The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [54]
The action of the mask in the streetcar, both for me and for the woman, was terribly lonely; but from my standpoint, I felt that I was in a situation of erotic love, as it were, or rather, in a transition from eroticism to love. The mask had not yet achieved life completely; perhaps it had halfway begun to live. In this condition, far from betraying you, it did not yet have even the capability of such betrayal. According to my schedule, the mask’s ability to come completely alive was possible only after it had successfully met you.
To conclude what I have been saying, perhaps things would turn out this way. Thanks to the mask, I had somehow been able to avoid the extreme criminal sexual impulse; but that did not change the fact that I was semi-erotic, and these erotic elements did not bring me to you. Rather I was convinced that they were a stimulus to shake me free of you. Thus in some way I had to make you fall in love with the mask.
As I stood urinating in the public toilet of the station, I was thinking that nothing could be better for the mask, in growing up, than having all kinds of experiences. I decided to avoid the commercial streets and go through the back lanes. It would be unfortunate to happen upon you in front of the fishmonger’s. I still did not have the confidence to withstand surprise, and furthermore I wanted everything to go as planned, especially the meeting between the mask and you. Even though everything was going well, I was distracted. For no reason at all, my feet became entangled and I almost stumbled on the flat ground. Breathing through my mouth like a dog in order to cool the air which had begun to heat up inside the mask, I panted and panted as if reciting some magic formula.—Listen. This is my first time here. Everything I see, everything I hear is new. From now on, the buildings I see, the people I meet—I shall be seeing all for the first time. Even if I have memories that fit what I see now they are merely mistakes, or strange coincidences, or fantasies. Oh, yes … broken manhole covers too … and half-painted Police Alert signals … and street corners with their year-round pools of waste water that overflowed the gutters … and elm trees jutting out into the streets … and … and.…
One by one I endeavored to eject colors and forms from my memory as if spitting out sand from my mouth, but something always remained—you. I earnestly admonished the mask: You’re a complete stranger … tomorrow’s meeting will be the very first confrontation with her … you haven’t yet seen her, nor heard her … well, you had better forget such impressions at once. But the appearance of things around me was crystal-clear in my memory. The further away I got, the more clearly, the more distinctly your face floated before me, and I was at a loss to know what to do.
I—and the mask too, of course—passed the front of our house time after time; with your image as an axis, I kept circling tirelessly around the unequal-sided tetragon that defined the yard, like a moth drawn to the light.
Moreover, there was no fear of being challenged. The groups of neighborhood women, their shopping baskets on their arms, ignored in their haste the unknown man walking down the street; and the children insatiably played away the few moments that remained before dinner. As I approached the house for the fifth or sixth time, the street lamps came on and suddenly the sun began to set. I slowed down as much as I dared without raising suspicion. From a window I could not