The Woman in the Dunes - Machi Abe [7]
Indeed, if it had not been for the warm reception, the house itself would have been difficult to put up with at all. He would have thought they were making a fool of him and would doubtless have gone back at once. The walls were peeling, matting had been hung up in place of sliding doors, the upright supports were warped, boards had replaced all the windows, the straw mats were on the point of rotting and when one walked on them they made a noise like a wet sponge. Moreover, an offensive smell of burned, moldering sand floated over the whole place.
Well, everything depended on one’s attitude. He was disarmed by the woman’s manner. He told himself that this one night was a rare experience. And, if he were lucky, he might run up against some interesting insects. It was certainly an environment in which insects would gladly live.
His premonition was right. No sooner had he taken the seat offered him beside the hearth, which was sunk in the earthen floor, than all around there was the sound of what seemed to be the pitter-patter of rain. It was an army of fleas. But he was not one to be overwhelmed by such things. An insect collector is always prepared. He had dusted the inside of his clothing with DDT, and it would be wise, before he went to sleep, to daub some insecticide on the exposed parts of his body.
“I’m just fixing something to eat. If you’ll just wait a few minutes more …” the woman said, half standing and taking the lamp. “Can you get along without the light for a moment, please?”
“Do you only have one lamp?”
“I’m sorry, yes.”
She laughed, a little embarrassed. On her left cheek a dimple appeared. Apart from her eyes, she had undeniable charm, he thought. Perhaps the look in her eyes was the result of some affliction. No matter how much make-up she used, she could not conceal the inflamed corners. Before going to bed, he decided, he would without fail apply some eye medicine too.
“It doesn’t make any difference, but first I would rather like a bath.”
“A bath?”
“Don’t you have one?”
“I’m terribly sorry, but could you put it off until the day after tomorrow?”
“The day after tomorrow? But I won’t be here the day after tomorrow.” In spite of himself he laughed aloud.
“Oh?”
She turned her face away with a drawn-up expression. She was disappointed, he supposed, and, of course, with country folk there is no attempt at pretense. He ran his tongue several times over his lips with a feeling of embarrassment.
“If you don’t have a bath, some water that I could pour over me would do just fine. My whole body’s covered with sand.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have more than a bucketful of water either. The well is pretty far away.”
She looked quite abashed, and he decided to say no more. He was soon to realize, unpleasantly, the uselessness of bathing.
The woman brought in the meal: clam soup with boiled fish. Very much a shore meal, it seemed. That was all right, but as he began to eat she opened a large paper umbrella and put it over him.
“What’s that thing for?” He wondered if it were some kind of custom of the region.
“Well, if I don’t put this up, the sand will get in your food.”
“How is that?” he said, looking up in surprise at the ceiling, where, however, there were no holes at all.
She followed his eyes to the ceiling. “The sand sifts in everywhere. Almost an inch piles up if I don’t sweep it up every day.”
“Is the roof faulty?”
“Yes, pretty much so. But even if the thatching was brand-new, the sand would sift in anyway. It’s really terrible. It’s worse than a wood borer.”
“A wood borer?”
“An insect that eats holes in wood.”
“That’s probably a termite, isn’t it?”
“No, no. It’s about this big