The Woman in the Dunes (5 page)

The sight of her naked back was indecent and animal-like. She looked as though she could be flipped over just by bringing his hand up her crotch. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he caught his breath, ashamed. He had the feeling it would not be long before he would see himself as an executioner, torturing the woman, standing over her sand-spattered buttocks. Yes, eventually it would happen. And in that movement he would lose his right to speak.

Suddenly a piercing pain struck his belly. His bladder, apparently swollen to the breaking point, cried out for relief.

8

HE finished urinating and, stupefied with despair, remained standing as he was in the heavy air. There was no hope that things would be better as time went by. Yet he could not bring himself to go back into the house. When he left the woman’s side he realized all the more how hazardous it was to be with her.

No, he thought, the problem was not she herself, but that crouching position. He had never seen anything quite so indecent. It was out of the question to go back in to her. In every way that position of hers was exceedingly dangerous.

Certain types of insects and spiders, when unexpectedly attacked, fall into a paralytic state, a kind of epileptic seizure… an airport whose control tower has been seized by lunatics… a fragmented picture. He wanted to believe that his own lack of movement had stopped all movement in the world, the way a hibernating frog abolishes winter.

As his thoughts ran on, the rays of the sun had become even more intense. He made a sudden bending movement as if to protect himself from the spear thrusts of light. Abruptly lowering his head, he grasped his shirt collar and pulled with all his might. The three top buttons flew off. Scraping away the sand that clung to his palms, he remembered once again the words of the woman the night before—to the effect that the sand was never dry but always moist enough to cause the gradual disintegration of anything it touched. When he had taken off his shirt, he loosened his belt and let the air circulate inside his trousers. But it was nothing to make such a fuss about. The unpleasant feeling left him as quickly as it had come. The moisture in the sand evidently lost its magical powers as soon as it came into contact with air.

At that instant it came to him that he had made a serious mistake. His interpretation of the woman’s nakedness would seem to be too arbitrary. Though he could not rule out some secret wish on her part to seduce him, perhaps this nakedness was a very ordinary habit, made necessary by the life she led. After all, she did go to bed when it got light. Anyone is apt to perspire while asleep. Her nakedness was perfectly normal seeing that she had to sleep during the day and, what was more, in a bowl of burning sand. If he were in her position, he would certainly choose to be naked too if he could.

This realization suddenly eased his feelings of tension, as if the fluttering breeze had visibly separated the sweat from the sand on his skin. There was no use stirring up groundless fears. Men have escaped through any number of concrete walls and iron bars. He would not quail simply at the sight of a padlock without finding out whether it was locked or not. He went slowly back in the direction of the hut, dragging his feet in the sand. This time he would be composed, and he would get the necessary information out of her. By getting himself in such a state and screaming at her, he could only expect her to clam up. Besides, her silence was probably only shame at having been careless enough to be caught sleeping naked.

9

To his eyes, recently exposed to the burning sand, the interior of the hut lay in semi-darkness and felt cool and damp. The hot air had a stuffy, musty smell, quite different from the outside. But suddenly he was aware of what had to be a hallucination.

The woman was not there. For a moment he was startled. He had had enough of guessing games. But there was no riddle to be solved. She was there. She stood looking down, her back toward him, in front of the water jar by the sink.

She had finished dressing. He had no fault to find with her. The color of her matching bluish-green kimono and work trousers gave him a sense of mintlike freshness. Indeed, he was worrying too much. Between lack of sleep and the strange environment, he could scarcely help but have wild fancies.

The woman put one hand on the rim of the water jar and peered into it; with the tip of a finger she slowly stirred the surface of the water round and round. He vigorously swung his shirt in the air—it was heavy with the dampness of sweat and sand—and wound it firmly around his wrist.

She looked around apprehensively, and her features tensed. Her solicitous manner was so natural that one would have thought she had spent her whole life with such an expression on her face. He decided to behave as casually as possible.

“Hot, isn’t it? Heavens, you can’t wear a shirt when it’s this hot!”

Yet she still appeared suspicious and looked dolefully at him. She gave a timid and artificial laugh, and spoke hesitantly.

“Yes, it really is. You’ll get a sand rash right away if you leave your clothes on when you perspire.”

“A sand rash?”

“Yes. The skin festers, like after a burn, and then scales off.”

“Hmm. I wonder if it really scales. It molders, I should say, with the humidity.”

“Yes… That’s why…” Maybe she was beginning to relax at last, her tongue was loosening. “When we’re likely to perspire, that’s why we go around with no clothes as much as we can. After all, we live down in these holes, so we don’t really have to worry about anybody seeing us.”

“Of course. Look, I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but I would like to get this shirt washed.”

