«Goddamn dirty hands!» he snapped, pressing his nails into the palms of his hands and turning toward the woman. «What in God's name are you going to do? Isn't there really any water any place?»
The woman spoke in a whisper, turning the upper part of her body away, and drawing her kimono over her naked thighs. «No. There's not any.»
«Not any? Do you think you can let it go at that? This is a matter of life and death! You bitch! Do something! And make it quick. Please! See, I'm even saying please!»
«Well, if we just got down to work… in no time at all they'd…»
«All right. You win. I can't help it. I give in.» In his heart he had not given in for a minute. But this was certainly no way to die… he was not a dried sardine, after all. Yet he would have made a fool of himself for anyone to see if only he could get hold of some water.
«I really give in. But it's pretty bad to make us wait until the regular delivery. We can't very well work when we're this dried out, can we? Get in touch with them right away… please. Aren't you thirsty too?»
«They'll know the minute we begin to work. There's always someone watching with binoculars from the fire tower.»
«The fire tower.. what fire tower?»
More than iron doors, more than walls, it is the tiny peephole that really makes the prisoner feel locked in. Distressed, the man hastily went back through his memories of the village.
He remembered the horizon of sand and sky. There was no place for a fire tower to be. Moreover, he could not believe that he and the woman could be seen from the outside while they could see no one from where they were.
«You'll understand if you'll take a look by the edge of the cliff out back.»
He meekly bent down and picked up the shovel. To worry about his self-respect after all that happened would be like ironing a grimy shirt. He went out as if driven.
The sand was burning like an empty pot over a fire. The glare took his breath away. The air that filled his nostrils smelled of soap. But with each step he was getting that much closer to water. When he stood under the cliff on the sea side and looked up, he could make out the top of a black tower about the size of the tip of his little finger. The thornlike projection was doubtless a lookout. Had he already been noticed? The lookout had doubtless been waiting gloatingly for this moment.
He turned toward the black thorn and, holding the shovel over his head, waved it furiously back and forth. He adjusted the angle of the blade so that it would reflect into the eyes of the watcher. A film of burning quicksilver spread over his eyes. Whatever was the woman doing? She had better come and help right away.
Suddenly a cool shadow fell over him like a damp handkerchief: a cloud had crossed above, like some fallen leaf driven before the wind into a corner of the sky. Damn it… if it would only rain he would not have to do this. He would hold out his two hands and they would be filled with water. Streams of water on the windowpanes… pillars of water bursting from the eaves troughs… splashing rain veiling the asphalt.
He did not know whether he was dreaming or whether his musings had become real, but suddenly he was aware of a commotion around him. Coming to himself, he found that he was in the midst of a sand slide. He took shelter under the eaves of the house and leaned against the wall. His bones seemed to have melted like those of some canned fish. His thirst burst around his temples, leaving fragments lying scattered on the surface of his consciousness like dots standing out in relief. He gritted his teeth and held his hands over his stomach; at last he contained his rising nausea.
The sound of the woman's voice came to him. She was facing the cliff and hailing someone. He looked up, squinting between his heavy eyelids. The old man who had first brought him here was just letting down a bucket, suspended at the end of a rope. Water! At last it had come! The bucket tipped and made a splotch on the sandy slope.
It was water, unmistakably the real thing! With a shout he fairly flew through the air to get to it.
When he came within reach of the bucket he pushed the woman aside, trampling her with his feet, and took hold of it with both hands. He could hardly take off the rope before he impatiently thrust his face into the bucket, his body heaving like a pump. He raised his face and took a breath. The third time he rasied his head water spurted from his nose and his lips, and he choked painfully. His knees buckled limply under him and he closed his eyes. Now it was the woman's turn. She was not to be outdone, and, sounding as if her whole body had turned into a rubber plunger, in no time at all she had drained half the contents.
Then she let go of the bucket and went back to the earthen floor; the old fellow began to haul in the rope. At once the man jumped up and grabbed it. «Wait!» he appealed. «Just a minute. I want you to listen to me. Wait, please! I just want you to listen to me!»
The old man gave in, and his hands stopped moving. He blinked his eyes in a puzzled way, but he remained almost expressionless.
«Since you've given me water, I'll do what I'm supposed to. I promise you that. But I still would like you to listen to me. You have really quite misjudged things. I'm a teacher in a school. I have my colleagues and the union waiting there, and the Board of Education and the P. T. A. too. Do you think people will accept my disappearance in silence?»
The old man ran his tongue over his upper lip and grinned rather indifferently. It really wasn't a grin, but probably only wrinkles in the corner of his eyes as he tried to keep out the sand that was blown along with the wind. But not a single wrinkle escaped the desperate man's notice.
«What? What's that? You realize, don't you, that you're pretty close to a criminal offense?»
«Why? It's been ten days, but there's been no notice from the local police.» The old man repeated his words meticulously one by one. «Supposing there was no notice even after ten days… what then?»
«It hasn't been ten days. A week!»
The old man shut his mouth and said nothing more. Certainly the exchange of words had been to no purpose. He restrained his impatience and said in a tight voice: «Well, these are matters of little consequence. Won't you come down so we can sit and have a leisurely talk? I will do absolutely nothing out of the way. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do a thing against such odds. I promise.»
The old fellow remained silent. The man began to breathe harder. «It's not that I don't understand how important this work of clearing away the sand is for the village. It's a matter of life and death, I know. It's very serious. I really understand that. If I weren't forced into it, I might even feel like co-operating with you voluntarily. It's really true. It'd only be human to co-operate when I see how things really are, wouldn't it? Do you really think this is the only way to make me work with you? I doubt it. Haven't you been able to think of a better one? The right man in the right place. If you don't put a man in the right place, you destroy the desire to co-operate. That's true, isn't it? Wasn't there a better way of making use of me without taking such a dangerous risk?» Had the old man heard or not? He turned his head blankly and made a movement as if he were shaking off a playful kitten. Was he perhaps nervous about the lookout in the fire tower? Would it be bad if they were to be seen talking together? he wondered.
«You agree, don't you? It really is important to clear away the sand. But that's a means, not a goal. Your goal is to protect your life from the sand, isn't it? It is, isn't it? Fortunately I've done some research on sand; I'm especially interested in it. That's why I made it a point to come to a place like this. Sand has a strange fascination for people today. There's a way of taking advantage of this. The place can be developed as a new sight-seeing spot, for example. You take advantage of the sand, you follow it, you don't run against it. In short, you've got to try to make a complete change in your thinking.»