The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [48]
As I gazed at the sky, which was gradually assuming a rosier tint, my heart grew brighter too. When I thought of the tribulations I had undergone until now, the change was somewhat disappointing … rather out of proportion; but rowing out to sea like this had been an unique experience—perhaps I had no warrant for discontent. Giving heartfelt thanks that I had seized the opportunity of heaving to while still in sight of shore, I turned and looked at the mask on the table. I intended to bid it farewell, lightly with generosity and a clear, honest feeling of detachment.
But the brightness of the sky had not reached the mask. This dark countenance, belonging to another person, staring expressionlessly back at me checked any intimacy; it was like something concealing its own independent desires. It was like an evil spirit, I thought, that had come from some legendary country. And suddenly I recalled a fairytale I had read or heard far in the past.
Long ago, a king contracted a strange disease. It was a frightful malady that wasted his body. Neither doctors nor medicines were of any avail. Thereupon the king foreswore doctors and made a new law, which condemned to death anyone who looked upon his face. The law was effective; although the king’s nose disintegrated, and his hands disappeared from his wrists, and his legs vanished from the knees down, not a single person doubted that he was enjoying his customary health. The disease worsened, and the king, no longer able even to move, like a candle that had begun to melt, at length decided to seek help. But it was too late; his very mouth had gone. He died, but not a single one of the king’s faithful ministers suspected his absence. And since the silent ruler never again committed an error, it is said that for many years hence his people respected and felt affection for their wise sovereign.
I was suddenly irritated and, closing the window, threw myself once again on the bed. Actually I had tried the mask out for scarcely half a day—nothing to boast about. I could draw in my horns any time. Closing my eyes, I conjured up meaningless fragments of scenes one by one, starting with the rain-drenched window: a blade of grass sprouting from a crack in the pavement; a splotch on the wall in the shape of an animal; the bump on the old, scarred trunk of a tree; a spider’s web on the point of breaking under the weight of dewdrops. It was my ritual at times when I could not fall asleep.
But now it didn’t work. Indeed, for no reason my restlessness grew more and more intense. Suddenly I thought how good it would be if the fog outside were poison gas. Or else, how nice if war erupted, or a volcano exploded, all the world were asphyxiated, the realities of life smashed to pieces. K, of the artificial organs, had told me of soldiers who had lost their faces on the battlefield and had committed suicide; and I knew very well that such incidents had occurred, for I had spent a great part of my youth in battle. It was simply a period when the market in faces was in a slump. How much significance could the roadway to others have when death was closer than one’s companions? The charging soldier did not need a face. This, indeed, was the only period when a bandaged face appeared beautiful.
In my imagination, I was a gunner, aiming at anything that came in sight, picking off one thing after the other. At length, in the gun smoke, I fell asleep again.
THE influence which the rays of the sun exert on the mental state is a strange thing. Or was it simply that I had had enough sleep? Anyway, after shifting from side to side in their brilliance, I awoke. It was already past ten, and my twilight musings, like morning dew, had quite evaporated.
On the next day, the period of my sham departure from home would come to an end. If I intended to put my plan into execution, I would have to complete