One day in August a man disappeared. He had simply set out for the seashore on a holiday, scarcely half a day away by train, and nothing more was ever heard of him. Investigation by the police and inquiries in the newspapers had both proved fruitless.
Of course, missing persons are not really uncommon. According to the statistics, several hundred disappearances are reported every year. Moreover, the proportion of those found again is unexpectedly small. Murders or accidents always leave some clear piece of evidence, and the motives for kidnapping are normally ascertainable. But if the instance does not come under some such heading, clues — and this is especially true in the case of missing persons-are extremely difficult to come by. Many disappearances, for example, may be described as simple escape.
In the case of this man, also, the clues were negligible.
Though his general destination was known, there had been no report from the area that a body had been discovered. By its very nature, it was inconceivable that his work involved some secret for which he might have been abducted. His quite normal behavior had not given the slightest hint that he intended to vanish.
Naturally, everyone at first imagined that a woman was involved. But his wife, or at least the woman he lived with, announced that the object of his trip had been to collect insect specimens. The police investigators and his colleagues felt vaguely disappointed. The insect bottle and net were hardly a feint for a runaway trip with a girl.
Then, too, a station employee at Shad remembered a man getting off the train who looked like a mountain climber and carried slung across his shoulders a canteen and a wooden box, which he took to be a painting set The man had been alone, quite alone, the employee said, so speculation about a girl was groundless.
The theory had been advanced that the man, tired of life, had committed suicide. One of his colleagues, who was an amateur psychoanalyst, held to this view. He claimed that in a grown man enthusiasm for such a useless pastime as collecting insects was evidence enough of a mental quirk. Even in children, unusual preoccupation with insect collecting frequently indicates an Oedipus complex. In order to compensate for his unsatisfied desires, the child enjoys sticking pins into insects, which he need never fear will escape. And the fact that he does not leave off once he has grown up is quite definitely a sign that the condition has become worse. Thus it is far from accidental that entomologists frequently have an acute desire for acquisitions and that they are extremely reclusive, kleptomaniac, homosexual. From this point to suicide out of weariness with the world is but a step. As a matter of fact, there are even some collectors who are attracted by the potassium cyanide in their bottles rather than by the collecting itself, and no matter how they try they are quite incapable of washing their hands of the business. Indeed, the man had not once confided his interests to anyone, and this would seem to be proof that he realized they were rather dubious.
Yet, since no body had actually been discovered, all of these ingenious speculations were groundless.
Seven years had passed without anyone learning the truth, and so, in compliance with Section 30 of the civil code, the man had been pronounced dead.
One August afternoon a man stood in the railroad station at S-. He wore a gray peaked hat, and the cuffs of his trousers were tucked into his stockings. A canteen and a large wooden box were slung over his shoulders. He seemed about to set out on a mountain-climbing expedition.
Yet there were no mountains worth climbing in the immediate vicinity. Indeed, the guard who took his ticket at the gate looked at him quizzically after he passed through.
The man showed no hesitancy as he entered the bus standing in front of the station and took a seat in the back. The bus route led away from the mountains.
The man stayed on the bus to the end of the run. When he got off, the landscape was a mixture of hillocks and hollows. The lowlands were rice paddies that had been divided into narrow strips, while among them slightly elevated fields planted with persimmon trees were scattered about like islands. The man passed through a village and continued walking in the direction of the seashore; the soil gradually became whitish and dry.
After a time there were no more houses, only straggling clumps of pine. Then the soil changed to a fine sand that clung to his feet. Now and again clumps of dry grass cast shadows in hollows in the sand. As if by mistake, there was occasionally a meager plot of eggplants, the size of a straw mat. But of human shadows there was not a trace. The sea, toward which he was headed, lay beyond.
For the first time the man stopped. He wiped the perspiration from his face with his sleeve and gazed around. With deliberation, he opened the wooden box and from the top drawer took out several pieces of pole that had been bundled together. He assembled them into a handle and attached an insect net to one end. Then he began to walk again, striking the clumps of grass with the bottom of the shaft. The smell of the sea enveloped the sands.
Some time went by, but the sea still could not be seen. Perhaps the hilly terrain obstructed the view. The unchanging landscape stretched endlessly on. Then, suddenly, the perspective broadened and a hamlet came into sight. It was a commonplace, rather poor village, whose roofs, weighted down with stones, lay clustered around a high fire tower. Some of the roofs were shingled with black tile; others were of zinc, painted red. A zinc-roofed building at the hamlet's single crossroad seemed to be the meeting house of a fishermen's cooperative.
Beyond, there were probably more dunes, and the sea. Still, the hamlet was spread out to an unexpected extent. There were some fertile patches, but the soil consisted mostly of dry white sand. There were fields of potatoes and peanuts, and the odor of domestic animals mingled with that of the sea. A pile of broken shells formed a white mound at the side of the clay-and-sand road, which was as hard as cement. As the man passed down the street, children were playing in the empty lot in front of the cooperative, some old men were sitting on the sagging veranda repairing their nets, and thin-haired women were gathered in front of the single general store. All movement ceased for a moment as they looked curiously at him. But the man paid no attention. Sand and insects were all that concerned him.
However, the size of the village was not the only surprising thing. Contrary to what one would expect, the road was gradually rising. Since it led toward the sea, it would be more natural for it to descend. Could he have misread the map? He tried questioning a young village girl who was passing by just then. But she lowered her eyes and, acting as if she had not heard a thing, hurried on. Yet the pile of shells, the fishing nets, and the color of the sand told him that certainly the sea lay nearby. There was really nothing yet that foretold danger.
The road began to rise more and more abruptly; more and more it became just sand.
But, curiously enough, the areas where houses stood were not the slightest bit higher. The road alone rose, while the hamlet itself continued to remain level. No, it was not only the road; the areas between the buildings were rising at the same rate. In a sense, then, the whole village seemed to have become a rising slope with only the buildings left on their original level. This impression became more striking as he went along. At length, all the houses seemed to be sunk into hollows scooped in the sand. The surface of the sand stood higher than the rooftops. The successive rows of houses sank deeper and deeper into the depressions.
The slope suddenly steepened. It must have been at least sixty-five feet down to the tops of the houses. What in heaven's name could it be like to live there? he thought in amazement, peering down into one of the holes. As he circled around the edge he was suddenly struck by a biting wind that choked his breath in his throat. The view abruptly opened up, and the turbid, foaming sea licked at the shore below. He was standing on the crest of the dunes that had been his objective!
The side of the dunes that faced the sea and received the monsoon winds rose abruptly, but straggling clumps of scrub grass grew in places where the incline was not as steep. The man looked back over his shoulder at the village, and he could see that the great holes, which grew deeper as they approached the crest of the ridge, extended in several ranks toward the center. The village, resembling the cross-section of a beehive, lay sprawled over the dunes. Or rather the dunes lay sprawled over the village. Either way, it was a disturbing and unsettling landscape.
But it was enough that he had reached his destination, the dunes. The man drank some water from his canteen and filled his lungs with air — and the air which had seemed so clear felt rough in his throat.
The man intended to collect insects that lived in the dunes.
Of course, dune insects are small and soberly colored. But he was a dedicated collector, and his eye was not tempted by anything like butterflies or dragonflies. Such collectors do not aspire to decking out their specimen boxes with gaudy samples, nor are they particularly interested in classification or in raw materials for Chinese medicines. The true entomologist's pleasure is much simpler, more direct: that of discovering a new type. When this happens, the discoverer's name appears in the illustrated encyclopedias of entomology appended to the technical Latin name of the newly found insect; and there, perhaps, it is preserved for something less than eternity. His efforts are crowned with success if his name is perpetuated in the memory of his fellow men by being associated with an insect.
The smaller, unobtrusive insects, with their innumerable strains, offer many opportunities for new discoveries. For a long time the man had also been on the lookout for double winged flies, especially common house flies, which people find so repulsive. Of course, the various types of flies are unbelievably numerous, and since all entomologists seem to think pretty much alike, they have pursued their investigations into the eighth rare mutant found in Japan almost to completion. Perhaps mutants are so abundant because the fly's environment is too close to man's.
He had best begin by observing environment. That there were many environmental variations simply indicated a high degree of adaptability among flies, didn't it? At this discovery he jumped with joy. His concept might not be altogether bad. The fact that the fly showed great adaptability meant that it could be at home even in unfavorable environments in which other insects could not live — for example, a desert where all other living things perished.
