Kobo Abe - The Ark Sakura

THE ARK SAKURA

by Kobo Abe

Translated by Juliet Winters Carpenter

VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL

VINTAGE BOOKS NEW YORK

A DIVISION OF RANDOM HOUSE, INC.

First Vintage International Edition, March 1989

Conventions. Published in

the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in

Canada by Random

House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Originally published in Japanese as Hakobune no Sakura by Shinchosa Co.,

1984 by Kobo Abe. This translation originally published, in hardcover, by

Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.,

in 1988.

THE ARK SAKURA

1

MY NICKNAME IS PIG—OR MOLE

Once a month I go shopping downtown, near the prefectural offices. It takes

me the

better part of an hour to drive there, but since my purchases include a lot of

specialized items—

faucet packing, spare blades for power tools, large laminated dry cells, that

sort of thing—the local

shops won't do. Besides, I'd rather not run into anyone I know. My nickname

trails after me like a

shadow.

My nickname is Pig—or Mole. I stand five feet eight inches tall, weigh two

hundred

fifteen pounds, and have round shoulders and stumpy arms and legs. Once,

hoping to make myself

more inconspicuous, I took to wearing a long black raincoat—but any hope I

might have had was

swept away when I walked by the new city hall complex on the broad avenue

leading up to the

station. The city hall building is a black steel frame covered with black

glass, like a great black

mirror; you have to pass it to get to the train station. With that raincoat

on, I looked like a whale

calf that had lost its way, or a discarded football, blackened from lying in

the trash. Although the

distorted reflection of my surroundings was amusing, my own twisted image

seemed merely

pitiful. Besides, in hot weather the crease in my double chin perspires so

much that I break out in a

rash; I can't very well cool the underside of my chin against a stone wall the

way I can my

forehead or the soles of my feet. I even have trouble sleeping. A raincoat is

simply out of the

question. My reclusion deepens.

If I must have a nickname, let it be Mole, not Pig. Mole is not only the less

unappealing

of the two but also more fitting: for the last three years or so I've been

living underground. Not in

a cylindrical cave like a mole's burrow but in a former quarry for

architectural stone, with vertical

walls and level ceilings and floors. The place is a vast underground complex

where thousands of

people could live, with over seventy stone rooms piled up every which way, all

interconnected by

stone stairways and tunnels. In size the rooms range from great halls like

indoor stadiums to tiny

cubby-holes where they used to take test samples. Of course there are no

amenities like piped

water or drainage, or power lines. No shops, no police station, no post

office. The sole inhabitant

is me. And so Mole will do for a name, at least until something better

suggests itself.

When I go out I always take along a supply of two items: a key to the quarry

entrance and

a small card with a map on the back and the words "Boarding Pass—Ticket to

Survival" on the

front. Late last year I picked up thirty-five leather cases, and put one key

and one card in each. I

keep three in the pocket of my good pants. If I happen to come across any

suitable candidates for

my crew, I can invite them aboard on the spot. I've been ready for the last

six months now, but the

right sort of person has yet to appear.

Preparations for sailing are virtually complete; in fact, all I lack now is

the crew. Despite

the urgency of the situation, however, I have no intention of conducting any

recruiting campaigns.

Why should I? In payment for their labors, crew members will receive a gift of

incalculable

value—the gift of life itself. Were this known, I would be swamped with

applicants. Just keeping

order would be a problem. Call it an excuse for my retiring ways if you like,

but I've always felt

that eventually the right people will gravitate to me without my having to go

search them out. So

you see that whether I have any shopping to do or not, it is essential that I

go out once a month or

so to mingle with the crowds, come in contact with people, and make my

observations.

Ordinarily I use the outdoor parking lot next to the prefectural offices,

because the rates

are low and it always has plenty of parking space. But today I decided to park

underground,

beneath the department store across from the station. The notice on a banner

hanging from the roof

caught my eye:

WONDERS AND CURIOSITIES NEVER SEEN BEFORE!

EXHIBITION AND SPOT SALE OF FAMILY

HEIRLOOMS AND TREASURES

This was obvious hype, but it succeeded in arousing my interest. Also, I

wanted a look at

the customers. When I entered the store, an announcement was being made to the

effect that

members of the general public were offering rarities and curios from their

private collections for

sale at the rooftop bazaar. Evidently I wasn't the only one attracted; almost

everyone in the

elevator was headed for the roof.

