The Woman in the Dunes (15 page)

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. However, there was not just one dog, but, apparently, five or six. Discouraged, perhaps, by the failure of the first, the others awaited their chance as they circled around him, barking. Maybe the squat red dog from the shack was urging them on from behind. Then he jumped over a mound of shells in an empty lot and ran between some narrow brushwood fences, cutting through a garden where straw was spread out to dry. At last he came out on a broad road. Only a little more and he would be out of the village.

Just beside the road there was a small ditch. Two children, who looked as if they were brother and sister, scrambled out. He noticed them too late. He did what he could to bring the rope around to the side, but it struck them and all three tumbled into the ditch. Something like a wooden pipe lay at the bottom, and the dull sound of splintering wood accompanied their fall. The children screamed. Damn! Why did they have to yell so loud? He pushed them away with all his strength and clambered out And at that very instant the beams of three flashlights lined up, blocking his way.

At the same time the alarm bell started to ring. The children were crying… the dogs were barking… and at every sound of the bell his heart jumped a beat. His pores opened, and a thousand prickly little insects, like grains of rice, came crawling out. One of the flashlights seemed to be of a type that had an adjustable focus, and just when he thought the light was dwindling it suddenly pierced him again like a white-hot needle.

Should he try a frontal attack, kicking them aside as hard as he could? If he could just get across there, he would be outside the village. He might regret the tactic later and then again he might not, but all depended on this instant. Come on! Don’t hesitate! If he didn’t seize the opportunity now, it would be too late. He couldn’t count on a second chance.

Even as he was thinking this, the flashlights, poised in a half circle around him, spread out to the left and the right and slowly approached him. He grasped the rope more firmly and knew he must move, but he only stood there with his toes biting into the soft ground, unable to come to any decision. The places between the flashlights were filled with the dark shadows of men. And that obscure shape by the side of the road, which at first looked like a hole, was certainly the three-wheeler. Even if he were successful in getting through, he would be caught from behind. In back of him he could hear the steps of the children, who had stopped crying, running away. Suddenly a magnificent idea occurred to him: he would get the children and use them as a shield. By taking them hostage he could stop the men from coming nearer. But when he turned to pursue them he could see other lights waiting for him. The road behind had been cut off too!

He recoiled and, gathering his strength, ran back along the way he had just come. His decision was a kind of reflex; he hoped to find some place where he could cut across the dune that lay adjacent to the promontory. The men from the village yelled as they ran after him. His knees felt weak, as if his joints had loosened; perhaps he had been in too much of a hurry. But for the time being, at least he seemed to have taken them by surprise, and he was able to keep enough distance between him and them in order to turn around now and then to see where they were.

How far had he come? he wondered. He had already run up and down several dunes. Yet the more he strained, the more he seemed to be running vainly, dreamily, in one place. But this was no time to reflect on efficiency. There was a taste of honey mixed with blood on the back of his tongue. He tried to spit it out, but the substance was too viscid. He put his finger in his mouth and scraped at it.

The alarm was still ringing, but it was already faraway and intermittent. The barking of the dogs, too, had become a peevish, distant chatter. It was his own breathing, like a file on metal, that was the disturbance he was aware of now. The three pursuing lights were still in a line, wavering up and down, and while they did not seem to be coming closer, neither did they seem to be getting any further away. It was just as hard for him to run away as it was for them to run after him. From now on it was a question of endurance. But he could not be very optimistic about that. The strain had perhaps lasted too long. His mind suddenly seemed to buckle; in this moment of weakness he even hoped his strength would give out and he would have done with the whole thing. The symptom was dangerous. Yet it was still well that he realized just how dangerous.

His shoes were full of sand, and his toes began to hurt. Looking around, he perceived that his pursuers had fallen back to seven or eight yards behind him, on the right. Why had they gotten off the track like that? Perhaps they had tried too hard to avoid the slopes and had ended up by bungling the chase. Apparently they were pretty tired too. The pursuer, they often say, tires more quickly than the pursued. He paused and hastily took off his shoes, to run barefoot. He stuck them into his belt, since they would be a bother if he put them into his pocket. Recovering his spirits a little, he ran up a fairly steep slope in a single burst of speed. If things went like this and he had a little luck, he might give them the slip yet.

Although the moon had not risen, the countryside was splotched with faint patches of bright and dark from the starlight, and he could clearly distinguish the distant ridges. He seemed to be heading for the end of the promontory. Again he felt the urge to bear to the left. As he was about to change direction, he was suddenly brought up short. If he changed, he would at once shorten the distance between his pursuers and himself. He was thunderstruck, aware for the first time of their plan.

Their pursuit, which at first had seemed implausible, was in fact very well thought out: they were trying to push him in the direction of the sea. Without knowing it, he had been guided. When he thought about it now, he realized that the flashlights were meant precisely to let him know their positions. The way they kept their distance without coming near was certainly done on purpose.

