The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [6]
IT WAS a mere hair’s breadth from this point to making plans for a mask. Basically, the idea was not at all extraordinary; like some windblown seed, it needed only a speck of ground and a drop of water to grow. And so the next day, without much enthusiasm or seriousness, as if the whole thing had been predetermined, I began looking through the indices of old scientific journals. It must have been the year before last, sometime in the summer, that there had been an article on artificial organs made of plastic. I would cover up the holes in my face with a plastic mask. Of course, according to one theory a mask is apparently the expression of an extremely metaphysical aspiration to give oneself a kind of transcendental disguise, for the mask is not simply something compensatory. Even I did not regard it as anything like a shirt or a pair of pants that I could change at will. However, I really don’t know about the ancients, who believed in idols, and about adolescents who imitate them, but for me, at this point it is probably useless to decorate the altars of my next life with masks. No matter how many faces I have, there is no changing the fact that I am me. I was just attempting to fill in a too-long intermission in my life with a trivial “masked play.”
I soon found the periodical I was looking for. According to the literature, it was apparently possible to construct a mask that would simulate real skin, at least outwardly. But there were a number of unresolved points such as mobility. If I were somehow to make it, most certainly I had to achieve expression, presumably by linking the mask to the muscles governing expression. I wanted something that could expand and contract freely, something that could laugh and cry. Even supposing the project were feasible at the present-day level of high-molecular chemistry, it did not seem within reach of a mere amateur’s capacities. Yet at that time the mere possibility of the venture was a wonderful tranquilizer for me. If I could not have the tooth taken care of, I could at least take a temporary pain-killer.
At once, I decided to look up Doctor K, the author of the article on artificial organs, to hear what he had to say.
K’s response on the telephone, however, was extremely rude; he seemed unenthusiastic, to say the least. Perhaps he felt some resentment at my being engaged in the same high-molecular work as he, But he agreed to see me, some time after four.
I handed over the switch inspection to the man in charge of the overtime shift, and when I had disposed of two or three remaining chits, I immediately left. The street was as bright as if it had been polished, and the breeze was laden with the scent of fragrant olive. I was unreasonably jealous of the smell and the light. As I waited for a taxi, I had the impression of being stared at from all sides, as if I were some interloper. All this was merely a negative image, with black and white reversed, and I stoically bore the too brilliant sunlight, thinking that if I could just get my hands on a mask, I should at once be able to recover the positive.
The building I went to was situated on a residential street somewhat difficult of access, near a station on the inner belt of the transit system. A rather unimposing sign, K’s High-Molecular Chemistry Institute, hung outside the commonplace house. Just inside the gateway stood three rabbit hutches carelessly piled on top of each other.
In the narrow waiting room, along with an ashtray stand and a shabby wooden bench, lay