I discovered that the entire rooftop was covered with a maze of some hundred

or more

stalls. It was like a festival or a fairground; a great tangle of people

filled the aisles, some hurrying

along, others hesitating in apparent bewilderment. Among the items available

were these:

Key chains made of owl talons.

A "bear's ass-scratcher," looking something like dried seaweed. This was

apparently

a kind of parasitic plant; the seller himself had no idea what to do with it.

A cardboard box filled with assorted springs and cogwheels.

Three sets of horses' teeth.

An old-fashioned inhalator, heated by using an alcohol lamp.

A sharpener for bamboo gramophone needles.

Two whale turds, each a foot in diameter.

Glass nails.

Ointment to rub on the trunk of an elephant with a cold; made in Singapore.

A bloodstained signal flag claimed by its owner to have been used in the

Battle of

the Japan Sea.

An adjustable ring with plastic ballpoint pen attached.

A sleep-inducing device to plug into your home computer; worn around the

ankle, it

applied rhythmic stimulation timed to the user's heartbeat.

A jar of sixty-five-year-old shochu, low-class distilled spirits ("Drink at

your own

risk").

An aluminum-can compressor, utilizing water pressure in accordance with the

lever

principle.

A privately printed telephone directory purporting to contain "all you need to

know"

(for residents of Nerima Ward, Tokyo).

3.3 pounds of powdered banana peel (a marijuana substitute?).

A stuffed sewer rat, nineteen inches long.

A baby doll that could suck on a bottle.

And then—the eupcaccia.

Camped somewhere in the heart of the maze was a stall with a display of

insect

specimens. The stallkeeper must have had in mind schoolchildren with vacation

bug-collecting

assignments to complete, but his display was devoid of popular items like

butterflies and giant

beetles. Several dozen little containers about the size of a pack of

cigarettes lay heaped in the

center of the counter, and that was all. Each was made of transparent acrylic

plastic, and each

appeared empty. Aluminum foil labels bore the name "Eupcaccia," neatly typed,

with the Japanese

name in parentheses beneath: tokeimushi—clockbug.

The containers appeared empty only because their contents were so unimposing:

what

was inside looked like a relative of one of those nameless bugs that crawl

through garbage,

unnoticed and unloved. The salesman himself cut no great figure. His glasses

had lenses like the

bottoms of two Coke bottles, and the crown of his head bulged. All in all, a

dour-looking fellow.

Somewhat to my relief, he had customers to occupy him: a man and a young

woman, both

sensible-looking types, were turning containers over in their hands and

studying them as they

listened to the salesman's pitch. I couldn't help pausing to listen in,

attracted as much by the

authentic ring of "eupcaccia" as by the intriguing nickname, "clockbug."

I learned that in Epichamaic, the language spoken on Epicham Island (the

insect's native

habitat), eupcaccia is the word for "clock." Half an inch long, the insect is

of the order Coleoptera,

and has a stubby black body lined with vertical brown stripes. Its only other

distinguishing feature

is its lack of legs, those appendages having atrophied because the insect has

no need to crawl

about in search of food. It thrives on a peculiar diet—its own feces. The idea

of ingesting one's

own waste products for nourishment sounds about as ill-advised as trying to

start a fire from

ashes; the explanation lies, it seems, in the insect's extremely slow rate of

consumption, which

allows plenty of time for the replenishment of nutrients by bacterial action.

Using its round

abdomen as a fulcrum, the eupcaccia pushes itself around counterclockwise with

its long, sturdy

antennae, eating as it eliminates. As a result, the excrement always lies in a

perfect half-circle. It

begins ingesting at dawn and ceases at sunset, then sleeps till morning. Since

its head always

points in the direction of the sun, it also functions as a timepiece.

For a long time, islanders resisted mechanical clocks, deterred by the

clockwise rotation,

and by what appeared to them the suspiciously simple movements of hands

measuring off the

passage of time in equal units, without regard for the position of the sun.

Even now it seems they

refer to mechanical clocks as eupcanu, to distinguish them from "real"

clocks—eupcaccia.

There was a charm to the unassuming eupcaccia that went beyond mere practical

concerns. Perhaps its almost perfectly closed ecosystem was somehow soothing

to troubled hearts.

Guests at the Hotel Eupcaccia, the only such facility on Epicham, would come

across the insects

lying on flagstones (thoughtfully provided by the management) and become

riveted to the spot.

There were reports of a certain businessman who had sat day after day in the

same place,

magnifying glass in hand, and finally died raving mad, cheeks bulging with his

own excrement.