From then on he began to manifest an interest in sand. And soon this interest bore fruit. One day in the dry river bed near his house he discovered a smallish light-pink insect which resembled a double-winged garden beetle (_Cicindela japonica Motschulsky_). It is common knowledge, of course, that the garden beetle presents many variations in color and design. But the form of the front legs, on the other hand, varies very little. In fact, the front legs of the sheath-wing beetle constitute an important criterion for its classification. And the second joint on the front legs of the insect that had caught the man's eye did indeed have striking characteristics.
Generally speaking, the front legs of the beetle family are black, slender, and agile. However, the front legs of this one seemed to be covered with a stout sheath; they were round, almost chubby, and cream-colored. Of course, they may have been smeared with pollen. One might even assume some sort of condition — the presence of hair, for example — which would cause the pollen to adhere to the legs. If his observations were correct he had certainly made a most important discovery.
But unfortunately he had let it escape. He had been too excited, and besides the beetle's pattern of flight was confusing. It flew away, and then as if to say «Catch me!» it turned and waited. When he approached it cautiously it flew away again, turned around, and waited. Mercilessly tantalizing, its course had at last led it to a clump of grass into which it disappeared.
The man was completely captivated by the beetle with the yellowish front legs.
When he had observed the sandy soil, it seemed to him that his guess was correct. Actually, the beetle family is representative of desert insects. According to one theory, their strange pattern of flight is a snare for the purpose of enticing small animals away from their nests. Prey such as mice and lizards are lured out in spite of themselves, wander into the desert, and collapse from hunger and fatigue. Their bodies then become the beetles' food. These beetles have the elegant Japanese name of «letter-bearer» and present graceful features, but actually they have sharp jaws and are ferocious and cannibalistic by nature. But whether or not his theory was correct, the man was unquestionably beguiled by the mysterious pattern of the beetle's flight.
And his interest in sand, which was the condition for the beetle's existence, could not help but grow. He began to read everything he could about it. And as his research progressed he realized that sand was a very interesting substance. For example, opening to the article on sand in the encyclopedia, he found the following:
SAND: an aggregate of rock fragments. Sometimes including loadstone, tinstone, and more rarely gold dust. Diameter: 2 to 1/16 mm.
A very clear definition indeed. In short, then, sand came from fragmented rock and was intermediate between clay and pebbles. But simply calling it an intermediate substance did not provide a really satisfactory explanation. Why was it that isolated deserts and sandy terrain came into existence through the sifting out of only the sand from soil in which clay, sand, and stones were thoroughly mixed together? If a true intermediate substance were involved, the erosive action of wind and water would necessarily produce any number of intermingling intermediate forms in the range between rock and clay. However, there are in fact only three forms that can be clearly distinguished from one another: stones, sand, and clay. Furthermore, sand is sand wherever it is; strangely enough, there is almost no difference in the size of the grains whether they come from the Gobi Desert or from the beach at Eno-shima. The size of the grains shows very little variation and follows a Gaussian distribution curve with a true mean of 1/8 mm.
One commentary gave a very simple explanation of the decomposition of land through the erosive action of wind and water: the lighter particles were progressively blown away over great distances. But the particular significance of the 1/8-mm. diameter of the grains was left unexplained. In opposition to this, another book on geology added an explanation along these lines: Air or water currents set up a turbulence. The smallest wavelength of this turbulent flow is about equal to the diameter of the desert sand. Owing to this peculiarity, only the sand is extracted from the soil, being drawn out at right angles to the flow. If the cohesion of the soil is weak, the sand is sucked up into the air by light winds — which, of course, do not disturb stones or clay — and falls to the ground again, being deposited to the leeward. The peculiarities of sand would seem to be a matter of aerodynamics.
Hence, we can add this to the first definition as «b»: a particle of crushed rock of such dimension as to be easily moved by a fluid.
Because winds and water currents flow over the land, the formation of sand is unavoidable. As long as the winds blew, the rivers flowed, and the seas stirred, sand would be born grain by grain from the earth, and like a living being it would creep everywhere. The sands never rested. Gently but surely they invaded and destroyed the surface of the earth.
This image of the flowing sand made an indescribably exciting impact on the man. The barrenness of sand, as it is usually pictured, was not caused by simple dryness, but apparently was due to the ceaseless movement that made it inhospitable to all living things. What a difference compared with the dreary way human beings clung together year in year out.
Certainly sand was not suitable for life. Yet, was a stationary condition absolutely indispensable for existence? Didn't unpleasant competition arise precisely because one tried to cling to a fixed position? If one were to give up a fixed position and abandon oneself to the movement of the sands, competition would soon stop. Actually, in the deserts flowers bloomed and insects and other animals lived their lives. These creatures were able to escape competition through their great ability to adjust — for example, the man's beetle family.
While he mused on the effect of the flowing sands, he was seized from time to time by hallucinations in which he himself began to move with the flow.
His head bent down, he began to walk, following the crescent-shaped line of dunes that surrounded the village like a rampart and towered above it. He paid almost no attention to the distant landscape. An entomologist must concentrate his whole attention within a radius of about three yards around his feet. And it is one of the fundamental rules that he should not have the sun at his back. If the sun should get behind him, he would frighten the insects with his own shadow. As a result; a collector's forehead and nose are always sunburned.
The man advanced slowly at a steady pace. With every step the sand splashed up over his shoes. Except for shallow-rooted weeds that looked as though they would shoot up in a day if there were any moisture, there appeared to be no living thing. Once in a long while, tortoise-shell-colored flies would flit around, drawn by the odor of human perspiration. However, precisely because it was such a place, he could expect to find something. Beetles are not especially gregarious, and they say that, in extreme cases, a single beetle will cordon off an area of as much as one square mile. Patiently, he kept walking round and round.
Suddenly he paused in his tracks. Something had stirred near the roots of a clump of grass. It was a spider. Spiders were of no use to him. He sat down to smoke a cigarette. The wind blew ceaselessly from the sea and, far below, turbulent white waves beat against the base of the sand dunes. Where the dunes fell away to the west a slight hill crowned with bare rock jutted out into the sea. On it the sunshine lay scattered in needlepoints of light.
He had difficulty getting his matches to light. Out of ten tries not one had caught. Along the length of the match-sticks he had thrown away, ripples of sand were moving at about the speed of the second hand of his watch. He focused his attention on one wavelet, and when it arrived at the tip of his heel he arose. The sand spilled from the gathers in his trousers. He spat, and the inside of his mouth felt rough.
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 had had enough. The old man's lips moved laboriously. «Ah! You're a schoolteacher!»
«I have absolutely no connection with the government office.» «Hmm. So you're a teacher.»
At last he appeared to understand, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled up. Carrying the card respectfully, he went back again. The three others, apparently satisfied, stood up and withdrew. But the old man returned once again.
«By the way, what do you intend doing now?»
«Well, I'm going to look for insects.»
«But the last bus back has already gone.»
«Isn't there any place I can stay here?»
«Stay all night? In this village?» The man's face twitched.
«If I can't stay here, I'll walk on to the next village.»
«Walk?»
«As a matter of fact, I'm in no special hurry.»
«Well, why go to all that trouble?» He suddenly became loquacious. «You can see this is a poor village,» he said in an accommodating tone. «There isn't a decent house in it, but if it's all right with you I'll put in a good word and see what I can do to help you out.»
He did not seem to bear any ill will. They were just being cautious — perhaps on the lookout for some prefectural official who was scheduled to come on a tour of inspection. With their sense of caution appeased, they were merely good, simple fisherfolk.
«I should be very grateful if you would. Of course, I will expect to show my appreciation… I am particularly fond of staying in village houses.»
The sun had set and the wind had slackened somewhat. He walked along the dunes until he could no longer distinguish the pattern hewn by the wind in the sand.
There seemed to be nothing that faintly resembled crops.
Orthoptera — small-winged crickets and white-whiskered earwigs.
Rhynchota — red-striped soldier bugs. He was not certain of the name, but surely it was a type of soldier bug.
Of the sheath-winged insects which he sought: white-backed billbugs and long-legged letter-droppers.
He had not been able to spot a single one of the beetle family that was his real aim. And indeed for that very reason he was anticipating the fruits of the next day's battle.
His fatigue brought faint spots of light dancing on his retina. Then, in spite of himself, he stopped walking and fixed his eyes on the surface of the darkening dunes. It was no use; anything that moved looked like a beetle.
As he had promised, the old man was waiting for him in front of the cooperative offices.
«I'm sorry for all this trouble.»
«Not at all. I only hope you'll like what I found for you.»
