The Face of Another (10 page)

If I were stupid enough to try addressing someone among them, even my remote contact with those around me would be sundered at once as easily as a piece of shoji paper. I would be drawn into the midst of the unrelenting crowd and pressed
to answer questions about the grotesqueness of my mask. A half-dozen times I crossed and recrossed the street in front of the station, constantly being warned. No, I was not imagining things. In spite of the congestion, pockets of space opened around me, like quarantined areas; not once had I rubbed shoulders with anyone.

It was like being in prison, I thought. A prison’s oppressive, constraining walls, its iron bars, all become burnished and pellucid mirrors reflecting the inmate. The torment of imprisonment lies in not being able to escape from oneself at any time. I too was wretchedly floundering around, tightly closed into the bag of myself. My impatience became irritation, irritation became a dark anger; then suddenly it occurred to me to try a public restaurant in a department store. It seemed about time to eat … perhaps because I was hungry. But the idea had far more challenging implications. With the intuition of a cornered man, I had succeeded in finding the tear in the bag that confined me. Don’t we reveal our weaknesses—solitude, loneliness, defenselessness—and aren’t we most particularly vulnerable when we are engaged in sleep, or evacuation, or eating? Department store restaurants are famous for their menu of solitude.

I stepped off the elevator, into an exhibition area behind which lay the restaurant. The words of a huge sign suddenly leapt out at me:
EXHIBITION OF NOH MASKS
. I stood for an instant rooted to the spot and then began to back away in confusion. This must have been a coincidence. I immediately thought that if I were to back out now I would be much teased for it, and so, though there was a roundabout way to the restaurant, I walked straight into the exhibition area.

I felt as tense as a coiled spring as I headed for the restaurant. Perhaps I wanted to take a preliminary look around before the challenge. Even so, a masked man looking at Noh
masks was an unusual combination. If necessary, I was prepared to jump through a hoop of fire.

But unfortunately so few people were going into the exhibition that my enthusiasm was dampened. As a result, I decided lukewarmly to make a round of the exhibit as if I were interested. I anticipated nothing special. There was a big difference between a Noh mask and the mask I sought. I needed something to clear the obstruction of the scars and restore the roadway to other people, while the Noh mask rather seemed bent on rejecting life. The moldy smell that filled the exhibition room, for example, a sort of atmosphere of decadence, was good proof of that.

Of course, it wasn’t that I was incapable of understanding that there was a kind of refined beauty in the Noh mask. What we call beauty is perhaps the strength of our feeling of resistance to destructibility. Difficulty of reproduction is the yardstick of the degree of beauty. Thus thin plate glass, if it could not be mass produced, would surely be considered the most beautiful thing in the world today. Even so, the mystery is that man has to seek such rare refinement. The demand for a mask, practically speaking, stems from a desire on the part of those who are not satisfied with, who want something more than, a mere living actor’s expression. If this were true, what would be the need of deliberately stifling expression?

Suddenly I halted in front of a woman’s mask. It was displayed against the surface of a pleated partition connecting two walls. Hung on a background of black cloth, in a wooden frame painted white like a railing, it suddenly raised its face as if answering my gaze. Quite as if it had been waiting for me, a smile seemed to break out over the whole face, and.…

No, of course it was an illusion. It was not the mask that was moving, but the lights which illuminated it. A number of miniature light bulbs, imbedded in a line on the back of the wooden frame, switched on and off in a regular, progressive
movement, producing a unique effect. It was a clever device. But even after I realized that it was a device, my initial surprise lingered on. I abandoned once and for all the simple preconception that there was no expression in Noh masks.

Not only was the design of this mask very elaborate, but its effect too, compared to the others, was striking.

Its difference was irritating; I don’t know why. I made another round of the exhibition hall, and when I came again to where the mask hung, everything suddenly came into focus, and the enigma was resolved. This wasn’t a face. What professed to be a face was in fact nothing more than a simple skull to which a thin membrane had been applied. Some masks representing old people were indeed more clearly skeletal, but actually the woman’s mask, though it seemed fleshy, on closer inspection revealed the basic skull. The seams of the bones in the brow, forehead, cheeks, and lower jaw stood out in relief with an exactness that made one think of an anatomical chart; and the shadows of the bones, following the movement of the lights, emerged as expression. The muddiness of the glue, recalling the texture of old porcelain … the network of fine crackle covering the surface … the whiteness and warmth as of driftwood bleached by the wind and the rain … basically, the beginnings of the Noh mask were the skull.

However, any woman’s mask was not necessarily like that. With the passage of the centuries, they have changed simply into expressionless faces like peeled muskmelons. Perhaps in order to get the essential lines mask makers today have misread the intentions of the makers from the period when Noh began and stress only the expressionlessness.

Then suddenly I had to face a dreadful hypothesis. Why in heaven’s name did early Noh mask makers, trying to go beyond the limits of expression, end up with the skull? It was doubtless not simply to suppress expression. So far as escaping
from ordinary expression was concerned, any mask would do that. If I really wanted to name a difference, I suppose it was that the Noh mask aimed in a negative direction, in contrast to the ordinary mask which attempts escape in a positive direction. I could give the mask any expression I wanted, but it would still be an empty container, a reflection in a mirror, transfigurable according to the person peering in.

At this point there was no reason for reducing my face, already thick with leech scars, to the skull. But wasn’t there in the radical method of the Noh mask some fundamental principle which made the face an empty container, some law applicable to every mask, every expression, every face? The face is made by someone else; one doesn’t make it oneself … the expression is chosen by someone else; it is not oneself that chooses it … yes, that may be right. A monster is a creation, so we can call man a monster too. And the Creator seems not to be the sender but somehow the receiver of this letter we call expression.

