The Woman in the Dunes - Machi Abe [5]
So probably there weren’t too many insects. Perhaps the movement of the sand was too violent. No, he shouldn’t be so quickly discouraged; his theory guaranteed that there would be some.
The line of dunes leveled off, and a section jutted out on the side away from the sea. He was lured on by the feeling that in all probability his prey was there, and he made his way down the gentle slope. Here and there the remains of what seemed like a wind fence made of wattling marked off the point of the promontory, beyond which, on a still lower level, lay a plateau. He went on, cutting across the ripples of sand, which were hewn with machine-like regularity. Suddenly his line of vision was cut off, and he stood on the verge of a cliff looking down into a deep cavity.
The cavity, over sixty feet wide, formed an irregular oval. The far slope seemed relatively gentle, while in contrast the near side gave the feeling of being almost perpendicular. It rolled up to his feet in a smooth curve, like a lip of heavy porcelain. Placing one foot gingerly on the edge, he peered in. The shadowy interior of the hole, set against the luminous edge, already announced the approach of evening.
In the gloom at the bottom a small house lay submerged in silence. One end of its ridgepole was sunk diagonally into the sand wall. Quite like an oyster, he thought.
No matter what they did, he mused, there was no escaping the law of the sand.
Just as he was placing his camera in position, the sand at his feet began to move with a rustle. He drew his foot back, shuddering, but the flow of the sand did not stop for some time. What a delicate, dangerous balance! Breathing deeply, he wiped his sweaty palms several times on the sides of his trousers.
A coughing broke out next to him. Unnoticed, an old man, apparently one of the village fishermen, was standing there almost touching his shoulder. As he looked at the camera and then at the bottom of the hole, the old fellow grinned, screwing up his face, which was wrinkled like a half-tanned rabbit skin. A sticky secretion encrusted the corners of his reddened eyes.
“Are you inspecting?”
It was a thin voice, blown by the wind, rather as if it came from a portable radio. But the accent was clear and not particularly difficult to catch.
“Inspecting?” Flustered, he concealed the lens with his palm. He shifted his insect net into full view. “What do you mean? I don’t understand. I’m collecting insects. My specialty is sand insects.”
“What?” The old man did not seem to have understood.
“Collecting insects,” he repeated again in a loud voice. “Insects. In-sects. I catch them like this!”
“Insects?”
The old man appeared dubious. Looking down, he spat. Or perhaps it would be more exact to say he let the spittle ooze from his mouth. Snatched from his lips by the wind, it sailed out in a long thread. Good heavens, what was he so nervous about?
“Is there some inspecting going on in this vicinity?”
“No, no. As long as you’re not inspecting, I really don’t mind what you do.”
“No, I’m not inspecting.”
The old man, without even nodding, turned his back and, scuffing the tips of his straw sandals, went slowly away along the ridge.
Some fifty yards further on—when had they come?—three men dressed alike, apparently waiting for the old man, squatted silently on the sand. The one in the middle had a pair of binoculars, which he was turning around and around on his knee. Soon the three, joined by the old man, began to discuss something among themselves. They kicked the sand at their feet. It looked as if they were having a violent argument.
Just as he was trying unconcernedly to go on with his search for the beetle, the old man came hurrying back again.
“Then you’re really not someone from the government office?”
“The government office? You’re quite wrong.”
Abruptly he took out his business card, as if to indicate that he