“Certainly, I’ll be glad to. They’ll be bringing our drum of water tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Tomorrow will be a problem,” he chuckled. Actually he had cleverly maneuvered the conversation to his subject. “Incidentally, when in heaven’s name are they going to let me out of here? I’m going to be in a real fix. If a salaried worker like me breaks his schedule even by a half day, he stands to lose a lot. I don’t want to waste a minute. There are a lot of coleoptera hopping around in sandy soil like this. I wonder if you know of any. I wanted to find a new species on this vacation.”

She moved her lips faintly. But no words came out. Perhaps she was just repeating the unaccustomed name. He realized that her mind was again closing. He went on instinctively.

“Say, I wonder if there isn’t some way of getting in touch with the villagers, like beating on a kerosene can or something.”

But she made no answer. She again fell into her passive silence as quickly as a stone sinks into water.

“What’s the matter with you? Damn it! Why don’t you say anything?” Again his nerves were on edge, but he somehow stifled his desire to shout. “I don’t get it. If there’s some misunderstanding, all right! There’s no use crying over spilt milk. This silence of yours is the worst thing. My pupils are always doing that, but I tell them that the most cowardly thing they can do is to clam up and pretend to take the blame themselves. If there’s any explanation, out with it at once.”

“But…” Her eyes wavered toward her elbow, but in a surprisingly firm voice she said: “I think you already understand.”

“I understand…?” He gasped, unable to conceal his shock.

“Yes, you must have understood by now.”

“But, I don’t understand!” he finally shouted. “How should I understand? You can’t expect me to understand when you never say a word, can you?”

“Well, life here is really too hard for a woman alone.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“It does have something to do with you. I’m afraid I’ve acted wrong toward you.”

“What do you mean, ‘acted wrong’?” he said, stumbling over his words in his eagerness. “In other words, why the conspiracy? You baited the trap. You thought I’d spring at once if a woman was there, like some dog or cat.”

“It’s getting to be the season now when the winds come from the north and we worry about the sand storms,” she said, glancing at the wooden door, which was standing open. There was a foolish confidence in her quiet, monotonous voice.

“It’s no joke! There’s a limit to absurdity. This is illegal detention pure and simple. A fine crime! You don’t have to do such senseless things. Any number of men out of work would be glad of the chance for daily pay.”

“Maybe. But it would make trouble if they knew outside about things here.”

“And do you people think you’re safe with me? Indeed you’re not! You’ve made a real mistake if you think you are. I’m no tramp—unfortunately for you. I pay my taxes, and I’m a registered resident. There’ll soon be a request out for an investigation, and then you’ll see. Don’t you people even understand that? Just how do you expect to justify yourselves? Now, go and call whoever’s responsible. I’ll tell him exactly what I think about this whole stupid situation.”

She lowered her eyes and sighed faintly. Her shoulders drooped, but she made no further attempt to move; she was like a dejected, unjustly abused puppy. Yet her attitude made him even more angry.

“What are you hesitating for? Come on, I’m not the only one concerned. You’re as much the victim as I am, aren’t you? Well, aren’t you? You said yourself that if they knew on the outside about life here, there’d be trouble. That shows you yourself recognize how unreasonable this life of yours is. Stop being a mouthpiece; stop being treated like a slave. Nobody has the right to keep you shut up here. Go on and call somebody now. We’re going to get out of here… Ah, so that’s it. You’re afraid, aren’t you? But that’s foolish! What’s there to be afraid of? I’m here. And I’ve got friends who work for a newspaper. We’ll give the story a social angle. What’s wrong? Why don’t you say something? I tell you there’s nothing to be afraid of!”

After a moment the woman suddenly spoke, as if to console him.

“Shall I start fixing dinner?”

10

Out of the corner of his eye, he followed her figure as she began silently to peel some potatoes. Should he docilely accept the food she was preparing or not? His thoughts were completely taken up by the problem.

Now was the time to be calm and cool. Since her intentions were clear, it would be better to face the facts instead of shilly-shallying—better to lay some concrete plans for escape. He could call them to account for their unlawful treatment later. But his empty stomach weakened his will. He could not concentrate his faculties. But if he didn’t want to recognize, officially, the predicament he was in, then he should probably refuse all food too. It would be ludicrous to eat the meal when he disapproved. Even a bristling dog will drop its tail as soon as it gets a bone.

But best not jump to conclusions. As long as he did not know just how far the woman would go, there was no need to be so passive. It was not a question of her doing something for nothing. He would certainly pay for his food. If he paid his money there would be no reason to feel indebted to her—not a bit. The announcers of boxing matches on television were always saying that attack was the best defense.

