Still, he couldn't understand. He did not understand at all the reason why the woman had to be so attached to that River of Hades… Love of Home and obligation have meaning only if one stands to lose something by throwing them away. What in the world did she have to lose?
(Radio and mirror… radio and mirror…)
Of course he would send her a radio. But wouldn't it work out, to the contrary, that she would lose more than she would gain? For instance, there would be no ceremony of giving him a bath, which she liked so much. She always used to save water for washing him, even at the expense of the laundry. She would splash warm water between his legs and, quite as if she were doing it to herself, bend over squealing in laughter. There would not be another chance for her to laugh like that again.
No, she shouldn't be under any misapprehension. From the beginning there had been no contract between him and her, and since there had been no contract there could be no breach of contract. Furthermore, he too was not completely untouched. For instance, the stink of the cheap _sake_ that came once a week and seemed as if it had been squeezed from a compost heap… the flexing of the flesh on the inner side of her thighs where he could see the muscles standing out in ridges… the sense of shame in scraping away, with a finger he had wet in his mouth, the sand like burnt rubber that had gathered on the dark lips of her vulva… And her bashful smile that had made these things appear more indecent. If he added them all up, they would come to quite a lot. Even if his involvement seemed unbelievable, it was nonetheless a fact. A man, more than a woman, tends to abandon himself to bits and pieces of things.
When he thought about what the villagers had done, he realized that it would be almost impossible to calculate the harm he had suffered. The relationsip between him and the woman was of little importance. He intended sometime to take a full measure of revenge on them. He hadn't yet decided what would be the worst. At first he had thought of setting fire to the whole village, or putting poison in the wells, or laying a trap to lure them one by one into a hole in the sand. He had spurred himself on, whipping up his imagination by thinking up such direct measures. But now that he would have the opportunity of actually putting them into practice, he couldn't continue thinking such childish things. After all, the violence of a single person wouldn't amount to much. The only way was to make his complaint to the authorities. Even if he did, he was somewhat concerned as to how much of the cruel significance of the experience they would grasp. Well, for the time being, he would report it at least to the prefectural police.
Ah yes, and then there was one more thing… Wait! What was that noise? He could no longer hear it. Maybe it had been his imagination. By the way, wherever had the lights of the village gone? Even though the land was uneven, it was really too absurd that they were nowhere to be seen. He could easily conceive that he had tended to swing to the left and, having veered too far in the direction of the promontory, was screened from the village by some high ridges. He could waste no time. He would strike out boldly to the right.
… Finally, there was one more thing he did not want her to forget… she had never been able to answer his question. It had been raining for two days. When it rained, the force of the sand slides increased, but there was much less flying sand. Since they had done a little extra work on the first day of rain, they had been able to take it easy on the next. Taking advantage of the first period of leisure in some time, he had determined to push on tenaciously with a project. He had decided he would try to get at the reason that kept her in the hole, and he would go about it with the same patience one has in picking at a scab left from some skin disease. His perseverance had surprised even himself. At first she had cheerfully let the rain strike on her naked body, but at last she had been driven to the point of tears. Finally she began to say something to the effect that she couldn't leave simply because of the remains of her child and her husband, who had been buried along with the chicken houses on the day of the typhoon. Well, that was understandable. It was quite rational of her, and he could even comprehend her reticence in not speaking to him about it until then. But anyway, he had decided to believe her; he at once determined on the following day to devote some of his sleeping time to looking for the remains.
He had continued digging for two days at the place she had indicated. But he had not found even a trace of the chicken houses, to say nothing of any bones. Then she had pointed out another place. He could not find anything there either. And then she indicated still another. He had dug vainly in this way for nine days, in five different places, and then she had begun to make excuses, looking as if she were about to begin crying again. She had said that the location of the house had evidently changed, shifted by the constant pressure of the sands. Or perhaps it might have been that the hole itself had shifted. She had also said that the chicken houses and the remains of her husband and child might well have been buried under the thick wall of sand that divided her house from her neighbor's, and that they might have moved into the neighbor's garden. It was theoretically possible, certainly. Her unhappy, beaten expression obviously showed that she hadn't meant to lie, but that she had had no intention of telling him from the very beginning. The remains, after all, were no more than an excuse. He had not had the strength to get angry. And then he had decided to leave off trying to figure out who was indebted to whom. She would certainly understand this, he thought, but… What's that? He threw himself headlong to the ground. Everything had happened too quickly; he couldn't grasp the situation. Suddenly the village lay before him. He had apparently been walking straight toward the sandy promontory that was adjacent to it. At the instant the prospect opened before him he found himself in the very center of the hamlet. Before he could collect his thoughts, a hostile barking sounded from a nearby brushwood fence and was picked up by one dog and then another. In the dark, a circle of white fangs pressed in upon him. He pulled out the rope with the shears, sprang up, and began to run. There was no choice. The only thing to do was to make a direct run for the village gates.
26
He ran.
The houses, floating in the vague light of burning lamps, formed a maze of obstacles and passageways along the single path of his flight. He could taste the wind wheezing through his tightened throat like luke-warm rust. A desperate gamble on a sheet of thin glass that was already bent to the breaking point. The basket gangs had certainly left their houses already, but it was still too soon to expect them to have covered the distance to the seashore. In fact, he did not remember hearing the sounds of the three-wheeler. He could not possibly have missed the put-put of the crazy two-cylinder engine from at least a half mile away. The situation was extremely serious.
A black lump suddenly sprang out of the shadows. It was a fairly big dog, judging from its breathing. The dog, however, had evidently received no training in attack and had committed the blunder of barking just before it was about to sink its teeth in him. He lashed out with his rope, and the shears struck something; the dog let out a baleful howl and melted again into the shadows. Fortunately it had only bitten into the cuff of his trousers. His legs slipped out from under him as he recoiled, and he turned a somersault as he fell. At once he was on his feet again and running.