In about half a month, A had almost begun to forget the box man. But he was worried about using the shortcut to the station when he went to work, and to avoid the narrow lane, he unconsciously changed his route. Yet he still continued to look out of his window as soon as he woke up and first thing when he came home. If only he had not decided to turn in his icebox, in due course he would have been cured of this habit, but …
The new refrigerator, equipped with a freezing compartment, was normal enough, and it came in a corrugated cardboard box. Furthermore, it was just the right size. As soon as the contents were out and it was empty, A began to think of the box man. He heard the whipping sound again. He felt as if the air-rifle bullet had ricocheted from two weeks before. A was confused and decided at once to dispose of the box. But instead he washed his hands, blew his nose, and with great diligence, gargled repeatedly. The rebounding bullet flying about inside his cranium would doubtless set his brain functions askew. After observing the neighborhood for a while, he drew the curtains over the windows and gingerly crawled into the box.
Inside it was dark, and there was the sweet smell of waterproof paint. The place seemed very homelike. A recollection was on the verge of dawning, but he could not grasp it. He wanted to stay like this forever, but in less than a minute he came to his senses and crawled out. Feeling a little uneasy, he decided to keep the box for a while.
The following day, when he returned from work, A cut an observation window in the box with a knife, smiling bitterly, and then tried putting it on over his head like the box man. But he took it off immediately—he might well smile bitterly! He didn’t understand what was happening. He viciously and resolutely kicked the box into a corner of the room, but not hard enough to destroy it.
On the third day he more or less regained his composure and tried looking out of the observation window. He couldn’t recall what had surprised him so the evening before. He could definitely feel a change, but such a degree of change was desirable. From the whole scene, thorns fell and things appeared smooth and round. Stains on the wall with which he was completely familiar and which were utterly harmless to him … old magazines piled helter-skelter … a little television set with bent antennae … empty tins of corn beef beginning to overflow with cigarette butts … he was again made forcibly aware of the unconscious tension in himself by everything being so unexpectedly filled with thorns. Perhaps he should put aside his useless prejudice about boxes.
The next day A watched television with the box over his head.
From the fifth day on, except for sleeping, eating, defecating, and urinating, he lived in the box as long as he was in his room. Other than a twinge of conscience, he was not especially aware of doing anything abnormal. To the contrary, he felt that this was much more natural, he was much more at home. Even in the bachelor’s life he had reluctantly led until now, misfortune had turned into blessing.
Sixth day. At length the first Sunday came around. He expected no visitors and had no place to go. From morning on, he stuck to the box. He was calm and relaxed, but something was missing. At noon he finally realized what he required. He went into town and bustled around making purchases: chamber pot, flashlight, thermos, picnic set, tape, wire, hand mirror, seven poster colors, plus various foodstuffs that could be eaten without preparation. When he got home he reinforced the box with the tape and the wire, and then, storing away the other items, he shut himself up in it. A hung the hand mirror on the inner wall of the box—left side toward the window—and then by the radiance of the flashlight he painted his lips green with one of the poster colors. After that he traced, in gradually expanding circles, the seven colors of the rainbow, beginning with red, around his eyes. His face resembled that of a bird or a fish rather than that of a man. It looked like the scene of an amusement park viewed from a helicopter. He could see his small retreating figure scampering off in it. There was no makeup so suitable to a box. Ultimately, he thought, he would become the contents that was right for the container. For the first time he casually masturbated in the box. For the first time he slept, leaning against the wall with the box over his head.
Then the following morning—just a week had gone by—A went stealthily out into the streets with the box over his head. And didn’t come back.
If A made any error it was only that he was a little more overly aware of box men than others were. You cannot laugh at A. If you are one of those who have dreamed of, described in their thoughts even once, the anonymous city that exists for its nameless inhabitants, you should not be indifferent, because you are always exposed to the same dangers as A—that city where doors are opened for anyone; where even among strangers you need not be on the defensive; where you can walk on your head or sleep by the roadside without being blamed; where you are free to sing if you’re proud of your ability; and where, having done all that, you can mix with the nameless crowds whenever you wish.
