The Woman in the Dunes - Machi Abe [36]
—But professionally they’re pretty close to writers.
—Is that what they call creative education?… In spite of the fact that they haven’t even made a pencil box by themselves?
—A pencil box … how impressive! Isn’t it good to be made to realize what sort of person one is?
—Thanks to this education, I have to experience a new sensation in order to appreciate new pain.
—There’s hope.
—But one is not responsible for whether the hope materializes or not.
—From that point on, one has to try to put one’s faith in one’s own power.
—All right, let’s stop the self-deception. Such a vice is impermissible in any teacher.
—Vice?
—That’s for writers. Saying you want to become a writer is no more than egotism; you want to distinguish between yourself and the puppets by making yourself a puppeteer. What difference is there really between this and a woman’s using make-up?
—That’s severe. But if you use the term “writer” in such a sense, certainly you should be able to distinguish to a certain extent between being a writer and writing.
—Ah. You see! That’s the very reason I wanted to become a writer. If I couldn’t be a writer there would be no particular need to write!
He must look like a child who has not received his allowance.
17
FROM the lower face of the cliff came an abrupt sound like the flapping of wings. He grabbed the lamp and rushed out. A package wrapped in matting was lying in the sand. There was not a sign of anyone around. He shouted in a loud voice. There was no answer at all. With eager curiosity he snatched away the rope fastened around the matting. He could only suppose that the package contained implements for climbing the cliff. The villagers still could not show their faces; they had only thrown the things down to him and fled, he supposed.
But the contents were only a pint bottle with a wooden stopper and a small package wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. In the package were three boxes, each containing twenty Shinsei cigarettes. Nothing more. He grasped the edges of the matting again and shook it violently, but only sand spilled out. He had counted on some scrap of a letter at least, but there was nothing. The bottle contained cheap saké that smelled of rice mold.
Whatever could they be about? Could they be bargaining? He had heard that the Indians of America exchanged cigarettes as a sign of friendship. And, in Japan, saké too was commonly a part of some happy occasion. Thus it was certainly plausible to suppose that their actions were a sort of advance expression of their intention to come to an agreement. Country people tended to be self-conscious about expressing their feelings in words. And in this sense they were more honest.
He acquiesced for the time being; cigarettes were more important than anything else. How had he ever stood being without them for over a week? With an accustomed gesture he broke the label and stripped it off squarely down the side. It felt like smooth wax paper. He snapped the bottom and forced a cigarette out. The fingers that held it trembled. He took a light from the lamp, filling his lungs with slow, deep breaths, and the fragrance penetrated his blood to the farthest corner of his body. His lips felt numb, and a heavy velvet curtain descended over his eyes. He felt a dizziness as if he were being strangled, and a chill went through him.
Clutching the pint bottle tightly to him, he reeled back to the house on faraway legs that were not his own. His head was still firmly clamped in a hoop of dizziness. He tried to look over at the woman, but no matter how he tried he could not see straight ahead. Her face, which he had caught diagonally out of the corner of one eye, seemed terribly small.
“It’s a present. See.” He held the pint bottle up and shakily showed it to her. “Aren’t they considerate! They gave us a full one to celebrate in advance. Didn’t I tell you? I knew it from the very first. Well, what’s done is done. What about a snort? Keep me company?”
Instead of answering the woman closed her eyes tightly. Was she sulking