But it was still too soon to give up. He had heard that there was a way to climb up the cliffs somewhere, and if it turned out to be necessary it would not be impossible to swim over to the back of the promontory. He thought of being caught and taken back; there was no room for hesitation. Abrupt descents followed long, gentle rises; abrupt rises, then long, gentle descents. One foot after another… one step added to the next, like stringing beads… patiently… patiently. Unnoticed, the alarm had ceased. He could no longer distinguish between the sounds of the wind and sea and the ringing in his ears. He ran up a hillock and looked around. The pursuers’ lights had disappeared. He waited for a moment, but they did not reappear.

Had he really gotten away? he wondered.

His rising hope made his heart beat faster. If it were true, it was all the more reason he should not relax now… one more dash… on to the next rise!

Suddenly it was hard to run. His legs felt strangely heavy. It was not only the feeling of heaviness: his legs had actually begun to sink. It was like being in snow, he thought, and by then he had sunk to his calves. Astonished, he pulled out one foot and the other sank quickly until he was knee-deep. What was happening? He had heard of sand that swallowed people up. He struggled, trying to extricate himself some way, but the more he struggled, the more deeply he sank. His two legs were already buried up to the thighs.

Ah! So this was the trap! Their target had not been the sea at all, but here! They intended quite simply to liquidate him without even going to the trouble of capturing him. Liquidation indeed! Even a sleight-of-hand artist could not have done it more smoothly with his handkerchief. Another puff of wind and he would be completely gone. Even the best police dog would be helpless. The bastards didn’t even have to show their faces any more. They hadn’t seen anything or heard anything. A stupid outsider had lost his way by himself and had vanished. They had managed the whole thing without soiling their hands in the slightest.

Sinking… sinking… soon he would be up to his waist… What in God’s name could he do? If he could increase the area of contact with the sand, his body weight per square inch would be lighter, and perhaps he would be able to arrest the sinking somewhat. He flopped down, his arms spread out. However, it was already too late. He had intended to lie on his stomach, but the lower half of his body was now fixed vertically in the sand. It was impossible to keep his already exhausted hips at a right angle for any length of time. Unless one were a trained trapeze artist, sooner or later there would be a limit to this position.

How dark it was. The whole world had closed its eyes and stopped its ears. No one would even turn around to look at his death spasms. Fear convulsed his throat and suddenly burst out. His jaw dropped open, and he gave an animal-like cry.

“Help!”

The stock expression! Well, let it be a stock expression. What was the use of individuality when one was on the point of death? He wanted to go on living under any circumstances, even if his life had no more individuality than a pea in a pod. Soon he would be up to his chest, to his chin, to his nose… Stop! This was enough!

“Help! Please! I’ll promise anything! Please! Help! Please!”

At last he began to weep. At first his sobbing remained under control, but soon it changed to unrestrained bawling.

He submitted to his fear with the horrible feeling that all was lost. There was no one to see him, it made no difference. It was too unfair that all this was actually happening without any of the formalities being observed. When a condemned criminal died, he at least left a record. He would yell as much as he wanted. Since no one was there to see… he might as well… And so, when voices called to him suddenly from behind, his surprise was all the more shattering. He was completely defeated. Even his feeling of shame vanished like the shriveled ash of a dragonfly’s wing.

“Hey, there! Take hold of this!”

A long piece of board slid down to him and hit his side. A circle of light cut through the darkness and fell on the board. He twisted the disabled upper part of his body, entreating the men he felt were behind him.

“Pull me up with this rope, won’t you?…”

“No, no. We can’t pull you out as if you were a root.” A laughing voice broke out behind him. He could not be sure, but there seemed to be four or five of them.

“Just hold on a little longer; we’ve sent for a shovel. Just put your elbows on that piece of wood and you’ll be all right.”

He placed his elbows as he was told and cradled his head in his arms. His hair was soaked with perspiration. He felt no particular emotion except that he wanted to have done with this shameful situation as quickly as possible.

“Say, there… You’re lucky we followed you. This is a regular mush around here; even the dogs stay away. You really were in danger… Lots of people have wandered in here without knowing it, and they’ve never come back. The place is a mountain cove; there’s a lot of drifting. In winter the snows blow over, and the sand over that, then the snow comes again. This has been going on for about a hundred years until it’s become like a pile of thin crackers. At least that’s what the old union chiefs second boy said, the one who went to school in town. It’s interesting, isn’t it? If you dig down to the bottom you may find something valuable…”

Whatever was he telling him this for? He could stop talking so innocently any time, as if he didn’t know the truth! It would be better if he would just show his colors. Or he would at least prefer to be left alone with his own tattered resignation.

At length there was a commotion behind him. The shovel had evidently arrived. Three men wearing boards attached to the soles of their shoes clumsily began to shovel around him in a wide circle. They stripped the sand away in layers. His dreams, desperation, shame, concern with appearances—all were buried under the sand. And so, he was completely unmoved when their hands touched his shoulders. If they had ordered him to, he would have dropped his trousers and defecated before their very eyes. The sky had grown lighter, and it looked as though the moon would soon rise. How would the woman welcome him back? It really made no difference to him any more. Now, he was nothing more than a punching bag to be knocked around.