Thus it will seldom do to point a gun at a box man.
A Safety Device …
Just in Case
Now I may seem to be repeating myself, but I am at present a box man. And for a while I intend to write about me.
I am getting along here with these notes, as I take shelter from the rain under a bridge. Overhead the Prefectural Highway Three crosses a canal. It is just fifteen or sixteen minutes past nine by my not too accurate watch. The dark night sky trails its skirt of rain low over the surface of the land. It has been falling since morning. Fishery warehouses and lumber sheds stretch away as far as the eye can see. There are no human habitations and no one passes by. Even the headlights of trucks coming and going on the bridge do not reach this far. A flashlight suspended from the ceiling lights the paper beneath my hand. Perhaps that is why the letters formed by my ballpoint pen seem almost black when they should be green.
The seaside smell of rain is quite like a dog’s breath. The place is not all that suitable as a rain shelter, for the drizzle is directionless as if expelled from an atomizer. The bridge girders are too high. This entire location is unsuitable. Everything—being at a place like this at a time like this—is unnatural and not like a box man. For example, using an electric flashlight is a terrible waste. People like us, who live on the road, make do almost completely with items we pick up from the streets. It is an extravagance to use an electric flashlight only for the purpose of writing notes. With the number of new streetlamps there’s plenty of light to read a newspaper while taking shelter from the rain.
Somehow it’s been over two hours since I sat myself down in this spot so ill-suited to a box man. But I should begin with an explanation. Of course, no matter how diligent I am with my justifications, I am not confident of completely convincing you. Anyway you won’t believe them. But the truth’s the truth and that’s that. This box of mine has been sold to someone. There is a buyer willing to pay fifty thousand yen. I’m waiting for her now to make the transaction. If you find it incredible, I too am suspended between belief and disbelief. There’s no way of believing, is there. I don’t understand the reason for someone wanting to pay out good money for an old worn-out paper box.
Why did I react to such a temptation when I didn’t believe the buyer was serious? The reason is simple. There was no reason to be suspicious, that’s all. It’s just like being stopped by a shining object on the side of the road. My buyer was shining like a piece of broken beer bottle in the evening sun. One knows it is of no value, but there is nonetheless a strange fascination with the light refracted by the glass. One is unexpectedly made to feel as if one were seeing another time dimension. Her legs especially were as delicate and graceful as the rails of a railroad seen from an eminence, stretching away into the distance. Bluish, light steps where, like the open skies, nothing obstructs the line of vision. There was no reason for believing her, but neither was there reason to doubt her. It was as if, without realizing it, I had been completely disarmed by her legs.
Of course, I am remorseful now. Or rather it may be better to say that I am abs
olutely depressed by the premonition that I shall be made to feel serious remorse. A wretched feeling. No matter how I think about it, it is not like a box man. It is as if I have abandoned the prerogatives of a box man. If there is hope, it is so subtle as to be undetectable even with a high-energy analyzer. Is some transformation beginning to take place in my box? Perhaps so. On reflection, after wandering about this town, I have the feeling that the surface of the box has become fragile and terribly vulnerable. Certainly the town bears me some ill will.
Of course, choosing this place was partially the buyer’s idea, even though I did suggest it. My danger is her danger. At the foot of the bridge stands a stone Jizo, the guardian of dead children, with a red flannel bib, apparently placed there in memory of some child who died by drowning. There is a recently painted white sign beside a flight of stone steps that leads down to a boat landing slightly upstream, prohibiting playing in the water. But fortunately the vinyl over the observation window has been moistened by the rain, and because of the faded matting effect, the visibility is enhanced. The concrete embankment along the canal cuts diagonally in bold relief across the window. The wan lights of a small freighter at berth, wavering fractionally against the current, spill over palely onto the sidewalk at the top of the embankment, and if someone were to pass by he would be as conspicuous as a spot of ink on clothing.