A meeting seemed to be in session in the offices. Four or five men were sitting in a circle, from which shouts of laughter rose. On the front of the entry hung a horizontal plaque with large lettering: LOVE YOUR HOME. The old man said something; abruptly the laughing stopped, and he walked out leading the others. The shell-strewn road floated vague and white in the twilight.
He was escorted to one of the cavities on the ridge of the dunes at one end of the village.
From the ridge a narrow path went down the slope to the right. After they had walked on awhile, the old man leaned over into the darkness and, clapping his hands, shouted in a loud voice: «Hey! Granny! Hey, there!»
From the depths of the darkness at their feet a lamp flickered, and there was an answer.
«Here I am! Here! There's a ladder over by the sandbags.»
Indeed, without the ladder he could not possibly have got down. He would have had to catch hold on the cliff with his bare hands. It was almost three times the height of the house top, and even with the ladder it was still not easy to manage. In the daytime, he recalled, the slope had seemed to him rather gentle, but as he looked at it now, it was close to perpendicular. The ladder was an uncertain thing of rope, and if one lost one's balance it would get hopelessly tangled up. It was quite like living in a natural stronghold.
«You needn't worry about anything. Have a good rest.»
The old man turned around and went back, without going all the way to the bottom.
Sand poured down from overhead. The man had a feeling of curiosity, as if he had returned to his childhood. He wondered whether the woman was old; she had been called granny. But the person who came to meet him, holding up a lamp, was a smallish, nice sort of woman around thirty. Perhaps she was wearing powder; for someone who lived by the sea, she was amazingly white. Anyway, he was extremely grateful for her cheerful welcome, from which she could not conceal her own pleasure.
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… with a hard skin.» «Ah. Well, it's a long-horned saw beetle then.» «A saw beetle?»
«Long whiskers and reddish, isn't it?»
«No, it's sort of bronze-colored and shaped like a grain of rice.» «I see. Then it's an iridescent beetle.»
«If you let it go on, beams like these rot away to nothing, you know.» «You mean the iridescent beetle?»
«No, the sand.» «Why?»
«It gets in from everywhere. On days when the wind direction is bad, it gets up under the roof, and if I didn't sweep it away it would soon pile up so heavy that the ceiling boards wouldn't hold it.»
«Hmm. Yes, I can see it wouldn't do to let the sand accumulate in the ceiling. But isn't it funny to say that it rots the beams?»
«No. They do rot.»
«But sand is essentially dry, you know.»
«Anyway, it rots them. If you leave sand on brand-new wooden clogs they fall apart in half a month. They're just dissolved, they say, so it must be true.» «I don't understand the reason.»
«Wood rots, and the sand rots with it. I even heard that soil rich enough to grow cucumbers came out of the roof boards of a house that had been buried under the sand.»
«Impossible!» he exclaimed rudely, making a wry face. He felt that his own personal concept of sand had been defiled by her ignorance. «I know a little about sand myself. Let me tell you. Sand moves around like this all year long. Its flow is its life. It absolutely never stops — anywhere. Whether in water or air, it moves about free and unrestricted. So, usually, ordinary living things are unable to endure life in it, and this goes for bacteria too. How shall I put it… sand represents purity, cleanliness. Maybe it serves a preservative function, but there is certainly no question of its rotting anything. And, what's more, dear lady, to begin with, sand is a respectable mineral. It couldn't possibly rot away!»
She stiffened and fell silent. Under the protection of the umbrella which she was holding, the man, as if hurried, finished eating without a word. On the surface of the umbrella so much sand had collected he could have written in it with his finger.
And the damp was unbearable. The sand of course was not damp; it was his body that was damp. Above the roof the wind moaned. He drew out his cigarettes, and his pocket was full of sand. He had the feeling he could taste the bitterness even before he lit one.
He took an insect out of the bottle of potassium cyanide. Before it stiffened he fixed it with pins; at least he could preserve the shape of the legs. From the washstand outside came the sound of the woman cleaning dishes. Did no one else live in the house? he wondered.
When she returned she silently began to prepare the bed in a corner of the room. If she put his bed here, where in heaven's name did she intend to sleep? Naturally, in that inner room beyond the hanging mat. Besides these two there didn't seem to be anything that faintly resembled a room. But it was a very strange way of doing things — to put the guest in the room by the entry and let the hostess sleep in the inner one. Or did she have an invalid unable to move sleeping in the inner room? he wondered. Maybe. Certainly it would be much more natural to assume so. In the first place, one could hardly expect a solitary woman to go to much trouble looking after passing travelers.
«Are there other people…?»
«What do you mean, 'other people'?»
«People in your family or…»
«No, I'm quite alone.» The woman seemed to be aware of his thoughts and suddenly gave a forced and awkward laugh. «Everything really gets so damp because of the sand, even the blankets.»
«Well, what about your husband?»
«Oh, yes. Last year in the typhoon…» she said, busying herself unnecessarily with smoothing and patting down the edges of the matting which she had finished spreading out. «Typhoons are terrible around here. The sand comes thundering down like a waterfall. Ten or twenty feet pile up in a night no matter what you do.»
«As much as twenty feet?»
«At times like that, you can't ever catch up with the sand no matter how much you shovel. He ran out with my little girl — she was in middle school then — yelling that the chicken houses were in danger. I was too busy taking care of the house and had to stay in. When morning finally came and the wind died down, I went out to look. There wasn't a trace of the chicken houses… or anything else.»
«Were they buried?»
«Yes, completely.»
«That was awful! Horrible! The sands are frightful.» Suddenly the lamp began to sputter.
«It's the sand.»
She got down on all fours and stretched out her arm. Laughing, she snapped the lamp wick with her finger. At once it burned brightly again. In the same posture she gazed at the flame, smiling that unnatural smile. He realized that it was doubtless deliberately done to show off her dimple, and unconsciously his body stiffened. He thought it especially indecent of her just after she had been speaking of her loved ones' death.
«Hey, there! We've brought a shovel and cans for the other one!»
A clear voice, considering that it came from a distance, broke the tension; perhaps they were using a megaphone. And then came the sound of something like tin containers striking against one another as they fell. The woman rose to answer.
He had the exasperating feeling that something underhanded was going on. «What's that? See, there's somebody else after all.» «Oh, for goodness' sake!» She twisted her body as if she had been tickled. «But somebody just said «for the other one.»» «Hmm. Well, they're referring to you.» «To me? Why mention me in connection with a shovel…?» «Never mind. Don't pay any attention. Really, they're so nosy!» «Was there some mistake?»
However, the woman didn't answer this, and swinging around on her knees, she stepped down on the earthen floor.
«Pardon me, but are you still using the lamp?»
«Well, I uaven't really finished with it Why? Do you need it out there?» «No, this is work I'm used to.»
She put on a straw hat, of the kind used for gardening, and slipped out into the darkness.
Bending his head to one side, the man lit another cigarette. There was something definitely suspicious, he felt. He arose quietly and decided to peek behind the suspended matting. There was indeed a room, but no bed. In its place the sand had swept down in a gentle curve from beyond the wall. He shuddered involuntarily and stood rooted to the spot. This house was already half dead. Its insides were half eaten away by tentacles of ceaselessly flowing sand. Sand, which didn't even have a form of its own — other than the mean 1/8-mm. diameter. Yet not a single thing could stand against this shapeless, destructive power. The very fact that it had no form was doubtless the highest manifestation of its strength, was it not?
But he returned to reality at once. Supposing this room could not be used. Where in heaven's name did she intend to sleep? He could hear her coming and going beyond the board wall. The hands of his wrist watch pointed to 8:02. What could there be to do, he wondered, at such an hour?
He stepped down to the earthen floor in search of water. A red metallic film floated on the thimbleful of liquid remaining in the bottom of the water jar. But even that was better than enduring the sand in his mouth. When he had washed his face in the water and wiped the back of his neck, he felt considerably better.
A chilly draft was blowing along the dirt floor. Probably it was more bearable outside. He squeezed through the sliding door, which, stuck in the sand, no longer moved, and went out.
The breeze blowing down from the road had indeed become much cooler. The sound of what seemed to be the motor of a three-wheeled pickup truck came to him on the wind. And when he strained his ears he could hear a number of people. Moreover — was it his imagination? — he sensed greater animation than during the day. Or was it the sound of the sea? The sky was heavy with stars.
