The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [50]
But what kind of heart, in heaven’s name, did I intend painting over this old canvas? Of course, it would be neither the portrait of a child nor of myself. The heart in the cause of tomorrow’s plans, of the program of action—even though one could not explain it with terms in dictionaries: yoyo, travel postcards, jewel boxes, patent medicines—was something I could definitely prearrange, like a map drawn from aerial photographs. How many times I have obliquely hinted at it already. However, now that things had really jelled, perhaps I should not stop at mere hints just because of the pain of putting it into words. I shall try and state it clearly here. I, as a complete stranger, planned to seduce you, to violate you—you who were the symbol of the stranger.
No, just a minute. I did not mean to write that. I do not intend to be so remorseful as to attempt to buy time by repeating what you already know without my writing it. What I wanted to write about was my strange behavior after buying the yoyo, which I can scarcely describe.
The innermost third of the toy store was composed of display shelves with toy revolvers. Among them were a number beautifully made, apparently imported, and priced high. Not only were they quite heavy and their muzzles plugged with stoppers, but the trigger and magazine mechanisms were not in the least different from the real thing. I remembered having seen a newspaper article the other day, according to which a model revolver had been rebuilt to shoot actual bullets; I wondered if they had used such ones as these. Can you really imagine me absorbed in toy revolvers? Probably even my closest colleagues at the Institute could not. No, until I myself was actually taking part in the act, it would have been inconceivable even for me.
The storekeeper wrapped up the yoyo. “You like it, don’t you?” he murmured with a seductive smile. “May I show you anything else you might care for?” For a moment I began to doubt that I was myself. It might be more precise to say that I was confused at not showing a reaction typical of me. As I became conscious of this fact, my consternation seemed inconsistent, but that was because of the mask. The mask, indifferent to my confusion, nodded back at the storekeeper’s unsuspecting face, and as if confirming my own reality, I began to concentrate on the business of the “anything else.”
That was a Walther air pistol. It had the power to pierce a half-inch board at three yards. The price at seventy-five dollars was rather high, but—guess what—I talked him down to seventy and bought it. (… “You’re sure it’s all right? It’s illegal, you know. An air pistol isn’t an air rifle, it’s considered a real pistol. The regulations are very strict about illegal possession of pistols. Please be very careful.…”) Nevertheless I bought it.
It was a strange feeling. My real face tried to murmur quietly in a small voice, slipping deep into inconspicuous belly folds.… This shouldn’t be.… I had wanted to choose the extroverted, aggressive type, a hunter’s face, with the very simple motive that it would suit your seducer.… Let me change the subject here … I only asked the mask to help me recover … I never once asked it to do things its own way.… What in heaven’s name was I to do with this pistol I had acquired?
But as I deliberately tapped the hard object in my pocket, the mask smiled at my perplexity and even appeared pleased. Of course, the mask itself could not really know the answer to my face’s questions. The future is merely a function of the past. There could be no plan of action tomorrow for a mask that had been alive not yet twenty-four hours. The human social equation, in short,