There! A cat cut directly across the pavement. A stray cat with a filthy matted coat. It is manifestly pregnant and has a bulging white belly heavy with its load of kittens. Its tattered ears bear the marks of fighting. And since I can distinguish such details, even as my pen glides along, perhaps I need not be neurotic. No matter what, the buyer, even if she wants to, won’t be able to take me by surprise all that easily.
Of course, what I want most of all is for her to come here of her own accord as she promised. But as you see, too much is vague. I can’t understand—fifty thousand yen for this box—and why would she want to negotiate in a place like this? There’s no reason to believe her, nor is there any to doubt her. There’s no reason to doubt, nor is there to believe. A slender transparent, ephemeral neck. Anyway there’s nothing better than being on my guard. Hence my little safety device. If worst comes to worst, I intend to leave these notes as evidence. Whatever death I meet, I have no desire for suicide. If I die it won’t be suicide even by mistake, but definitely foul play. No matter how much one rejects the world and disappears from it by getting into a box, essentially a box is di …
(Stop. Out of ink. I get an old pencil from my bag. Two and a half minutes to sharpen it. Fortunately I have not yet been killed. As proof, I have changed from a ballpoint pen to a pencil, but my writing is exactly the same as before.)
Now what is it I started to write? The last thing I wrote was perhaps the first letters of “different.” Perhaps I meant to write: “A box man is different from a vagrant,” or something like that. Of course, as far as society is concerned they apparently don’t distinguish very clearly between the two, as much as box men do. Indeed, they have not a few points in common. For example, not having an I.D. card, or a profession, or an established place of residence, or indication of name or age, or a set time or place for eating and sleeping. And then not getting your hair cut or brushing your teeth, rarely taking a bath, needing almost no cash for daily living, and a lot of other things.
Yet, beggars and vagrants are apparently quite aware of a difference. Any number of times they made me feel unpleasant. Sometime when I have the opportunity I intend to write about it, but the Wappen beggars are especially offensive to me. The minute I draw near the beggars’ and vagrants’ area they make me experience a reaction close to morbid nervousness that is a far cry from indifference. I am looked at with more undisguised contempt and hostility than by anyone who pays his daily expenses and lives at a recorded address. I have, in fact, never heard of a beggar turning into a box man. Since I have no intention of being a beggar, he has none of being a box man. Even so I do not intend to look down on them. Surprisingly enough, even beggars are a part of the environs that belong to the townsfolk, and when you become a box man perhaps you’re below a beggar.
Paralysis of the heart’s sense of direction is the box man’s chronic complaint. At such times the axis of the earth sways, and one suffers a severe nausea resembling seasickness. But for some reason there is absolutely no relationship with the consciousness of being a social dropout. Not once does he feel guilty about the box. I personally feel that a box, far from being a dead end, is an entrance to another world. I don’t know to where, but an entrance to somewhere, some other world. I say this, but the opening to that other world is not very different from a dead-end alley if I stifle my nausea as I examine the world outside my little observation window. Let’s stop using the fancy words. I mean I don’t yet have any desire to die.
Yet it’s too late. Indeed I wonder if she intends to renege on her promise. I still have seven matches. Wet tobacco is absolutely tasteless.
Promises … promises …
To take away the bitter taste, a drop of whiskey. A little less than a third left in my pocket flask.
But it’s all right if she doesn’t come. Is breaking a promise anything to get excited about? I’ll be a lot more amazed if she puts in an appearance as she said she would. What if she doesn’t go back on her promise but sends a substitute in her place? And I’m positive this will happen. A substitute will come in her place. I have a general idea as to who that will be, too. In the final analysis they are both in it together. With her as decoy, the substitute intends to lure me under the bridge as a place of execution. Since I am a born victim—indeed, as I am a box man, which is the same as not existing, no matter how they try they’ll never kill me—the role of killer automatically goes to my enemy. That doesn’t mean that everything proceeds according to logic. I’m prepared to meet the attack. The wet surface of the slope is steep and slippery. Of course, when it comes to strength, I fancy he has something of an edge on me. I wonder if, contrary to my feelings, deep down I don’t want to die.