The woman turned when she saw the lamplight. Skillfully handling the shovel, she was scooping sand into a big kerosene can. Beyond her the wall of black sand soared precipitously up and seemed to be bending inward on them. It must have been up there that he had walked during the day in his search for insects. When two kerosene cans were full, the woman carried them, one in each hand, over to where he was. As she passed him she raised her eyes. «Sand,» she said in a nasal voice. She emptied the sand from the kerosene cans near the path in the back where the rope ladder hung. Then she wiped away the sweat with the end of a towel. The place was already piled high with the sand she had hauled over.
«I'm clearing away the sand.»
«You'll never finish, no matter how long you work at it.»
The next time she passed, she poked him in the side with the end of a free finger. He almost let the lamp fall as he started up in surprise. Should he keep holding the lamp as he was, or should he put it on the ground and return the tickling? He hesitated, caught off guard by the unexpected choice he faced. He decided to keep the lamp in his hand, and with his face set in a grin, which he himself did not know the meaning of, he awkwardly and stiffly approached the woman, who had begun to shovel again. As he drew near, her shadow filled the whole surface of the sand wall.
«You shouldn't do that, you know,» she said in a low, breathless voice, her back still toward him. «I have six cans to go until the lift basket comes.»
His expression hardened. It was unpleasant to have feelings that he had been at pains to check aroused to no purpose. Yet, in spite of himself something not to be denied was welling up in his veins. The sand which clung to his skin was seeping into his veins and, from the inside, undermining his resistance. «Well, shall I give you a hand?»
«Oh, that's all right. It wouldn't be right to have you do anything on the very first day.»
«On the first day? Don't worry about such things. I'll only be here tonight anyway.»
«Is that so?»
«I don't lead a life of leisure, you know. Hand me the other shovel. Come on.»
«Excuse me, but your shovel is over there.» Indeed, under the eaves near the entrance a shovel and two kerosene cans with handles were lined up to the side. When they had said «for the other one,» it was most certainly these things that had been tossed down from the road above. The preparations were too good, and he had the feeling that they had guessed in advance what he would do. But how could they? He had not known himself. Anyway, he thought apprehensively, they had a pretty low opinion of him. The shaft of the shovel was made of a bumpy wood and had a dark sheen from handling. He had already lost his desire to lend a hand. «Oh! The lift basket is already at the neighbors'!»
She spoke animatedly, seeming not to have noticed his hesitation. Her voice was cheerful and contained a note of confidence that had not been there before. The human sounds that had been audible for some time were suddenly near at hand. A series of short, rhythmic shouts was repeated several times, followed by a period of low, continuous muttering interspersed with suppressed laughter, and then the shouts again. The rhythm of the work suddenly made him feel buoyant. In such a simple world it was probably quite normal to let a night's guest use a shovel. And there would be something curious about holding back. With his heel he made a hollow in the sand, in which he placed the lamp so that it would not fall.
«I suppose it's all right to dig any place, isn't it?»
«Well… not just any place.»
«Then what about over here?»
«Yes, but try to dig right down from the cliff wall.»
«Is this the time for clearing away the sand at all the houses?»
«Yes. The sand is easier to work with at night because it's damp. When the sand is dry,» she said, looking up toward the sky, «you never know when or where it will come crashing down.»
He peered up, and indeed a brow of sand, like drifted snow, bulged out from the lip of the cliff.
«But that's dangerous, isn't it?»
«It's really quite safe,» she said in a laughing tone, different from her usual voice. «Look! The mist's beginning to come in.»
«Mist?»
As she spoke the expanse of stars rapidly grew patchy and began to fade. A tangled filmy cloud swirled around fitfully where the wall of sand met the sky.
«You see, it's because the sand soaks up a lot of fog. When salty sand is full of fog, it gets hard like starch.»
«I can't believe it!»
«Oh, yes, it's true. When the tide along the beach goes down, even big tanks can drive over the sand with no trouble.» «Amazing!»
«It's quite true. So that part that sticks out there gets bigger every night On days when the wind comes from a bad direction, the sand comes down like today, on the umbrella. In the afternoon, when it's good and dry, it comes crashing down all at once. And it's the end if it falls in the wrong place… where the pillars are weak.»
Her topics of conversation were restricted. Yet once she entered her own sphere she suddenly took on a new animation. This might also be the way to her heart. He was not particularly interested in what she had to say, but her words had a warmth in them that made him think of the body concealed beneath the coarse work trousers.
Then, with all his strength, he repeatedly thrust the dented cutting edge of his shovel into the sand at his feet.
When he had finished carrying the kerosene cans over the second time, he heard the sound of voices, and on the road above a hand lamp flickered. The woman spoke rather sharply.
«It's the lift basket. I've already finished over here. Give me some help over there, will you?» For the first time he grasped the meaning of the sandbags that lay buried at the top of the ladder: by running the ropes around them, the baskets could be raised and lowered. Four men managed each basket, and there were two or three groups in all. For the most part, they appeared to be young men who worked briskly and efficiently. By the time the basket of one group was full, the next group was already waiting to take over. In six hauls, the sand which had been piled up was completely leveled off.
«Those fellows are amazing!»
His tone was friendly as he wiped away the sweat with his shirt sleeve. The young men, who uttered not a word of ridicule at his helping with the sand, appeared to devote themselves energetically to their work. He felt well disposed toward them.
«Yes. In our village we really follow the motto 'Love Your Home.'»
«What sort of love is that?»
«It's the love you have for where you live.»
«Great!»
He laughed, and she laughed with him. But she did not seem to understand the reason for her laughter herself.
From afar came the sound of a three-wheeled truck starting up. «Well now, shall we take a rest?»
«Oh, no. When they finish with one round they come right back again with the basket.»
«Oh, let it go. The rest can wait until tomorrow and…» He arose unconcerned and began walking toward the earthen floor, but she showed no signs of coming along with him.
«You can't do things that way! We've got to work at least once all around the house.»
«What do you mean, 'all around'?»
«Well, we can't let the house be smashed, can we? The sand comes down from all sides.»
«But it'll take until morning to do that.»
As though challenged, she turned abruptly and hurried off. She apparently intended to return to the base of the cliff and continue her work. Quite like the behavior of the beetle, he thought.
Now that he understood this, he certainly wouldn't be taken in again.
«I'm dumfounded! Is it like this every night?»
«The sand never stops. The baskets and the three-wheeler keep going the whole night through.»
«I suppose they do.» And indeed they did. The sand never stopped falling. The man was completely at a loss. He was bewildered, rather as if he had casually stepped on the tail of a snake that he had thought to be small but had turned out to be surprisingly large; by the time he had realized this, its head was already threatening him from behind.
«But this means you exist only for the purpose of clearing away the sand, doesn't it?»
«Yes, but we just can't sneak away at night, you know.» He was more and more upset. He had no intention of becoming involved in such a life.
«Yes, you can. It would be simple, wouldn't it? You can do anything if you want to.»
«No, that wouldn't be right at all.» She spoke casually, breathing in rhythm with her shoveling. «The village keeps going because we never let up clearing away the sand like this. If we stopped, in ten days the village would be completely buried. Next it will be the neighbor's turn in back. See, there.»
«Very praiseworthy, I'm sure. And do the basket gangs work so hard for the same reason?»
«Well, they do get some pay from the town.»
«If they have that much money, why don't they build a more permanent hedge of trees against the sand?»
«It seems to be much cheaper to do it this way… when you figure the costs.»
«This way? Is this really a way?» Suddenly a feeling of anger welled up in him. He was angry at the things that bound the woman… and at the woman who let herself be bound. «Why must you cling so to such a village? I really don't understand. This sand is not a trifling matter. You're greatly mistaken if you think you can set yourself up against it with such methods. It's preposterous! Absurd! I give up. I really give up. I have absolutely no sympathy for you.»
Tossing the shovel on the kerosene cans which had been left out, he abruptly returned to the room, ignoring the expression on the woman's face.
He spent a sleepless night, turning and tossing. He pricked up his ears, sensing the woman's presence. He felt somewhat guilty. Taking such a stand in front of her was actually an expression of jealousy at what bound her; and was it not also a desire that she should put aside her work and come secretly to his bed? Actually, his strong feelings were apparently not simply anger at female stupidity. There was something more unfathomable. His mattress was getting damper and damper, and the sand more and more clammy to his skin. It was all too unreasonable, too eerie. There was no need to blame himself for having thrown the shovel aside and come in. He did not have to take that much responsibility. Besides, the obligations he had to assume were already more than enough. In fact; his involvement with sand and his insect collecting were, after all, simply ways to escape, however temporarily, from his obligations and the inactivity of his life. No matter how he tried, he could not sleep. The sound of the woman's movements continued without interruption. Again and again the sound of the basket drew near, and then receded. If things went on this way he would be in no condition for tomorrow's work. The next day he would get up at daybreak, he decided, and put the day to good use. The more he tried to sleep, the more wide awake he became. His eyes began to smart; his tears and his blinking seemed to be ineffective against the ceaselessly falling sand. He spread out a towel and wrapped it over his head. It was difficult to breathe, but it was better this way.
