The Ruined Map (16 page)

But, strangely enough, a bus came to his aid at the critical instant. The one situated at the deepest point in the circle—one that had been able to escape the destruction, relatively speaking, while everyone was concentrating on drinking, since the saké was flowing—suddenly started up its motor, and with the back doors wide open, spewing forth goods and workmen indiscriminately, kicking up a shower of pebbles, abruptly began to move.

Naturally, everyone’s attention focused on the bus. They followed after it, throwing rocks, some of them trying to jump through the windows. The little bus, that seemed barely a single horsepower at the most, sounding like a metal saw, with its last ounce of power clambered up the embankment, shaking off its pursuers.

The driver’s bold act had provided an opportunity for escape to the other buses as well. Waiting for the moment when the workmen had thinned out in pursuit of the escaping bus, the remaining buses started their motors together and went dashing helter-skelter full speed over the dry river bed.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the brother creeping in the dry grasses below the embankment, his body stooped low to escape his pursuers. Then I too made a dash in the direction of my car, which had fortunately escaped attack until now. Suddenly I remembered something
important I had forgotten. The husband’s diary. I had asked for the diary, and he had said he would leave it at his sister’s place tomorrow. I felt I should have once more confirmed the promise. But the brother’s figure had already vanished. Doubtless he had succeeded in escaping. Then a rock suddenly came flying toward me. It struck my shoulder blade as I ran along as fast as I could, my head bent, but I felt no pain at all. Rather, it was as if my throat were strangled by my gasping breath. Obviously the effect of having drunk so much. Yet I felt surprisingly calm. Without much trouble I found the key and was able to start the motor in an instant. Now most of the workmen were gathering in a noisy band at the slope that formed the inclined plane of the embankment, the only road for cars that connected the river bed with the embankment. Just then the last two buses, which had been slow to get away, attempted to break through, charging along, their horns blaring, their headlights turned up. Somehow one got away. But the other, in its hurry, slipped its gear and suddenly halfway up the slope lost speed. Unresisting, it was turned on its side by the attacking workmen and then laid on its back at the foot of the slope. The inclined plane of the embankment was illuminated in bold relief by the headlights over an area of some twenty yards.

A white pole perpendicular in the dry grass was pregnant with meaning, but I did not know of what. Against the background of the embankment, the group, fused together in the dark, swarmed over the bus, its wheels spinning. If there was an agitator, he must surely be there among them. If only I could recognize his distinctive features, the opportunity of discovering the brother’s enemy—provided he actually existed—would be most propitious. I could hear higher-pitched shouts and the sound of breaking glass. The motor
stopped and the lights went out, and there remained only the glow of the burning embers that lay scattered here and there in the area where the drum had been. Some men lay motionless on the ground where they had fallen; some were crawling around; others, like somnambulists, staggered and reeled by the edge of the water—perhaps drunkenness, perhaps some injury. Anyway, with the bus overturned, the road had been left unobstructed—a stroke of luck. My car, of course, was not even half the size of a microbus. If I made the slightest mistake in strategy, the fate I could expect would be much the same.

With my headlights off, I deliberately made a wide circuit around the river bed. Three young men from the gang came running toward me in search of help, but they were at once overtaken by the attackers and roughly thrown to the ground and dragged around. Or perhaps there were only two, not three.

I let them pass without interference. I had greatly reduced my speed, but even so, the car trembled violently, as if it were undergoing some durability test, rattling as if it would soon give up the ghost. If it went into a ditch or had its guts torn out by some boulder, that would be the end for me. Presently, I was headed straight into a clump of willows on a slight rise. As I had anticipated, I encountered another bunch of rampaging men. It was the gang that had made off with the girls. I slowed down even more, watching for signs of pursuers approaching. When I had sufficiently pulled away I accelerated abruptly and with my foot clamped on the gas I turned hard on the wheel and made for the foot of the embankment. I was pursued by the threatening sound of the motor; it was as if someone were knocking it to pieces with a sledge hammer.

Somehow, it turned out well. Almost all the pursuers, unwilling to miss the ceremony in progress with the girls, had withdrawn there. Since my headlights were turned off, I did not know exactly what kind of ceremony they were enacting. My imagination went to work and I envisioned smooth hunks of meat suspended on hooks in a butcher’s refrigeration room, skinned and carved up. There was no light, but in front of them stood a great candlestick and they were filled with a tense feeling of solemnity. Thanks to the girls, my car was ignored. When at last I arrived at the embankment, I turned on my lights. Suddenly my whole body stiffened, my shoulders and legs began to shake, and it appeared darker to me than when the lights had been off. I shifted into high, and although my foot had the accelerator to the floor, the car moved no faster than a hand cart; the back of my head tingled with an unspeakable fear. There was a smell of burning. The hand brake was not completely released. I turned on the heater and left the window open. For the first time, I felt with relief the weight of inebriation between my eyes.

                 T
HERE WAS
still no sign of intoxication in her expression. With her shoulder she brushed aside the curtain that served to partition off the kitchen and entered
the room with an affectedly light, girlish step, her weight borne forward, carrying over her arm a man’s raincoat, on which she had placed a folded, used newspaper and on top of that her free hand.