Now, then, time and place are suitable to the victim. The speed of the tide is ideal too. A very old-fashioned thick-bodied bridge that spans like a last constricting ring the funnel-shaped mouth of the canal swollen at high tide with sea water. As the central portion rises in an arc to let ships pass, the girders from the area at the foot of the bridge are conspicuously high. Since I am a box man walking around with a waterproofed room on my back like a snail, there is no need to worry about mere rain blown sideways or the height of girders. Compared to a real room the weak point of a box is that it has no floor, I suppose. If the wet wind comes blowing up from underneath, it is hard to avoid, whatever I do. But you can think of it in another light: precisely because there is no flooring, I can sit close by the water’s edge without fear of being flooded. Even if the water level suddenly rises, swollen at high tide by the rain, as long as it doesn’t exceed the height of my boots I can always stand up and change positions. For those who have not actually had the experience, this will seem madly carefree. Besides from now on the tide will be going out. No need to worry lest the water rise more than it has. The black band of seaweed, as if drawn with a ruler along the base of the embankment now rotting from oil wastes, clearly divides the view into upper and lower parts.
A dark swell spreading out from somewhere has begun to erase the ripples from the surface of the water. Immediately downstream from the bridge pylons, large and small whirlpools, sluggish, like the melting of unrefined rice honey, gradually begin to form. They are actually rather small depressions; but wooden fish boxes, fragments of bamboo baskets, and plastic containers draw falteringly near, swirl suddenly around, trembling, turn over several times, and just as their speed seems to slacken, are all at once swallowed up.
Yes, indeed, in an emergency I shall join these notes to the wooden boxes and the bamboo baskets. The shadow of someone appears on the embankment; if it is not she, I shall immediately put them in a vinyl bag, seal the m
outh after blowing it up, and wrap the opening several times with the thin wire that I have doubled. About twenty-two to twenty-three seconds. Then I shall bind red vinyl tape over the wire, leaving long conspicuous ends. I shall fix a stone, the size of a fist, to the tape by means of twisted paper. That will take less than five seconds. The whole business will take about thirty seconds. However long it lasts, it shouldn’t take more than one minute. Furthermore, no matter how her substitute hurries it will take him two to three minutes to come down the stone stairway by the landing, cross the slippery stone slope, and get here. I have no fear I won’t have plenty of time. If he shows the slightest strange behavior, I shall immediately throw the bag into the current. It should go pretty far with the attached stone. No matter how he tries to reach it, he’ll never get it. The bag will head directly toward the whirlpools. If he’s an expert swimmer I wonder if he’ll plunge in and chase after it? No, an expert would surely avoid such recklessness. Even the passage of small boats is forbidden after the tide has begun to withdraw. But he will be aware of the whirlpools without reading the sign on the embankment. After faltering for a while, the bag will ultimately be swept out to sea. Then after hours or days the paper string will come undone and the stone will be released. The air-filled bag will easily attract attention with its red tape, drifting in with the shore tides.
Thus if the man who shot me were to appear right now, according to the contents of the notes up to this point, he will be the one who tried to kill me. Impossible. Even if I specify his name here on this page, I doubt I can get anyone to believe me. If I try to explain the motives, I will simply weaken the credibility of the notes even more. It will all sound like a lie. But I’ve got my wits about me. I’ve attached a black-and-white negative with cellophane tape to the upper right-hand corner of the inside cover. Perhaps it is not very clear, but it will constitute absolutely unshakable evidence. It’s the back view of a middle-aged man hurrying off, hiding his air rifle under his arm, the muzzle pointed downward along his body. When enlarged, I suppose you will be able to distinguish the various features even better. He is poorly dressed, but the cloth is strong and of excellent quality. Yet the trousers are full of creases. His fingers are heavy and solid, but the tips are rounded and look as if they have never experienced work. And then the fancy shoes are most conspicuous. They are low shoes, like slippers, with the sides scooped out and the soles thin. He is in a profession in which he takes them off and puts them on more than the ordinary number of times.