He tried thinking of something else. When he closed his eyes, a number of long lines, flowing like sighs, came floating toward him. They were ripples of sand moving over the dunes. The dunes were probably burned onto his retina because he had been gazing steadily at them for some twelve hours. The same sand currents had swallowed up and destroyed flourishing cities and great empires. They called it the «sabulation» of the Roman Empire, if he remembered rightly. And the village of something or other, which Omar Khayyam wrote of, with its tailors and butchers, its bazaars and roadways, entwined like the strands of a fish net. How many years of strife and petitioning had been necessary to change just one strand! The cities of antiquity, whose immobility no one doubted… Yet, after all, they too were unable to resist the law of the flowing 1/8-mm. sands.
Sand…
Things with form were empty when placed beside sand. The only certain factor was its movement; sand was the antithesis of all form. However, beyond the thin wall of boards the woman continued shoveling as usual. What in heaven's name could she hope to accomplish with her frail arms? It was like trying to build a house in the sea by brushing the water aside. You floated a ship on water in accordance with the properties of water.
With that thought he was suddenly released from the compulsive feeling of oppression that, in some strange manner, the sound of the woman's shoveling exerted on him. If a ship floated on water, then it would also float on sand. If they could get free from the concept of stationary houses, they wouldn't have to waste energy fighting the sands. A ship — a house — which flowed along, borne up by the sand… shapeless towns and cities.
Sand, of course, was not a liquid. There was no reason, therefore, to expect it to be buoyant. If one were to toss something on it with a lesser specific gravity, say a cork stopper, and leave it there, even the cork would sink. A boat that would float on sand would have to possess much different qualities. It could be a house shaped like a barrel, for example, which would pitch and toss. Even if it heaved over a little, it would shed whatever sand had fallen on it and rise at once to the surface. Of course, people would not be able to endure the instability of a house that kept revolving all the time. There would have to be a double-barrel arrangement on an axis, so that the bottom of the inner barrel would always have a fixed point of gravity. The inner one would remain steady; only the outer one would turn. A house which would move like the pendulum of a great clock… a cradle house… a desert ship… Villages and towns in constant movement composed of groupings of these ships… Without being aware of it, he dropped off to sleep.
He was awakened by a cock's crow, like the creaking of a rusty swing. It was a restless, hangnail awakening. He had the feeling that it was barely dawn, but the hands of his wrist watch had already turned to 11:16. So the color of the sunbeams was actually that of noon. It was gloomy here because he was at the bottom of a hole and the sun had not yet reached that far.
Quickly he jumped up. The sand that had accumulated on his face, head, and chest fell away with a rustling sound. Around his nose and lips sand was encrusted, hardened by perspiration. He scraped it off with the back of his hand and cautiously blinked his eyes. Tears welled up uncontrollably under his gritty, feverish eyelids. But the tears alone were not enough to wash away the sand that had become lodged in the moist corners of his eyes.
He started toward the container on the earthen floor for a little water. Suddenly he heard the breathing of the sleeping woman on the other side of the sunken hearth and looked over. He swallowed his breath, quite forgetting the aching of his eyelids.
She was stark naked.
She seemed to float like a blurred shadow before his tear-filled eyes. She lay face up on the matting, her whole body, except her head, exposed to view; she had placed her left hand lightly over her lower abdomen, which was smooth and full. The parts that one usually covered were completely bare, while the face, which anybody would show, was concealed under a towel. No doubt the towel was to protect her nose, mouth, and eyes from the sand, but the contrast seemed to make the naked body stand out even more.
The whole surface of her body was covered with a coat of fine sand, which hid the details and brought out the feminine lines; she seemed a statue gilded with sand. Suddenly a viscid saliva rose from under his tongue. But he could not possibly swallow it. Were he to swallow, the sand that had lodged between his lips and teeth would spread through his mouth. He turned toward the earthen floor and spat. Yet no matter how much he ejected he could not get rid of the gritty taste. No matter how he emptied his mouth the sand was still there. More sand seemed to issue constantly from between his teeth.
Fortunately the water jar had recently been replenished and was brimming full. When he had rinsed his mouth and washed his face he felt better. Never before had he been so keenly aware of the marvel of water. Water was an inorganic substance like sand, a simple, transparent, inorganic substance that adapted to the body more readily than any living thing. As he let the water trickle slowly down his throat, he imagined stone-eating animals.
Again he turned and looked toward the woman. But he had no desire to go any closer. A sand-covered woman was perhaps attractive to look at but hardly to touch.
With daylight, the exasperation and excitement of the preceding night seemed pure fantasy. Of course, the whole thing would be good material for conversation. The man again looked around, as if to fix what had already become a memory, and hurriedly began to get ready. His shirt and trousers were loaded with sand. However, there was no sense worrying about such things. It was more difficult to shake all the sand from the fibers of his clothes than to get the dandruff off his head. His shoes, too, were buried in the sand. He wondered if he should say something to the woman before he left. But, on the other hand, it would only embarrass her to be awakened. Anyway, what should he do about paying her for the night's lodging? Perhaps it would be better to stop on the way back through the village and give the old man from the cooperative the money — the one who had brought him here the day before. Stealthily he went out.
The sun was boiling mercury, poised at the edge of the sand cliff. Little by little it was beginning to heat the bottom of the hole. He hastily turned his eyes away from the intense glare. In the next instant he had already forgotten it. He simply stared at the facade of the sand wall.
It was unbelievable! The rope ladder had vanished from the place it had been the night before. The marker bags, half buried by the sand, were perfectly visible. There was no mistake, he remembered the spot. He wondered: Had the ladder alone been swallowed up by the sand? He rushed to the wall and sank his arms into the sand, groping for it. The sand gave way, unresisting, and ran down. However, he wasn't trying to find a needle in a haystack; if he did not succeed with the first try, he never would, no matter how much he searched. Stifling his rising apprehension, he looked again in blank amazement at the abruptness of the slope.
Wasn't there some spot where it could be scaled? he wondered. He circled the house two or three times, looking. If he climbed up on the roof of the house, the distance to the rim of the hole would be shortest on the north side, toward the sea, but it would still be over thirty feet. And, what was more, the wall there was steeper than anywhere else. The massive brow of sand which hung down seemed exceedingly dangerous.
The west wall seemed to be a comparatively gentle incline, having a curved surface like the inside of a cone. At an optimistic estimate it was probably around fifty or even forty-five degrees. Cautiously he took a probing step. With each step forward he slid back a half step. Even so, it looked as though he could make it with a very great effort.
Things went as he had expected for the first five or six steps. And then his feet began to sink into the sand. Before he knew whether he was making progress or not, he was buried up to his knees and seemed to have lost all power of movement. Then he attempted frantically to scramble up on all fours. The burning sand scorched his palms. Sweat poured from his whole body. Sand and sweat blinded him. Soon he had cramps in his legs and was unable to move them at all.
He stopped struggling and caught his breath, assuming he had already covered a considerable distance, but when he opened his eyes, squinting, he was amazed to find that he had come not even five yards. What exactly had he accomplished by all this effort? he wondered. Moreover, the incline he had climbed seemed to be far steeper than when he had looked at it from below. And above where he stood, it looked even worse. Although he had wanted to climb up, he seemed to have spent all his energy simply burrowing into the sand wall. The brow of sand just above his face blocked his path. In desperation he tried to struggle on a little further, but the instant he reached out for the sand over his head his footing gave way.
He was spewed out from the sand and flung to the bottom of the hole. His left shoulder made a sound like the splitting of chopsticks. But he did not notice any pain. For some time fine sand rustled gently down the face of the cliff as if to ease the hurt he had received; then it stopped. Anyway, his injury was an exceedingly small one.
It was still too soon to be frightened.
He stifled a desire to scream and slowly crept back to the hut. The woman was still sleeping in the same position. He called her, gently at first and then in a louder and louder voice. Instead of answering, she turned over as though annoyed.
The sand ran from her body, revealing her bare arms and shoulders, the nakedness of her flanks and loins. But there were more important things to think of. Going to her, he tore the towel from her head. Her face was covered with blotches, and, compared with her body, which had been encased in sand, it was gruesomely raw. The strange whiteness of her face the night before in the lamplight must surely have been produced by a powder. Now the white stuff had rubbed away, leaving bald patches that gave the impression of a cheap cutlet not cooked in batter. With surprise he realized that the white stuff was perhaps real wheat flour.