Evidently she had made short work of putting on her make-up. The neat, velvety-soft color of her skin and even her freckles had restored her usual freshness, and her hair had been brushed. Perhaps the attempt to conceal her real face was because she had a woman’s consciousness of being seen, or it might on the other hand be a manifestation of caution. But even so, the effectiveness was open to question. This woman became more transparent by using cosmetics, and she could easily be seen through. A distant dream village enshrouded in mist. Before I became what I am now, my breast was filled with yearning for it—a remote village that seemed lost among the trees, where I remember spending several days. But precisely because a picture frame was attached to it, it seemed a landscape, and because I was convinced it was a landscape, it became transparent. If the frame were removed, the mist would be quite ordinary. Insofar as it could not be touched with the hands, it was no different from a wall of concrete in its nontransparency. Don’t be deceived. There was still no evidence that she was not an accomplice. Suddenly for no reason my ears were pierced by the weakened cries of the girls in the river bed, and the hunks of meat, cut into pieces, oozing a dark juice, appeared like small moons deep in the mist.

Crossing in front of the bookshelves, she laid the coat on a corner of the table, and slid the newspaper toward me. She seated herself on the same chair as last night, although it was now in a somewhat different position, and the line of demarcation between the bookshelves and the lemon-yellow
curtains now fell to the level of her right ear, as fragile as china, ruined with rough handling. I suppose some men would feel protective toward it, while others might be carried away by the desire to break it into pieces. Which type was the husband? I wondered.

“This is the paper.”

It was a sports sheet folded once horizontally and further into four vertical pleats. There was a conspicuous worn spot although not the size of a matchbox. Suddenly red letters leapt out at me: Sword of Wrath Trounces Cutthroat. It was an article on professional wrestling.

“June fourth, is it? He certainly carried it around long enough, didn’t he.” Turning the page, I saw next a forecast of professional baseball. Under it, in large letters, appeared an advertisement for a cold medicine. On the upper half of the third page was the photograph of an up-and-coming singer next to a gossip column relating how things were going with his sweetheart or something to that effect. Underneath, divided into small boxes, appeared classified ads at a thousand yen a line: jobs, hotel guide, financials, apartments, and sundry others. The sundries, with the exception of dogs for sale, all dealt with venereal clinics and operations for sterility and redundant foreskins. Then, on the last page, horse- and bicycle-racing forecasts. Movie listings appeared side by side with radio and television programs. Underneath, again three bands of job advertisements. Only one was for a missing person, but it seemed unrelated to this case.

“Was it this worn from the first? Or have you handled it a lot yourself?”

“Yes, I have, but …,” she said, lifting her innocent, untroubled eyes from my hands, which she had been staring at. “You know, it was worn before I got hold of it.”

“When was the last time your husband used his raincoat? I suppose you don’t remember, do you?”

“He almost always used to leave it in his car … either as a precaution or because he was lazy. He used to say he’d be ready for the rain. If the person my husband sold the car to hadn’t gone to the trouble of bringing it back, I probably wouldn’t have been able to remember that there ever was such a coat, I suppose.”

“Car? He sold his car? When?”

Unconsciously my tone became insistent. One question followed on another, but she showed no signs of confusion as she slid the tips of her fingers along the edge of the table, as if in doubt. “It was the day before … or two days before. But it was about a week later that the coat was brought back. It had been forgotten in the trunk, he said.”

“But last night you said something altogether different.”

“Did I? Strange, isn’t it.”

“I definitely heard you say the car was in the repair shop, you remember.”

“Well, I meant that that was what my husband said.”

“Your brother must know the whereabouts of the car. Why was there any need to tell such a specious lie?”

Had I gone too far? I wondered. Had I cornered my client in an untenable position? Well, you reap what you sow. I had not set this trap for her. The fence by which she had been cornered was no more an obstruction for her than wet paper. She gave a weak, abashed smile.

“It looks as if I have the bad habit of saying things on the spur of the moment. I wonder if I don’t tend to be arbitrary. I’ve spent half the day since this morning searching the house … from the bottom of the book boxes to the
sideboard. I’ve been going in circles, it’s like a game of hide-and-seek. I have the feeling my husband’s become an insect. I’ll try putting honey on paper and slipping it under the bed.”

Her lips compressed and her breathing was agitated. Thinking she was on the verge of tears, I was the more upset of the two of us.

“You realize it’s to neither of our advantage to hold back information. It’s not only that you’ll have brought me on a fool’s errand, but also that it’s a waste of your money. Now then, tell me, what sort of a man was the fellow he got to buy the car?”

“Very nice, really,” she said, looking at me frankly, as if suddenly regaining consciousness. “It’s not true that I hold back information. You know, if he’s somebody connected with my husband’s disappearance, either he’ll tell us something or he won’t appear at all. If I say nothing, the buyer’s the kind of person nobody’d pay any attention to.”

“What does he do?”

“He said he was a taxi driver.”

“And what was the price of the car?”

“I guess about a hundred thousand yen.”

“Was the payment taken care of?”

“Yes. He even showed me the receipt.”

“I wonder if he was going to use that money to leave home on.”

“He couldn’t have done that. That’s inconceivable.” Suddenly her smooth, waxlike expression became severe and rough, as if sprinkled with sand, and lines of small white wrinkles formed around her nipplelike lips. Unconcernedly she picked at her tooth with her thumbnail. “Don’t say such things. You’ve no proof.”

“But proof is a part of fact, you know. What am I supposed to do … since you don’t seem to have much taste for facts?”

“Well, I can’t believe he’d do that. I suppose it’s a fact that he did disappear, but the question is what was he escaping from, isn’t it. It wasn’t only from me. I think it wasn’t from me at all, in fact. It must have been from something else, something quite different.”

I was suddenly dejected. I placed my briefcase on my lap and opened the flap. “Be that as it may, shall I show you my report? As you say yourself, only worthless facts.”