The Woman in the Dunes (8 page)

15

IN spite of his intention, his movements were sluggish, for his strength had been sapped by the sand. Already the woman had turned around and, with her shovel poised, was gazing at him in blank surprise.

If she really wanted to put up resistance, the result could be completely different from what he hoped. But his stratagem of taking her by surprise was completely successful. He had been too eager, but the woman was paralyzed. The thought of pushing him back with her poised shovel apparently never occurred to her.

“Don’t cry out. I won’t hurt you. Just keep quiet.”

He kept whispering to her in a tense voice, haphazardly stuffing a towel into her mouth. She remained as he put her, without resisting—even in the face of this reckless, bungling act.

Finally he pulled himself together when he realized her passiveness. He withdrew the towel, which he had already half stuffed in, and rearranged it over her mouth, tying it firmly at the back of her neck. Then he bound her hands tightly behind her back with the leggings he had ready in his pocket.

“All right! Get in the house!”

The woman’s spirit seemed greatly weakened, and she was not only submissive to his acts but obedient to his words as well. She showed no resistance or antagonism. Perhaps she was in a kind of hypnotized state. He did not feel he had handled the situation particularly well, but his unexpected violence had apparently had the effect of taking all resistance out of her. He forced her up to the raised portion of flooring. And with the other legging he tied her legs together at the ankles. In the dark he had to proceed by feel, and just to be on the safe side he wrapped the remaining portion of the leggings once again around her ankles.

“Now, don’t move! Do you understand? You won’t get hurt as long as you behave yourself. But I’m desperate___”

He kept looking in the direction of the woman’s breathing as he backed away toward the door. From there, he dashed out, grabbed the shovel and the lamp, and ran back with them at once. The woman had fallen down on her side and was working her jaw up and down repeatedly as she breathed. She was probably pushing her jaw forward with each breath in order to avoid inhaling sand from the matting. And when she exhaled, on the other hand, she appeared to force the breath from her nose, thereby blowing the sand away from around her face.

“Well, you’ll have to put up with this for a while. You’ll have to be patient until the villagers come back with the baskets. There’s no reason for you to complain after the nonsense I’ve had to put up with. Besides, I’ll pay honest board. Of course, only the actual expenses I calculate myself. You can’t mind that, can you? Really, my stay here should be free, but I can’t stand not canceling such a debt. I’m going to make you take it.”

For some time, nervous and agitated, holding out his collar to let in the air, he strained his ears for signs of life outside. Yes, it might be better to extinguish the lamp. He lifted the chimney and was about to blow—but no, before that he had better check on the woman. The knots were tight enough on her legs; there was not even room to insert a finger. Her wrists were already swollen a dark red, and her spatulate fingernails had turned the color of an old ink smear.

The gag too was perfect. She had drawn her dull-colored lips so taut there was almost no blood in them, and she appeared almost ghostly. Saliva dribbled out of her mouth and made a dark stain on the matting under her cheek. With the wavering of the lamp he seemed to hear her voiceless screams.

“It’s no use. You started the whole thing yourself anyway,” he said quickly without thinking. “We’ve tried to get the best of each other, and we’re about even, aren’t we? I’m human too, and you can’t simply tie me up like a dog. Anybody would call it legitimate self-defense on my part.”

Suddenly the woman twisted her neck and tried to catch sight of him out of the corner of her half-closed eyes.

“What’s wrong? Do you want to say something?”

She moved her neck awkwardly. It was as if she were nodding assent, or even dissent. He drew the lamp closer and tried to read her eyes. He could not immediately believe what he saw. They were filled with infinite sorrow, in which there was neither bitterness nor hatred, and she seemed to be appealing for something.

Impossible. It must be his own imagination. “Expression in the eyes” is really only a figure of speech. How can expression exist in an eyeball that has no muscle? Even so, he winced and stretched out his hands to loosen the gag.

He drew them back and hastily blew out the lamp. The voices of the basket carriers were drawing close. He placed the darkened lamp on the edge of the ramp around the raised portion of the floor so that he could find it easily and, putting his lips to the kettle under the sink, took a drink of water. With the shovel clutched in his hands, he concealed himself by the door. He began to perspire. It would be soon now. He would have to be patient for five or ten minutes more. With one hand he drew his collecting box close to him.

16

“HEY, there!” A hoarse voice rang out.

“What are you doing down there?” Another voice, vibrant and still young, echoed the first.

The man was enclosed in the palpable darkness of the hole. But outside, the moon had evidently risen, and the shadows of men on the line between the sand and the sky were an indistinct, expanding blob.

He edged closer, hugging the bottom of the hole, his shovel in his right hand.

