreans suddenly broke into Japanese. Turning to the girl who had brought my order, he shouted:
“Hey! Girl! You’ve got the face of a Korean country girl.”
I felt that he had screamed rather than simply raised his voice. Startled as if I myself had been insulted, I looked questioningly at the girl, but as she placed the plate of meat before me, she smiled at the laughter of the three, appearing not the least perturbed. I was confused. Perhaps there was not such a pejorative meaning to the Korean’s expression “country girl” as I had thought. Anyway, “rustic” fitted the man who was making the fuss more than it suited the girl, a middle-aged fellow who was the crudest of the three. Judging from their laughter, they had perhaps made a simple joke on themselves. Moreover, it was quite possible that the girl actually was Korean. It was not uncommon for Koreans of her generation to speak only Japanese. If she were Korean, his remark, far from poking fun, was rather more an affirmative, friendly remark. It must surely be that. In the first place, a Korean wouldn’t use the term “Korean” negatively, would he?
As my mind shifted back and forth, I ultimately came to feel unbearable remorse about my superficial self-deception, which contained such an impudent feeling of closeness to the Koreans. Figuratively, my attitude was like that of a white beggar treating a colored emperor as his bosom friend. Even though we were both objects of prejudice there was a difference between their case and mine. They had the right to sneer at people with prejudice; I did not. They had companions who joined with them against prejudice; I did not. If I sincerely wanted to stand on an equal footing with them, I should bravely