Finally she half opened her eyes, seeming to be dazzled by the light. Seizing her shoulders and shaking her, the man spoke rapidly and imploringly.
«Say, the ladder's gone! Where's the best place to climb out of here, for heaven's sake? You can't get out of a place like this without a ladder.»
She gathered up the towel with a nervous gesture, and with unexpected energy slapped her face with it two or three times and then, completely turning her back to him, crouched with her knees doubled beneath her and her face to the floor. Was it a bashful movement? This was hardly the place. The man let out a shout as if a dam had given way.
«This is no joking matter! I don't know what I'll do if you don't get that ladder out. I'm in a hurry! Where in God's name did you hide it? I've had enough of your pranks. Give it here. At once!»
But she did not answer. She remained in the same position, simply shaking her head left and right.
He stiffened. His vision blurred, his breathing faltered and almost stopped; he abruptly realized the pointlessness of his questioning. The ladder was of rope. A rope ladder couldn't stand up by itself. Even if he got his hands on it there was no possibility of setting it up from below — which meant that the woman had not taken it down, but someone else had taken it away from the road above. His unshaven face, smudged with sand, suddenly looked miserable.
The woman's actions and her silence took on an unexpected and terrible meaning. He refused to believe it, yet in his heart he knew his worst fears had come true. The ladder had probably been removed with her knowledge, and doubtless with her full consent. Unmistakably she was an accomplice. Of course her posture had nothing to do with embarrassment; it was the posture of a sacrificial victim, of a criminal willing to accept any punishment. He had been lured by the beetle into a desert from which there was no escape — like some famished mouse.
He sprang up and, hurrying to the door, looked out again. The wind had risen. The sun was almost directly over the hole. Heat waves, glistening as if alive, rose from the burning sand. The sand cliff towered higher and higher above him; its omniscient face seemed to tell his muscles and bones the meaninglessness of resistance. The hot air penetrated his skin. The temperature began to rise higher.
As if he had gone mad, he began to yell — he did not know what, his words were without meaning. He simply shouted with all the strength of his voice, as though he could make the bad dream come to its senses, excuse itself for its blundering, and whisk him from the bottom of the hole. But his voice, unaccustomed to shouting, was fragile and wan. Moreover, his words were absorbed by the sand and blown by the wind, and there was no way of knowing how far they reached.
Suddenly a horrible sound interrupted him. As the woman had predicted the night before, the brow of sand on the north side had lost its moisture and collapsed. The whole house seemed to let out a soulful shriek, as if mortally wounded, and a gray blood began to drop down with a rustling sound from the new gap between the eaves and the wall. The man began to tremble, his mouth full of saliva. It was as if his own body had been crushed.
This entire nightmare could not be happening. It was too outlandish. Was it permissible to snare, exactly like a mouse or an insect, a man who had his certificate of medical insurance, someone who had paid his taxes, who was employed, and whose family records were in order? He could not believe it. Perhaps there was some mistake; it was bound to be a mistake. There was nothing to do but assume that it was a mistake.
First of all, there was no point at all in doing what they had done to him. He was not a horse or a cow; they could not force him to work against his will. Since he was useless as manpower, there was no sense in shutting him up within these walls of sand. It simply inflicted a dependent on the woman.
But somehow he was not sure. Looking at the sand wall that encircled him as if to strangle him, he was unpleasantly reminded of his miserable failure to scale it. He had simply floundered about. A feeling of impotence paralyzed his whole body. The village was already corroded by the sand, common everyday conventions were not observed; perhaps it had become a world apart. For that matter, if he wanted to be suspicious, there was plenty to be suspicious about. For example, if it was true that the kerosene cans and the shovel had been prepared especially for him, it was also true that the rope ladder had been removed without his knowing it. Furthermore, the fact that the woman had not offered a word of explanation, that she had silently accepted everything with a strange submissiveness, lent substance to the danger in the situation. The woman's remark the night before, intimating that his stay was to be a long one, had perhaps not been a mere slip of the tongue.
Then there was a small avalanche of sand.
Apprehensively, he returned to the hut. He went directly to the woman, who had remained crouching. He raised his left hand threateningly. His eyes glittered as he stood there agonizing. But halfway through the gesture, his arm, which he had raised with such purpose, suddenly collapsed. Perhaps he would feel better if he slapped the naked woman. But wouldn't this be just the part he was expected to play? She was waiting for it. Punishment inflicted, in other words, would mean that the crime had been paid for.
He turned his back on her, sank down on the ramp around the raised part of the floor, and cradled his head in his arms. Without raising his voice he began to groan. He tried to swallow the saliva that had gathered in his mouth, but it stuck in his throat and he gagged. The mucous lining of his throat had become hypersensitive to the presence of the sand; he would never get used to it no matter how long he stayed there. His saliva had become a brownish scum that oozed from the corners of his mouth. When he had finished spitting he could feel the harshness of the sand even more. He tried to dislodge it, running the tip of his tongue over the inside of his mouth and repeatedly spitting, but there was no end to it. His mouth was parched and hot, as if some inflammation had set in.
It was no use. Anyway, he would talk to the woman and try to get her to explain things more precisely. If the situation were clarified, perhaps he could decide on an attack. He could not be without a plan of action. Such a stupid situation was unbearable. But what would he do if she would not answer? That, indeed, would be the most ominous response of all. And there was ample possibility of it. Her stubborn silence! The way she seemed like a defenseless victim, crouching there with her knees drawn up under her!
The sight of her naked back was indecent and animal-like. She looked as though she could be flipped over just by bringing his hand up her crotch. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he caught his breath, ashamed. He had the feeling it would not be long before he would see himself as an executioner, torturing the woman, standing over her sand-spattered buttocks. Yes, eventually it would happen. And in that movement he would lose his right to speak.
Suddenly a piercing pain struck his belly. His bladder, apparently swollen to the breaking point, cried out for relief.
HE finished urinating and, stupefied with despair, remained standing as he was in the heavy air. There was no hope that things would be better as time went by. Yet he could not bring himself to go back into the house. When he left the woman's side he realized all the more how hazardous it was to be with her.
No, he thought, the problem was not she herself, but that crouching position. He had never seen anything quite so indecent. It was out of the question to go back in to her. In every way that position of hers was exceedingly dangerous.
Certain types of insects and spiders, when unexpectedly attacked, fall into a paralytic state, a kind of epileptic seizure… an airport whose control tower has been seized by lunatics… a fragmented picture. He wanted to believe that his own lack of movement had stopped all movement in the world, the way a hibernating frog abolishes winter.
As his thoughts ran on, the rays of the sun had become even more intense. He made a sudden bending movement as if to protect himself from the spear thrusts of light. Abruptly lowering his head, he grasped his shirt collar and pulled with all his might. The three top buttons flew off. Scraping away the sand that clung to his palms, he remembered once again the words of the woman the night before — to the effect that the sand was never dry but always moist enough to cause the gradual disintegration of anything it touched. When he had taken off his shirt, he loosened his belt and let the air circulate inside his trousers. But it was nothing to make such a fuss about. The unpleasant feeling left him as quickly as it had come. The moisture in the sand evidently lost its magical powers as soon as it came into contact with air.
At that instant it came to him that he had made a serious mistake. His interpretation of the woman's nakedness would seem to be too arbitrary. Though he could not rule out some secret wish on her part to seduce him, perhaps this nakedness was a very ordinary habit, made necessary by the life she led. After all, she did go to bed when it got light. Anyone is apt to perspire while asleep. Her nakedness was perfectly normal seeing that she had to sleep during the day and, what was more, in a bowl of burning sand. If he were in her position, he would certainly choose to be naked too if he could.
This realization suddenly eased his feelings of tension, as if the fluttering breeze had visibly separated the sweat from the sand on his skin. There was no use stirring up groundless fears. Men have escaped through any number of concrete walls and iron bars. He would not quail simply at the sight of a padlock without finding out whether it was locked or not. He went slowly back in the direction of the hut, dragging his feet in the sand. This time he would be composed, and he would get the necessary information out of her. By getting himself in such a state and screaming at her, he could only expect her to clam up. Besides, her silence was probably only shame at having been careless enough to be caught sleeping naked.
To his eyes, recently exposed to the burning sand, the interior of the hut lay in semi-darkness and felt cool and damp. The hot air had a stuffy, musty smell, quite different from the outside. But suddenly he was aware of what had to be a hallucination.