A coarse laugh sounded at the top of the cliff. A rope, with a hook for the kerosene cans, was being lowered hand over hand.

“Come on, lady. Get a move on!”

At that very instant the man sprang toward the rope, kicking up the sand as he ran.

“Hey, there! Pull ‘er up!” He shouted as loud as he could, clinging to the taut rope with a grip that would have sunk his fingers into stone. “Pull ‘er up! Pull ‘er up! I won’t let go until you do! I’ve tied the woman up in the house. If you want to help her, hoist the rope right away. I won’t let you get to the woman until you do! And if you happen to come down here I’ll split your brains open with this shovel. Just take me to court and see who’ll win. Do you really expect me to make allowances for you? What are you fussing around for? If you haul me right up I’ll withdraw my complaint and overlook the whole thing. Illegal detention is no light crime. What’s the matter? Get a move on and pull me up!”

The sand that poured down struck his face. A cold, clammy feeling was rapidly spreading from his collar into his shirt. His hot breath burned his lips.

Above, it seemed they had begun some sort of discussion. Suddenly there was a strong pull, and they began to haul the rope up. His inert weight, heavier than he had expected, ripped the rope through his fingers. He clung on with redoubled strength. A violent spasm like laughter convulsed his stomach. It was as if the week’s nightmare had broken into pieces and flown asunder. Good… Good… He was saved!

Suddenly he was weightless and floating in space. A feeling of nausea, as though he were seasick, passed through his body, and the rope which until then had wrenched at his arms lay passive in his hands.

The gang above had let go! He made a backward somersault and was thrown out on the sand. Under him his insect box gave out an unpleasant sound. And something grazed his cheek—apparently the hook at the end of the rope. The bastards! Fortunately he was uninjured. When he inspected his side, where he had struck the insect box, he found there was no particular place that hurt. He jumped up at once, looking around for the rope. It had already been drawn up.

“Stupid fools!”

He shouted brokenly, in a hoarse voice. “Stupid fools! You’re the ones who are going to be sorry in the end!”

There was no response. Only a silent murmuring drifted over him like smoke. It annoyed him more and more, for he was unable to decide whether it was a hostile sound or whether they were merely stifling their laughter.

His anger and humiliation were a hard core of iron inside him. He continued to shout, sinking his nails into his sweaty palms.

“Don’t you understand me? I didn’t think you would if I just told you in words. Didn’t I make myself clear by what I did? Didn’t I tell you I’ve tied the woman up? You’d better haul me up right away. The woman stays the way she is until you hand over the rope ladder. There’s nobody to clear away the sand. Is that all right with you? Think it over. You’re going to be the ones in trouble if we’re buried by the sand. If the sand gets over here it will gradually force its way through the whole village. What’s wrong? Why don’t you answer?”

In place of an answer the men had simply left in a disappointingly offhanded way, leaving behind them only the sound of their trailing baskets.

“Why? Why do you go off like that without saying a word?” he cried out weakly, but the sound of his voice was audible only to himself. Trembling, he bent over and gathered up the contents of his collecting box. It looked as if there was a crack in his alcohol container, and the instant his hand touched it a fresh coolness spread between his fingers. He sobbed in a stifled voice. But he was not particularly sad. He felt quite as if someone else were crying.

The sand clung to him like some crafty animal. Then, feeling his way with difficulty, he tottered in the dark to the doorway and went into the house. He gently placed his unhinged collecting box by the side of the sunken fireplace. The sound of a roaring wind filled the air. He took out the plastic-wrapped matches from the empty can in the corner of the fireplace and lit the lamp.

The woman’s position had not changed; she had only shifted the angle of her body down a little. She turned her face slightly in the direction of the door, perhaps with the intention of checking on the situation outside, blinked an instant at the light, but at once closed her eyes tightly again. He wondered just how she would take the cold-blooded treatment he had received. If she wanted to cry, let her cry; if she wanted to laugh, let her kugh. It was not yet a foregone conclusion that he had lost the game. In any case, he was the one who held the fuse to the time bomb.

He knelt down on one knee behind the woman. He hesitated an instant and then released the gag and tore it off. He did not feel particularly guilty. He had not the slightest feeling of pity or compassion.

He was simply worn out. He could not stand any more strain. Furthermore, when he thought about it, the gag had not been necessary from the first. If the woman had cried out for help at that time, she would have thrown him into a panic and would perhaps have hastened the outcome of the matter.