(He seems to have been either a Japanese watch salesman or a Swiss clock

manufacturer.) All of

this was doubtless more sales talk, but I chose to take it at face value.

The native population, in contrast, showed no such obsession with the insect.

Around the

start of the rainy season, when tourists went away, the bacterial action so

crucial to the well-being

of the eupcaccia would fall off, effectively slowing the progress of time.

Next came the annual

mating season, when time died, as the eupcaccia flew off like clock hands

leaving their dials. Then

impregnated females crisscrossed clumsily over the ground, fluttering wings as

thin as the film on

a soap bubble, as they searched for semicircles of dung on which to lay their

eggs. The cycle was

suspended, time invisible. The clocks shorn of hands were like claw marks on

the surface of the

ground, lifeless and sinister.

For all this, the islanders have never rejected time itself. The signs of

regeneration are

always the same.

I couldn't help marveling at the uncanny resemblance that the eupcaccia bore

to me. It

was as if someone were deliberately making fun of me, yet this insect dealer

had no possible way

of knowing who I was.

The male customer spoke, after clucking his tongue like someone sucking on a

sour

plum. "Funny kind of bug," he said. "Looks to me like it's sulking in there."

His speech was

unpleasantly moist, as if his salivary glands were working overtime. The girl

looked up at him and

said—her voice dry, the voice of someone sucking on a sugar candy—"Oh, let's

get one. They're

so cute."

She smiled prettily, dimpling the corners of her naturally red lips. The man

stuck out his

jaw and produced his wallet with an exaggerated flourish. All at once I

decided to buy one too. I

felt a strong sense of intimacy with the bug—the sort of feeling aroused by

the smell of your own

sweat. Fastened with a pin, I would doubtless make just as novel a specimen.

Whether the price of

twenty thousand yen was high or low I couldn't say, but I had a strange

conviction that I had

found exactly what I'd been looking for.

The eupcaccia was suspended inside its transparent acrylic container on two

fine nylon

threads hung at right angles, to make it visible from below as well as above.

Without the clear

vestiges of atrophied legs, it could have been a dung beetle with the legs

torn off.

I paid my money after the couple paid theirs, and watched as the salesman

inserted tablets

of a drying agent into the top and bottom of the container. Then, slipping it

in my pocket, I felt a

great easing of tension, like stepping into a pair of comfortable old shoes.

"How many does this

make?" I asked. "That you've sold today, I mean."

As if the question somehow offended him, the salesman kept his mouth clamped

shut.

His gaze was refracted in the thick lenses, making his expression hard to

read. Was he just

ignoring me, or had he not heard? Cheerful background music rose and fell with

a passing breeze.

"As soon as I get home I'm going to get out my atlas and see if there really

is such a

place as Epicham Island," I said, and then laughed. "Just kidding." Still no

reaction. Maybe I had

gone too far. I hesitated to say anything more.

2

SOMEDAY I'D LIKE TO DESIGN

A LOGO BASED ON THE EUPCACCIA,

AND USE IT FOR A GROUP FLAG

Straight back from the entrance was a canvas-roofed rest area that probably

doubled as a

stage for outdoor concerts. Next to stands selling iced coffee and hamburgers

was one selling

shaved ice; I ordered a bowlful, flavored with syrupy adzuki beans. Seen

through the protective

wire-mesh fence, the dusty streets below looked like old torn fishnet. It

seemed about to rain:

mountains in the distance were swathed in clouds. The noise of thousands of

car engines bounced

off the sky and merged, interfering with the department-store Muzak in spurts

like the gasps of a

winded bullfrog.

The bowl of shaved ice and sweet purplish beans chilled my palms. People in

the

unroofed area were starting to head for the exits, but here nearly every seat

was filled. I shared a

table with a student (so I judged him to be from the long hair that fell to

the nape of his slender

neck, and his bloodshot eyes) wearing a dark blue T-shirt with white lettering

that read PO PO PO.

His face was bent over a bowl of chilled noodles. I crushed the beans in my

ice with the back of

my spoon, then scooped them up and ate them. The student looked up with a

sound of joints

cracking in his neck. Evidently he was offended by the critical gaze I had

turned on him. It's a bad

habit I've developed ever since I started carrying the boarding passes with

me. As I go out only

once a month, I have to make the most of my time.

"Did you find anything?" I asked.

"Nah." A noodle hung down on his chin; he pushed it into his mouth with a

finger and

added in a tone of disgust, "What a bunch of junk."

"Even the eupcaccia?"

"The what?"

"Eupcaccia." I pulled the plastic case out of my pocket and showed it to him.