With this inspiration, he was relieved to have found a good excuse for not refusing the food. Suddenly his mind cleared and he saw everything. Only the sand was his enemy. Yes, that was it. There was no particular need to pose unreasonable problems, to be broken through like iron bars. They had taken away the rope ladder—very well, he would make a ladder of wood. If the sand wall were too steep, then he would make the incline more gentle by scraping away the sand. If he would only use his head a little, it would all be easy. The plan seemed overly simple, but as long as it fitted his purpose, the simpler it was the better. The best solution—take Columbus and his egg—is often ridiculously simple. If he did not mind the trouble, if he really would fight, well, the game was not over yet.

The woman had finished peeling the potatoes; she diced them and put them into a big iron pot over the hearth, along with a large sliced radish, leaves and all. She carefully took a match out of a plastic bag, and after using it she wrapped up the bag tightly again and fastened it with a rubber band. She put rice in a sieve and poured water over it, probably to wash away the sand. The pot began to make a bubbling sound, and the pungent smell of radish hung in the air.

“There’s some water left over. Would you like to wash your face?”

“No, I’d rather drink it than wash my face in it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but I keep the drinking water separate.” From under the sink she took a large kettle which was swathed in plastic. “It’s not very cold, but it’s been boiled, so you don’t have to be afraid…”

“By the way, if you don’t leave a little water in the jar, you’ll be up against it when it comes to washing up later, won’t you?”

“Oh, no. I clean off the dishes just by rubbing them with sand.”

As she said this, she grabbed a handful of sand by the window and threw it into a plate she was holding. She swirled the sand around and covered the plate, to demonstrate the actual process. He wasn’t sure whether the plate was really clean or not, but he had the feeling it probably was. The sand in this operation, at least, conformed very well with the idea he had had of it all along.

Again the meal was served under the umbrella. Lightly broiled fish and the cooked vegetables. Everything was slightly gritty with sand. They could eat together, he thought, if she would hang the umbrella from the ceiling, but he didn’t want to make an express suggestion. The coarse, common tea was dark enough in color, but it had little taste.

When he had finished eating, the woman returned to the sink and, putting a piece of plastic over her head, quietly began to eat her own meal under it. She looked like some kind of insect, he thought. Did she intend to go on living like this forever? From the outside, this place seemed only a tiny spot of earth, but when you were at the bottom of the hole you could see nothing but limitless sand and sky. A monotonous existence enclosed in an eye. She had probably spent her whole life down here, without even the memory of a comforting word from anyone. Perhaps her heart was throbbing now like a girl’s because they had trapped him and given him to her. It was too pitiful!

He was tempted to say something to her; for the time being, however, he decided to have a smoke, and he lit a cigarette. It would certainly appear that plastic was a necessity of life here. He got the match to light, but the cigarette had become unsmokable. He took strong drags on it sucking in his cheeks between his teeth. Yet no matter how he puffed he got only the taste of smoke, an extremely greasy smoke that irritated his tongue; the cigarette was worse than useless. The experience quite spoiled his frame of mind and took away any desire he might have had to speak to the woman.

She attended to the dirty dishes, placing them on the earthen floor and slowly heaping up sand on them. Then she said hesitantly: “I’m going to have to begin right away getting the sand down from the ceiling.”

“Getting the sand down? Oh. Well, that’s all right with me.” He wondered indifferently why that should have anything to do with him now. It didn’t concern him if the beams rotted and the roof fell in.

“If I’m in your way, do you want me to move somewhere else?”

“I’m sorry, but would you mind…?”

She needn’t pretend! Why didn’t she show even a little of her real feelings? In her heart she probably felt as if she had bitten into a spoiled onion. But she was expressionless as she swiftly, with an accustomed movement, wrapped a towel folded in two around the lower part of her face and tied it behind her head. She put a whisk broom and a small piece of wood under her arm, and climbed up on the partition of the closet, which had only half a door remaining.

Abruptly, he exclaimed: “Frankly, I’m convinced we’d both feel much better if this house fell to pieces!”

He was surprised himself at his peevish outburst, and the woman turned and looked at him with an even more startled look. Well, apparently she had not yet turned quite into an insect.

On he went: “No, I’m not particularly angry at you. It’s the whole business. I don’t like this scheming where you people think you can put a man in chains. Do you realize what I’m talking about? No, it doesn’t make any difference whether you do or not. I’ll tell you an amusing story. I used to keep a worthless mongrel at my boardinghouse. He had a terribly thick coat that scarcely shed even in summer. He was such a sorry sight that I finally decided to cut his hair. But just as I was about to throw away the hair that had been cut off, the dog—I wonder what could have been going on in his mind?—suddenly let out a pitiful howl, took a bunch of hair in his mouth, and ran into his house. He probably felt that the hair was a part of his own body and he didn’t want to be separated from it.” He furtively observed the woman’s expression. However, she made no attempt to move, remaining bent over in an unnatural position on top of the partition. “Well, let it go. Everyone has his own philosophy that doesn’t hold good for anybody else. Go on working your fingers to the bone with your sand sweeping or whatever else you will. But I can’t stand it. I’ve had enough! I could get out of here easily if I wanted to. And I’ve just run out of cigarettes.”