Did this describe my inability to make up my mind, to decide on a facial type? A letter with no address is simply returned, no matter how many stamps one puts on it. Well, that was a thought. How would it be to show someone a reference album of established facial types and get him to make the selection for me? Someone? But who? But isn’t it decided …? You, of course. The receiver of my letter can be no one but you.

A
T FIRST
I modestly thought this a very small discovery, but gradually the wave lengths of the light around me began to change, and a rosiness, like a gradually welling laugh, suffused my heart. Gently shading the glow with my two hands so that it would not die away, I went on through the exhibition, leaving it with the exhilaration of running downhill.

Yes, actually, I had made no small discovery. From the standpoint of procedure, there were still many problems—there were bound to be—but having come this far, perhaps everything could be solved. Unhesitantly, I hurried into the restaurant. I entered abruptly, without trepidation, into the heated atmosphere of a large restaurant that included in its mere two-page menu every conceivable aid to gluttony, in contrast to the atmosphere of the Noh mask exhibit. It was not sudden courage on my part. It was rather cowardice with the dawning of hope.

And then, as if by chance, the man stood directly in front of me, blocking my path. His coolness as he stood looking lingeringly at the showcase containing artificial samples of food was somehow appropriate for the person I was seeking. Ascertaining immediately that his age was right and that there were no scars on his face, I made my decision.

At length, having made up his mind, the man bought a token from the cashier for Chinese noodles in broth. Following him, I too got tokens for a sandwich and coffee. Then,
with an innocent face—no, I didn’t have a face—I sat down casually at the same table, across from him. Since there were other empty seats, the man clearly showed his displeasure but did not actually say anything. The young waitress punched our tickets, brought water, and left. I took off my surgical mask, drew out a cigarette, and aware of the shyness of my companion, gently began to speak.

“I’m sorry. If I am disturbing you …”

“No. No.”

“But the child over there’s staring at my bandaged face. He’s quite forgotten the ice cream he was so absorbed in. Perhaps he’s thinking you’re a friend of mine.”

“Well … go get another seat!”

“Yes, I suppose I could. But before I do, I just want to ask one thing in all frankness. Would you like a hundred dollars? If you don’t, I’ll change my seat right away.”

There appeared in my companion’s expression a wretchedly opportunistic reaction, and without a moment’s delay I began to pull in my net.

“It’s not really an especially troublesome request. It’s not at all dangerous, and with little bother to you the hundred dollars are yours. What about it? Will you listen to what I have to say, or shall I change my seat?”

The man passed the tip of his tongue over his yellowed teeth, and a nerve below his eye twitched. If I classified him according to the Boulan system he would be a concave type, slightly fleshy. In short, he was the introverted, antagonistic type I had excluded. However, since I needed only the quality of the skin texture, I wasn’t interested in the type. One had to be imperious with this sort of person, but I would be careful not to hurt his feelings.

E
XCURSUS:
While I vigorously rejected the face as a yardstick for myself, it was quite sufficient for others. I realize it was self-centered of me, but treating him this way was a
luxury from my viewpoint. People like me who lack something are liable to become spiteful critics
.

“Even so …” he said, staring at the entrance to the roof, where gift balloons were being distributed to children. Turning the upper part of his body, he looped one elbow over the back of his chair, as if he could finish the business without looking at my face. “Well … let’s talk.…”

“That’s a weight off my mind. I can still move my seat, but these waitresses are so sullen. However, before I do, I’ve just one promise I’d like you to make. Since I’ll not ask you anything about you or your work, you’re not to ask about me.”

“There’s no work to ask about,” he said, “and if I don’t know anything I can save the trouble of excuses later.”

“After we’re done, I want you to forget the whole thing … that we ever even met.”

“That’s all right by me. Anyway, it doesn’t look like something I’ll want to remember.”

“I wonder. Even now, you can’t look me straight in the face. Isn’t that proof you’re disturbed? Surely you’re itching to know what’s under my bandages.”

“That’s absurd!”

“Well, then. Afraid?”

“Certainly I’m not afraid.”

“Then, why are you avoiding me like that?”

“What do you mean ‘why’? Do I have to answer these questions one by one? Or is this a part of the hundred-dollar deal?”

“You don’t have to force yourself to answer if you don’t want to. I know all the answers even if I don’t hear them. I just thought I could make the load a little lighter for you, that’s all.”

“All right. What do I have to do then?”

The man ill-humoredly stuck out his lower lip and drew from the pocket of his coat a battered package of cigarettes.
All at once the muscles around his mouth began to twitch, like the underside of an insect, jerking the flesh around his thin cheeks. His expression was that of a cornered victim. But could that be? I knew from experience that a child could be thrown into considerable panic by his own fancies, but this fellow was a full-grown man. My colleagues averted their eyes from me doubtless out of the usual feeling of discomfort in front of a superior. Precisely because I knew that, I was only trying to establish a pseudo-equality at best with my hundred-dollar bait.

“Well, let’s get down to business right away.” I carefully sent out a feeler in a deliberately unpleasant manner. “The fact is … I’ve been wondering if you wouldn’t sell me your face.…”

Instead of answering, he vigorously struck a match with a grave expression. He broke the matchstick, and the broken part, still burning, flew onto the table. Hastily he blew it out and with his fingernail flicked it to the floor; snorting in exasperation, he struck a new match. It was as I expected. It had been simply a question of a few seconds, but in that interval he had focused all his attention and was engrossed in trying to discover the meaning of the words “sell me your face.”