The woman was not there. For a moment he was startled. He had had enough of guessing games. But there was no riddle to be solved. She was there. She stood looking down, her back toward him, in front of the water jar by the sink.
She had finished dressing. He had no fault to find with her. The color of her matching bluish-green kimono and work trousers gave him a sense of mintlike freshness. Indeed, he was worrying too much. Between lack of sleep and the strange environment, he could scarcely help but have wild fancies.
The woman put one hand on the rim of the water jar and peered into it; with the tip of a finger she slowly stirred the surface of the water round and round. He vigorously swung his shirt in the air — it was heavy with the dampness of sweat and sand — and wound it firmly around his wrist.
She looked around apprehensively, and her features tensed. Her solicitous manner was so natural that one would have thought she had spent her whole life with such an expression on her face. He decided to behave as casually as possible.
«Hot, isn't it? Heavens, you can't wear a shirt when it's this hot!»
Yet she still appeared suspicious and looked dolefully at him. She gave a timid and artificial laugh, and spoke hesitantly.
«Yes, it really is. You'll get a sand rash right away if you leave your clothes on when you perspire.»
«A sand rash?»
«Yes. The skin festers, like after a burn, and then scales off.» «Hmm. I wonder if it really scales. It molders, I should say, with the humidity.»
«Yes… That's why…» Maybe she was beginning to relax at last, her tongue was loosening. «When we're likely to perspire, that's why we go around with no clothes as much as we can. After all, we live down in these holes, so we don't really have to worry about anybody seeing us.»
«Of course. Look, I don't want to put you to any trouble, but I would like to get this shirt washed.»
«Certainly, I'll be glad to. They'll be bringing our drum of water tomorrow.»
«Tomorrow? Tomorrow will be a problem,» he chuckled. Actually he had cleverly maneuvered the conversation to his subject. «Incidentally, when in heaven's name are they going to let me out of here? I'm going to be in a real fix. If a salaried worker like me breaks his schedule even by a half day, he stands to lose a lot. I don't want to waste a minute. There are a lot of coleoptera hopping around in sandy soil like this. I wonder if you know of any. I wanted to find a new species on this vacation.»
She moved her lips faintly. But no words came out. Perhaps she was just repeating the unaccustomed name. He realized that her mind was again closing. He went on instinctively.
«Say, I wonder if there isn't some way of getting in touch with the villagers, like beating on a kerosene can or something.»
But she made no answer. She again fell into her passive silence as quickly as a stone sinks into water.
«What's the matter with you? Damn it! Why don't you say anything?» Again his nerves were on edge, but he somehow stifled his desire to shout. «I don't get it. If there's some misunderstanding, all right! There's no use crying over spilt milk. This silence of yours is the worst thing. My pupils are always doing that, but I tell them that the most cowardly thing they can do is to clam up and pretend to take the blame themselves. If there's any explanation, out with it at once.»
«But…» Her eyes wavered toward her elbow, but in a surprisingly firm voice she said: «I think you already understand.»
«I understand…?» He gasped, unable to conceal his shock.
«Yes, you must have understood by now.»
«But, I don't understand!» he finally shouted. «How should I understand? You can't expect me to understand when you never say a word, can you?» «Well, life here is really too hard for a woman alone.» «What's that got to do with me?»
«It does have something to do with you. I'm afraid I've acted wrong toward you.»
«What do you mean, 'acted wrong'?» he said, stumbling over his words in his eagerness. «In other words, why the conspiracy? You baited the trap. You thought I'd spring at once if a woman was there, like some dog or cat.»
«It's getting to be the season now when the winds come from the north and we worry about the sand storms,» she said, glancing at the wooden door, which was standing open. There was a foolish confidence in her quiet, monotonous voice.
«It's no joke! There's a limit to absurdity. This is illegal detention pure and simple. A fine crime! You don't have to do such senseless things. Any number of men out of work would be glad of the chance for daily pay.»
«Maybe. But it would make trouble if they knew outside about things here.»
«And do you people think you're safe with me? Indeed you're not! You've made a real mistake if you think you are. I'm no tramp — unfortunately for you. I pay my taxes, and I'm a registered resident. There'll soon be a request out for an investigation, and then you'll see. Don't you people even understand that? Just how do you expect to justify yourselves? Now, go and call whoever's responsible. I'll tell him exactly what I think about this whole stupid situation.»
She lowered her eyes and sighed faintly. Her shoulders drooped, but she made no further attempt to move; she was like a dejected, unjustly abused puppy. Yet her attitude made him even more angry.
«What are you hesitating for? Come on, I'm not the only one concerned. You're as much the victim as I am, aren't you? Well, aren't you? You said yourself that if they knew on the outside about life here, there'd be trouble. That shows you yourself recognize how unreasonable this life of yours is. Stop being a mouthpiece; stop being treated like a slave. Nobody has the right to keep you shut up here. Go on and call somebody now. We're going to get out of here… Ah, so that's it. You're afraid, aren't you? But that's foolish! What's there to be afraid of? I'm here. And I've got friends who work for a newspaper. We'll give the story a social angle. What's wrong? Why don't you say something? I tell you there's nothing to be afraid of!»
After a moment the woman suddenly spoke, as if to console him.
«Shall I start fixing dinner?»
Out of the corner of his eye, he followed her figure as she began silently to peel some potatoes. Should he docilely accept the food she was preparing or not? His thoughts were completely taken up by the problem.
Now was the time to be calm and cool. Since her intentions were clear, it would be better to face the facts instead of shilly-shallying — better to lay some concrete plans for escape. He could call them to account for their unlawful treatment later. But his empty stomach weakened his will. He could not concentrate his faculties. But if he didn't want to recognize, officially, the predicament he was in, then he should probably refuse all food too. It would be ludicrous to eat the meal when he disapproved. Even a bristling dog will drop its tail as soon as it gets a bone.
But best not jump to conclusions. As long as he did not know just how far the woman would go, there was no need to be so passive. It was not a question of her doing something for nothing. He would certainly pay for his food. If he paid his money there would be no reason to feel indebted to her — not a bit. The announcers of boxing matches on television were always saying that attack was the best defense.
With this inspiration, he was relieved to have found a good excuse for not refusing the food. Suddenly his mind cleared and he saw everything. Only the sand was his enemy. Yes, that was it. There was no particular need to pose unreasonable problems, to be broken through like iron bars. They had taken away the rope ladder-¬very well, he would make a ladder of wood. If the sand wall were too steep, then he would make the incline more gentle by scraping away the sand. If he would only use his head a little, it would all be easy. The plan seemed overly simple, but as long as it fitted his purpose, the simpler it was the better. The best solution — take Columbus and his egg — is often ridiculously simple. If he did not mind the trouble, if he really would fight, well, the game was not over yet.
The woman had finished peeling the potatoes; she diced them and put them into a big iron pot over the hearth, along with a large sliced radish, leaves and all. She carefully took a match out of a plastic bag, and after using it she wrapped up the bag tightly again and fastened it with a rubber band. She put rice in a sieve and poured water over it, probably to wash away the sand. The pot began to make a bubbling sound, and the pungent smell of radish hung in the air.
«There's some water left over. Would you like to wash your face?»
«No, I'd rather drink it than wash my face in it.»
«Oh, I'm sorry, but I keep the drinking water separate.» From under the sink she took a large kettle which was swathed in plastic. «It's not very cold, but it's been boiled, so you don't have to be afraid…»
«By the way, if you don't leave a little water in the jar, you'll be up against it when it comes to washing up later, won't you?»
«Oh, no. I clean off the dishes just by rubbing them with sand.»
As she said this, she grabbed a handful of sand by the window and threw it into a plate she was holding. She swirled the sand around and covered the plate, to demonstrate the actual process. He wasn't sure whether the plate was really clean or not, but he had the feeling it probably was. The sand in this operation, at least, conformed very well with the idea he had had of it all along.
Again the meal was served under the umbrella. Lightly broiled fish and the cooked vegetables. Everything was slightly gritty with sand. They could eat together, he thought, if she would hang the umbrella from the ceiling, but he didn't want to make an express suggestion. The coarse, common tea was dark enough in color, but it had little taste.
When he had finished eating, the woman returned to the sink and, putting a piece of plastic over her head, quietly began to eat her own meal under it. She looked like some kind of insect, he thought. Did she intend to go on living like this forever? From the outside, this place seemed only a tiny spot of earth, but when you were at the bottom of the hole you could see nothing but limitless sand and sky. A monotonous existence enclosed in an eye. She had probably spent her whole life down here, without even the memory of a comforting word from anyone. Perhaps her heart was throbbing now like a girl's because they had trapped him and given him to her. It was too pitiful!