"It's the

name of an insect. Didn't you see it? Second aisle from the back, around the

middle, on the left."

"What's so great about it?"

"It's a beetle, a kind of Coleopteron. The legs have atrophied, and it goes

around and

around in the same place like the hour hand of a clock, feeding on its own

excrement."

"So?"

"So isn't that interesting?"

"Not especially."

So much for him. Disqualified.

At the risk of sounding pretentious, let me say I believe the eupcaccia is

symbolic of a

certain philosophy or way of life: However much you may move around, as long

as the motion is

circular you haven't really gone anywhere; the important thing is to maintain

a tranquil inner core.

Someday, I thought, I'd like to design a logo based on the eupcaccia, for a

group flag. It

would have to be based on the back, not the belly. The segmented belly has too

many lines, like

the underside of a dried shrimp, but the back could be represented easily

enough by two adjacent

ovals. Sort of like the radiator grille on a BMW—the car with the world's top

driving

performance. That settled it: I knew now where I was going to keep the

eupcaccia. There could be

no better place than the shelf over the toilet in my work area. That was where

I kept all the

luggage and other travel equipment. Suddenly I grinned, my humor restored at

the notion of the

eupcaccia as a travel accessory.

The student went off with a look of uneasiness. I had no intention of stopping

him. Even

apart from his boorish way of slurping his noodles, his approach to life was

obviously wanting in

gravity. The eupcaccia promised to become a useful litmus test, I thought, one

that gave me an

objective standard for deciding among potential crewmen. Anyone who showed no

curiosity about

such an insect—the fulcrum of a compass with which to draw the circumference

of the very

earth—was simply too insensitive to merit serious consideration.

I felt far greater interest in the young couple who had bought a eupcaccia

before me.

Where could they have gone? They were the ones I should have sounded out. Why

did I never

make the most of my opportunities? On second thought, however, the man anyway

was no loss.

He had been too restless, as if there were a Ping-Pong game going on inside

his head. Hardly the

type to adapt well to the life of a mole. The girl was another matter; she

certainly would bear

careful investigation. It had been her idea to buy the eupcaccia; besides, it

was only logical that

my first crew member should be a woman. Savoring the coldness of the ice in my

mouth, I turned

regretful thoughts of her over in my mind. Why hadn't I spoken up right then?

By now we might

have been fast friends, based on our mutual interest in the eupcaccia. The

only problem was the

nature of her relationship with that man. If they were married, or anything

like it, my hopes were

wasted. Of course the eupcaccia itself belonged to the realm of soliloquy. It

was hardly the sort of

thing you'd expect a married couple to purchase together. On the other hand, I

had to admit that

unmarried couples who behave like man and wife are rare—far rarer than married

couples who

behave like mutual strangers.

Time to go. I had already had the amazing good fortune to stumble on the

eupcaccia; it

wouldn't do to be greedy for more. And on a windy day like this I couldn't

drive after dark along

that rocky ledge by the coast: salt spray would rust out the body of the jeep.

A shadow fell on the seat just vacated by the student. Conspicuously large

cranium,

heavy glasses for nearsightedness, dingy skin—it was the insect salesman. He

unwrapped a

sandwich and dragged a chair up, scraping it loudly against the floor. He

still hadn't seen me. It

wasn't an amazing coincidence that we should end up face to face, considering

there were only a

few seats vacant. He peeled off the top slice of bread from his sandwich,

rolled it up into a

cylinder, and began to take careful bites, sipping now and then from a can of

coffee.

"Taking a break?" I said.

The insect dealer stopped chewing and looked up slowly. "You talking to me?"

"Don't you remember me? You just sold me a eupcaccia a few minutes ago."

For several seconds he continued to stare at me silently, through lenses so

thick they

seemed bulletproof. He seemed wary. Was it my weight? People tend to equate

obesity with

imbecility. Members of the opposite sex are distant, those of one's own sex

derisive. Fat is even

an obstacle to finding employment. The ratio of body size to brain size

suggests unflattering

analogies to whales and dinosaurs. I don't even like fat people myself—despite

the obvious

irony—and I generally avoid getting into conversations with them if I can help

it.

"What's the matter? You want your money back, is that it?"

In the back of my mind I still had reservations about the eupcaccia, but I

didn't want

them forced into the open. I was in no mood to hear a confession.

"Not at all. I'm very happy with my eupcaccia. It's given me a lot to think

about. Did you

collect all those specimens yourself? They say environmental pollution is

getting so bad that

insects are disappearing all over the place. Some dealers have to raise their

own, I've heard."