27

A rope was passed under his arms, and like a piece of baggage, he was again lowered into the hole. No one said a word; it was as if they were at an interment. The hole was deep and dark. The moonlight enveloped the dune landscape in a silken light, making the footprints and the ripples of sand stand out like pleated glass. But the hole, refusing a role in the scenery, was pitch-black. It didn’t particularly bother him. He was so exhausted that merely raising his head to look at the moon made him feel dizzy and nauseated.

The woman was a black splotch against the black. She walked with him as he went toward the bed, but for some reason he could not see her at all. No, it was not the woman alone; everything around him was blurred. Even after he had fallen onto the bed, in his mind he was still running with all his might over the sands. Even in his dreaming he continued to run. But his sleep was light. The memory remained of the distant barking of the dogs, and he could hear the coming and going of the baskets. He was aware that the woman had come back from her work once during the night for something to eat and that she had lit the lamp beside his pillow to eat by. He awoke completely when he got up for a drink of water. But still he did not have enough energy to go and help her.

Having nothing to do, he lit the lamp again and absent-mindedly smoked a cigarette; a fat but agile spider began to circle around the lamp. It would be natural for a moth, but it was strange that a spider should be drawn by light. He was on the point of burning it with his cigarette, but he suddenly held back. It continued to circle around, quite precisely, within a radius of seven to ten inches, like the second hand of a watch. Or perhaps it was not a simple phototropic spider. He was watching it expectantly when a moth with dark-gray wings, mottled with white and black crests, came fluttering along. Several times its enormous shadow was projected on the ceiling as it crashed against the lamp chimney; then it perched on the metal handle, motionless. It was a strange moth despite its vulgar appearance. He touched his cigarette to its body. Its nerve centers were destroyed, and he flicked the writhing insect into the path of the spider. At once the expected drama began. Instantly the spider leapt, fixing himself to the still-living victim. Then it began to circle again, dragging its now motionless booty with it. It seemed to be smacking its lips in anticipation of the juicy meal.

He had not known there were spiders like this. How clever to use the lamp in place of a web. In a web it could only wait passively, but with the lamp it could engage its prey. However, a suitable light was the prerequisite of the method. It was impossible to get such a light naturally. It would not do to look for a forest fire or wander about under the moon. Could this be a new species of spider, then, that had developed its instincts by evolving with man? It wasn’t a bad hypothesis. But, in that case, how could you explain the attraction of a moth for light? A moth is different from a spider, and lamplight can hardly be thought of as useful in maintaining the species. And yet the point was the same: both phenomena had come about after man-made lights had come into being. The fact that moths did not all go flying off to the moon was irrefutable proof of it. It would be understandable if this were the habit of only one species of moth. But since it was common to moths of about ten thousand varieties, he could only assume that it was an immutable law. This crazy, blind beating of wings caused by man-made light… this irrational connection between spiders, moths, and light. If a law appeared without reason, like this, what could one believe in?

He closed his eyes. Spots of light seemed to float before him. When he tried to catch them, they suddenly swirled rapidly and escaped him. They were like the shadows of beetles left on the sand.

He was awakened by the woman’s sobbing.

“What are you crying about?”

The woman stood up hastily, trying to hide her embarrassment.

“I’m sorry… I was just going to make you some tea…”

Her tearful voice puzzled him. Her back as she bent over, stirring the fire in the hearth, made her seem strangely jittery, and it was some time before he understood the meaning of it. He was slow, as if he were forcing his way through the musty pages of some book. Yet he was able to turn the pages. Suddenly he seemed so miserable that he was sorry for himself.

“I have failed!”

“Yes.”

“I have really failed!”

“But there hasn’t been a single person who made it… not one.”

She spoke in an unsteady voice, but there was a certain strength in it, as if she were defending his failure. What pitiful tenderness. It would be too unfair if such tenderness were not rewarded.

“Well, that’s too bad. If I had been successful in escaping, I was thinking of sending you a radio.”

“A radio?”

“I have been thinking about it for a long time.”

“Oh, no… you don’t have to do that…” the woman said, flustered, as if she were making an excuse. “If I work hard at my side jobs, I’ll be able to buy it myself. If I bought it in installments, the down payment would be enough…”

“Well… that’s right. You could, if you bought it in installments…”

“When the water’s hot, shall I wash your back?”

Suddenly a sorrow the color of dawn welled up in him. They might as well lick each other’s wounds. But they would lick forever, and the wounds would never heal, and in the end their tongues would be worn away.

“I didn’t understand. But life isn’t something one can understand, I suppose. There are all kinds of life, and sometimes the other side of the hill looks greener. What’s hardest for me is not knowing what living like this will ever come to. But obviously you can never know, no matter what sort of life you live. Somehow I can’t help but feel it would be better to have a little more to keep busy with.”

“Shall I wash you…?”

She spoke as if she were encouraging him. It was a soft, moving voice. He slowly began to unbutton his shirt and trousers. It was as if the sand had filled his whole skin. (What was the other woman doing now? he wondered.) What had happened before yesterday seemed like ages ago.

The woman began to rub some soap on a wet cloth.