He was tempted to say something to her; for the time being, however, he decided to have a smoke, and he lit a cigarette. It would certainly appear that plastic was a necessity of life here. He got the match to light, but the cigarette had become unsmokable. He took strong drags on it sucking in his cheeks between his teeth. Yet no matter how he puffed he got only the taste of smoke, an extremely greasy smoke that irritated his tongue; the cigarette was worse than useless. The experience quite spoiled his frame of mind and took away any desire he might have had to speak to the woman.
She attended to the dirty dishes, placing them on the earthen floor and slowly heaping up sand on them. Then she said hesitantly: «I'm going to have to begin right away getting the sand down from the ceiling.»
«Getting the sand down? Oh. Well, that's all right with me.» He wondered indifferently why that should have anything to do with him now. It didn't concern him if the beams rotted and the roof fell in.
«If I'm in your way, do you want me to move somewhere else?»
«I'm sorry, but would you mind…?»
She needn't pretend! Why didn't she show even a little of her real feelings? In her heart she probably felt as if she had bitten into a spoiled onion. But she was expressionless as she swiftly, with an accustomed movement, wrapped a towel folded in two around the lower part of her face and tied it behind her head. She put a whisk broom and a small piece of wood under her arm, and climbed up on the partition of the closet, which had only half a door remaining.
Abruptly, he exclaimed: «Frankly, I'm convinced we'd both feel much better if this house fell to pieces!»
He was surprised himself at his peevish outburst, and the woman turned and looked at him with an even more startled look. Well, apparently she had not yet turned quite into an insect.
On he went: «No, I'm not particularly angry at you. It's the whole business. I don't like this scheming where you people think you can put a man in chains. Do you realize what I'm talking about? No, it doesn't make any difference whether you do or not. I'll tell you an amusing story. I used to keep a worthless mongrel at my boardinghouse. He had a terribly thick coat that scarcely shed even in summer. He was such a sorry sight that I finally decided to cut his hair. But just as I was about to throw away the hair that had been cut off, the dog — I wonder what could have been going on in his mind? — suddenly let out a pitiful howl, took a bunch of hair in his mouth, and ran into his house. He probably felt that the hair was a part of his own body and he didn't want to be separated from it.» He furtively observed the woman's expression. However, she made no attempt to move, remaining bent over in an unnatural position on top of the partition. «Well, let it go. Everyone has his own philosophy that doesn't hold good for anybody else. Go on working your fingers to the bone with your sand sweeping or whatever else you will. But I can't stand it. I've had enough! I could get out of here easily if I wanted to. And I've just run out of cigarettes.»
«Oh… I wanted to say… about the cigarettes…» she said, awkwardly and submissively, «when they deliver the water, later…»
«Cigarettes? Do they bring you cigarettes too?» He laughed in spite of himself. «That's not the question. I'm talking about the tufts of hair. Tufts of hair. Don't you understand? What I'm trying to say is that there's no sense in such futile concern over a tuft of hair.»
She was silent. She showed no sign of offering any explanation. She waited a moment, and when it was evident he had stopped speaking, she slowly turned as if nothing had happened and resumed her unfinished work. She slid back the cover over the top of the closet and crawled up, working the upper part of her body into the aperture with her elbows and wiggling her legs clumsily. The sand began to fall in thin rivulets here and there. He had the feeling that there was some strange insect inside the ceiling. Sand and rotted wood. No, thank you, he had had enough of strange things!
Then from one corner of the ceiling the sand began to pour out dizzily in numerous tapelike streams. The strange quietness was in eerie contrast to the violence of the flow of sand. The holes and cracks in the ceiling boards were quickly raised in exact relief on the straw matting. The sand burned in his nose and irritated his eyes. He fled out of the house.
Suddenly he felt as though he were melting away from his feet upward into a landscape of flame. But something like a perpetual shaft of ice remained in the center of his body. He felt ashamed in some way. An animal-like woman… thinking only in terms of today… no yesterday, no tomorrow… with a dot for a heart. A world where people were convinced that men could be erased like chalk marks from a blackboard. In his wildest dreams he could not have imagined that such barbarism still existed anywhere in the world. Well, anyway… if this was a sign that he was beginning to regain his composure and recover from his initial shock, his qualms of conscience were not a bad thing.
But he must not waste time. If possible, he would like to finish before it got dark. Squinting, he measured the height of the sand wall quivering behind a film of heat waves like molten glass. Every time he looked at it, it seemed to grow higher. It would be hard to go against nature and try to make a gentle slope abrupt — he only wanted to try to make a steep one more gentle. There was no reason to hang back.
The best way to do it, of course, would be to shave it down gradually from the top. Since this was impossible, he had no choice but to dig from the bottom. First he would scoop out a suitable amount of sand from below and wait for the sand above to cave in, then he would scoop more out and again let the top fall in. If he repeated this again and again, the ground level he stood on would gradually rise and ultimately reach the top. Of course, he might also be carried away by the flowing sand in the midst of the operation. But no matter how much sand flowed, it still wasn't water, and he had never yet heard about anyone being drowned in sand.
The shovel was standing with the kerosene cans against the outside wall that went around the earthen floor. The dented edge of the shovel gleamed white like a piece of cracked porcelain.
For some time he concentrated on digging. The sand was exceedingly tractable, and his work appeared to be progressing. The sound of the shovel as it bit into the sand, and his own breathing, ticked away the time. However, at last his arms began to grow weary. He thought he had worked for a considerable time, but his digging had apparently had no results at all. Only a little bit of sand had fallen from right above where he was digging. Somehow, it was working out very differently from the simple geometric process he had evolved in his head.
Rather than worry further, he decided to take advantage of a rest period and put his theory to the test by constructing a model of the hole. Fortunately, materials were plentiful. He chose a spot in the shade of the eaves and dug a hollow about a half yard wide. But the incline of the slope did not make the angle he had anticipated; it was only forty-five degrees at the most, about like a wide-mouthed mixing bowl. When he tried scooping sand from the bottom, the sand flowed down the sides, but the incline remained the same. There would appear to be a fixed angle for sand. The weight and resistance of the grains seemed to be in perfect balance. Supposing this were true, did the wall he was trying to overcome have about the same degree of incline?
No, that could not be. It might be an illusion, but it could not be true. When you looked at any incline from below it obviously appeared less than it actually was.
Then, shouldn't he perhaps consider it to be a question of quantity? The pressure would naturally change with different amounts of sand. If the pressure changed, a variation in the balance of weight and resistance would naturally occur. Perhaps it depended on the nature of the sand grains. Clay that has been packed down and clay from a natural deposit have completely different resistance to pressure. Furthermore, he had to consider the question of moisture. In short, another law was probably functioning, different from the one that applied to the model he had made.
Despite his failure, the experiment was not completely in vain. The very fact that he now realized that the slope of the wall was in what he might call a superstable state was an important find. Generally it is not particularly difficult to make a superstable state into a normally stable one.
A supersaturated solution, just by being shaken, at once produces a crystalline precipitate and moves toward the normal saturation point.
Suddenly he had the feeling that someone was near; he turned around. He had been unaware of the woman, who was standing in the doorway staring fixedly at him. He was understandably embarrassed and took a step back in confusion, glancing around as if in search of help. He raised his eyes, and there at the top of the east bank were three men, all in a row, looking down at him. They wore towels wrapped around their heads; as they were not visible from the mouth down, he could not be sure, but they seemed to be the old men of the day before. At once he straightened up, but just as suddenly he changed his mind and decided to ignore them and go on with his work. The fact that he was being watched spurred him on.
The perspiration ran into his eyes and dripped from the end of his nose. Since there was no time to wipe it away, he just closed his eyes and shoveled. Under no condition must he rest his arms. When they saw his unflagging pace, they would realize, unless they were dim-wits, how despicable they were.
He looked at his watch. He wiped it against his pants to remove the sand on its face; it was only 2:10. The same ten minutes after two as when he had looked before. He suddenly lost confidence in his pace. From a snail's point of view the sun probably moves with the speed of a baseball. He changed his grip on the shovel, and turning back again to the wall, he set frantically to work.
Suddenly the flow of sand grew violent. There was a muffled sound and then a pressure against his chest. He tried to look up to see what was happening, but he no longer had any sense of direction. He was only dimly aware of a faint milky light playing over him as he lay doubled up in the black splotch of his vomit.