"Yes, and some go even further—they conjure up nonexistent specimens with

tweezers

and glue, I've heard."

"How many have you sold altogether?" I asked, deeming it safest to change the

subject.

"One."

"No, really."

"Look, if you want your money back, I don't mind."

"Why do you say that?"

"To avoid a hassle."

"There were some other people who bought one before me."

"No, there weren't."

"Yes, there were. Don't you remember? A man and a young woman."

"You haven't been around much, have you? I hired them as sakura—decoys,

shills, to

lure customers."

"They looked on the level to me."

"Well, they have a standing contract with the department store, so they're in

a little better

class than your average confidence man. Besides, the girl is terrific. She

makes great cover."

"She had me fooled."

"She's a looker, all right. She's got real class. That son of a gun . . ."

"There's a new system for classifying women into types," I said. "I saw it in

the paper.

The 'quintuple approach,' I think it was called. According to that, women fall

into five main

types—Mother, Housewife, Wife, Woman, and Human Being. Which one would you say

she is?"

"That sort of thing doesn't interest me."

"It's all been carefully researched by a top ad agency. It's some new tool

they've worked

out for market analysis, so it should be fairly reliable."

"You believe that stuff?"

A flock of sparrows flew low overhead. Then came a rain-cloud that brushed

the

department store rooftop as it sped by in pursuit. Canvas flaps over the

stalls fluttered and snapped

in the wind; shoppers paused uncertainly. Here and there some stallkeepers

were already closing

up. They would be the ones whose goods were sold out, or who had given up on

selling any more

that day.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to your stall? Looks like rain."

"I've quit." He laid thin slices of ham and tomato on top of each other,

speared them with

a fork, and grinned. His boyish grin went surprisingly well with his bald

head.

"Don't give up so soon," I said. "The eupcaccia gives people something to

dream about;

I'm sure you can sell at least a couple more if you try."

"You're weird, you know that? What do you do for a living, anyway?" He stroked

his

head with hairy fingers until the smokelike wisps of hair lay flat against his

scalp, making the top

of his head look even bigger.

A customer wandered up to the stall next to the rest area where we were

sitting. The item

for sale there was an all-purpose vibrator, oval in shape, featuring a metal

fitting for an electric

drill on the end, in which a variety of tools could be inserted: back

scratcher, toothbrush, facial

sponge, wire brush, shoulder massager, small hammer . . . you name it. It

certainly was ingenious,

yet it failed to fire the imagination. Besides, there at the counter they had

only samples. To make a

purchase you had to go through some fishy rigmarole, leaving a ten percent

deposit and filling out

an order blank with your name and address; the device would supposedly be

delivered to your

doorstep (for a slight charge) within a week. I found it hard to see why

anyone would want to buy

such a thing.

"There you have the opposite of a dream," I said. "Sheer practicality."

"There you have a lesson in how to fleece people," said the insect dealer.

"Nothing wild

or fantastic, you see. Plain, everyday items are best—kitchen stuff,

especially. If you're clever,

you can even fool people in the same line. But it doesn't bear repeating. You

can never work the

same place, or the same item, more than once. And until you've mapped out your

next strategy,

you've got to keep jumping from town to town. Not an easy life."

"Does the eupcaccia bear repeating?" I asked.

"Ah—so now you've made up your mind it's a fake."

"Just eat your sandwich, please. What did you have for breakfast?"

"What does it matter?"

"I always have sweet potatoes, or pancakes, with coffee. I make my own

pancakes."

"I can't make a good pancake."

"Neither can I."

"Haven't eaten breakfast in a good ten years."

"Was that thunder?"

"Who cares?"

He bit off a piece of his sandwich as if tearing into the world's betrayal. I

couldn't blame

him. If I were the discoverer of the eupcaccia, with sales so slow I'd

undoubtedly feel the same

way. A pillar of sand, understood only by dreamers. But even a pillar of sand,

if it stands inside

the earth, can hold up a skyscraper.

"If you like, I'll take the rest of the eupcaccias off your hands. Another

four or five

wouldn't hurt, anyway."

"Why should you do that?" the insect dealer said, stuffing his mouth with the

last of his

sandwich. "Don't talk like an idiot. I don't know what little scheme you may

have in mind . . ."

"All right. Just because I'm fat, you don't have to snap at me that way."

"Obesity has no correlation to character." He stuck the wad of bread he was

chewing over

Kobo Abe - The Ark Sakura

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