She thrust out her jaw, panting. The towel was as heavy as a dead rat with her saliva and foul breath. It had bitten into her flesh, leaving freckled spots, which did not seem about to go away. The stiffness in her cheeks, which had become like the skin of dried fish, began to relax as she repeatedly moved her lower jaw. “You’ll soon be all right,” he said, picking up the towel by the tips of his fingers and throwing it toward the earthen floor. “It’s about time for them to have come to some decision. They’ll certainly bring the rope ladder pretty fast now. They’re the ones that are going to be in trouble if they let things go on as they are. And that’s the truth. There was no need at all for them to go to the trouble of trapping me if they didn’t have to.”

The woman swallowed her sour spittle and moistened her lips.

“But…” Her tongue did not seem to have regained its functioning. She spoke in a muffled voice as if she were holding an egg in her mouth. “Have the stars come out?”

“The stars? Why the stars?”

“Well, it’s just that if the stars aren’t out…”

“What do you mean, if they’re not out?”

But she was exhausted with this much talk and again sank into silence.

“What’s wrong? You can’t stop in the middle of what you started to say! Are you going to tell my horoscope or something? Or is it a superstition in this part of the country? I suppose they don’t let the rope ladder down on starless nights. What about it? Eh? I can’t understand you if you don’t say anything. If you want to wait until the stars come out, it’s up to you. But what’ll you do if a strong wind comes up while you’re waiting? The last thing you’ll think of is stars!”

“If the stars don’t come out by this time,” she said in a voice that sounded as if it had been squeezed out of a worn-out tube, “there won’t be a very strong wind.”

“Why?”

“If you can’t see the stars, it’s because there’s mist.”

“What do you mean by saying such a thing when the wind is blowing as hard as it is?”

“No. That’s the rush of the wind way up above.”

He thought about this; it might well be as she said. The fact that the stars were obscured meant, after all, that the wind did not have the power to blow away the vapors in the atmosphere. There would probably not be much of a wind tonight. If that were the case, the villagers would probably not press things to a conclusion. What he had taken to be downright nonsense had turned out in fact to be a surprisingly logical answer.

“Of course. But I’m not at all worried. If it’s their idea to hold out, it’ll be a battle of nerves. It’s six of one and in half a dozen of the other whether I wait a week, ten days, or even fifteen.”

The woman curled her toes tightly inward. They looked like the suction cups of a suckfish. He laughed. And as he was laughing he became nauseated.

Why in heaven’s name was he on tenterhooks like this? He was the one who was pressing on the enemy’s vulnerable spot, wasn’t he? Why couldn’t he observe things in a more self-possessed way? If and when he got back safely it would certainly be well worth while setting down this experience.

—Well, Niki, I am amazed. At last you have decided to write something. It really was the experience that made you. A common earthworm won’t attain full growth if it’s not stimulated, they say.

—Thanks. Actually I’ve got to think up some kind of title.

—Hmm. What kind, I wonder? “The Devil of the Sands” or “The Terrors of an Ant Hell”?

—They show a terrible taste for the bizarre. Don’t they give much too insincere an impression?

—Do you think so?

—It’s meaningless, no matter how intense the experience, to trace only the surface of the event. The heroes of this tragedy are the local boys, and if you don’t give some hint of the solution by describing them, your rare experience will be lost… Pew!

—What is it?

—Are they cleaning the sewers somewhere? Or maybe it’s some special chemical reaction between the garlic smell in your mouth and the antiseptic solution they’re using to scrub the corridor.

—What?

—No, take it easy. No matter how I try to write I’m not fit to be a writer.

—This unbecoming humility again. There’s no need for you to think of writers as something special. If you write, you’re a writer, aren’t you?

—Well, it’s generally considered that teachers are prone to write indiscriminately.

—But professionally they’re pretty close to writers.

—Is that what they call creative education?… In spite of the fact that they haven’t even made a pencil box by themselves?

—A pencil box… how impressive! Isn’t it good to be made to realize what sort of person one is?

—Thanks to this education, I have to experience a new sensation in order to appreciate new pain.

—There’s hope.

—But one is not responsible for whether the hope materializes or not —From that point on, one has to try to put one’s faith in one’s own power.

—All right, let’s stop the self-deception. Such a vice is impermissible in any teacher.

—Vice?

—That’s for writers. Saying you want to become a writer is no more than egotism; you want to distinguish between yourself and the puppets by making yourself a puppeteer.

What difference is there really between this and a woman’s using make-up?

—That’s severe. But if you use the term “writer” in such a sense, certainly you should be able to distinguish to a certain extent between being a writer and writing.

—Ah. You see! That’s the very reason I wanted to become a writer. If I couldn’t be a writer there would be no particular need to write!

He must look like a child who has not received his allowance.