The Face of Another - Kobo Abe [60]
Now, I wonder what you think of these points. If there is nothing wrong with my reasoning, even you are no exception, and I presume you cannot but agree, but—of course, you must agree—if you do not, there is no reason for you to force me into a corner like some wounded monkey by brushing my hand off your skirt, nor to ignore the trap of the mask, nor to drive me into a state where I could not help but write these notes. The fact has been made clear that your face—the mobile, harmonious type—was a mask too. In short, we are two spots of the same ink. It was not solely my responsibility. Indeed, simply writing these notes has been fruitful. It was impossible to be left without any communication at all. You will surely agree with this point.
I am saying that you must not make fun of my writing. For the act of writing is not simply replacing facts with arrangements of letters; it is a kind of venturesome trip. I am not like a postman on a preordained route. There is danger, and discovery, and satisfaction. I was beginning to feel there was some purpose to the writing itself, so much so that I thought I should like to go on with these notebooks for ever and ever. But I was able to curb the inclination. I should be able to avoid the ridiculous posture of an abominable monster offering gifts to an unattainable maiden. My three-day schedule stretched into four and then into five days. If I can get you to read these notes, the work of restoring the roadway will surely become ours together. Was this the song of a man being led off to prison, singing to bolster his courage? No, I was averse to over-optimism, and I had no intention of flattering myself. I realized that we were fellow casualties and anticipated an attitude of mutual sympathy. Well, let’s try bravely putting out the light. When the lights go out, that’s the end of the masquerade ball. In the dark, with neither face nor mask, I should like us to try to reestablish relations with each other. I should like to believe the new melody that comes to me from the darkness.
WHEN I got off the streetcar, I at once dashed into a beer parlor. I was strangely grateful for the texture of the glasses, frosted with drops of water. Perhaps it was because the breathing of the skin on my face was hindered by the mask, but the mucous membranes in my throat had dried up right to the back of my nose. I downed a pint of beer in one gulp, as if I were a suction pump.
I had drunk no alcohol for some time, and the effect was more rapid than usual.
Of course, no color appeared on the mask. Instead the scar tissues began to feel creepy, almost to writhe. Not caring, I tossed off two, then three, glasses, as if in a race, and at length the writhing began to subside. Carried away, I followed up the beer with a bottle of saké.
In the meantime, the irritation I had been feeling suddenly vanished, and I became strangely arrogant, defiant. Apparently even the mask was beginning to feel tipsy.—Faces, faces, faces, faces.… I rubbed my eyes, wet with tears in place of sweat, and scowled around through the noise and cigarette smoke at the innumerable