“Oh… I wanted to say… about the cigarettes…” she said, awkwardly and submissively, “when they deliver the water, later…”

“Cigarettes? Do they bring you cigarettes too?” He laughed in spite of himself. “That’s not the question. I’m talking about the tufts of hair. Tufts of hair. Don’t you understand? What I’m trying to say is that there’s no sense in such futile concern over a tuft of hair.”

She was silent. She showed no sign of offering any explanation. She waited a moment, and when it was evident he had stopped speaking, she slowly turned as if nothing had happened and resumed her unfinished work. She slid back the cover over the top of the closet and crawled up, working the upper part of her body into the aperture with her elbows and wiggling her legs clumsily. The sand began to fall in thin rivulets here and there. He had the feeling that there was some strange insect inside the ceiling. Sand and rotted wood. No, thank you, he had had enough of strange things!

Then from one corner of the ceiling the sand began to pour out dizzily in numerous tapelike streams. The strange quietness was in eerie contrast to the violence of the flow of sand. The holes and cracks in the ceiling boards were quickly raised in exact relief on the straw matting. The sand burned in his nose and irritated his eyes. He fled out of the house.

Suddenly he felt as though he were melting away from his feet upward into a landscape of flame. But something like a perpetual shaft of ice remained in the center of his body. He felt ashamed in some way. An animal-like woman… thinking only in terms of today… no yesterday, no tomorrow… with a dot for a heart. A world where people were convinced that men could be erased like chalk marks from a blackboard. In his wildest dreams he could not have imagined that such barbarism still existed anywhere in the world. Well, anyway… if this was a sign that he was beginning to regain his composure and recover from his initial shock, his qualms of conscience were not a bad thing.

But he must not waste time. If possible, he would like to finish before it got dark. Squinting, he measured the height of the sand wall quivering behind a film of heat waves like molten glass. Every time he looked at it, it seemed to grow higher. It would be hard to go against nature and try to make a gentle slope abrupt—he only wanted to try to make a steep one more gentle. There was no reason to hang back.

The best way to do it, of course, would be to shave it down gradually from the top. Since this was impossible, he had no choice but to dig from the bottom. First he would scoop out a suitable amount of sand from below and wait for the sand above to cave in, then he would scoop more out and again let the top fall in. If he repeated this again and again, the ground level he stood on would gradually rise and ultimately reach the top. Of course, he might also be carried away by the flowing sand in the midst of the operation. But no matter how much sand flowed, it still wasn’t water, and he had never yet heard about anyone being drowned in sand.

The shovel was standing with the kerosene cans against the outside wall that went around the earthen floor. The dented edge of the shovel gleamed white like a piece of cracked porcelain.

For some time he concentrated on digging. The sand was exceedingly tractable, and his work appeared to be progressing. The sound of the shovel as it bit into the sand, and his own breathing, ticked away the time. However, at last his arms began to grow weary. He thought he had worked for a considerable time, but his digging had apparently had no results at all. Only a little bit of sand had fallen from right above where he was digging. Somehow, it was working out very differently from the simple geometric process he had evolved in his head.

Rather than worry further, he decided to take advantage of a rest period and put his theory to the test by constructing a model of the hole. Fortunately, materials were plentiful. He chose a spot in the shade of the eaves and dug a hollow about a half yard wide. But the incline of the slope did not make the angle he had anticipated; it was only forty-five degrees at the most, about like a wide-mouthed mixing bowl. When he tried scooping sand from the bottom, the sand flowed down the sides, but the incline remained the same. There would appear to be a fixed angle for sand. The weight and resistance of the grains seemed to be in perfect balance. Supposing this were true, did the wall he was trying to overcome have about the same degree of incline?

No, that could not be. It might be an illusion, but it could not be true. When you looked at any incline from below it obviously appeared less than it actually was.

Then, shouldn’t he perhaps consider it to be a question of quantity? The pressure would naturally change with different amounts of sand. If the pressure changed, a variation in the balance of weight and resistance would naturally occur. Perhaps it depended on the nature of the sand grains. Clay that has been packed down and clay from a natural deposit have completely different resistance to pressure. Furthermore, he had to consider the question of moisture. In short, another law was probably functioning, different from the one that applied to the model he had made.

Despite his failure, the experiment was not completely in vain. The very fact that he now realized that the slope of the wall was in what he might call a superstable state was an important find. Generally it is not particularly difficult to make a superstable state into a normally stable one.

A supersaturated solution, just by being shaken, at once produces a crystalline precipitate and moves toward the normal saturation point.

Suddenly he had the feeling that someone was near; he turned around. He had been unaware of the woman, who was standing in the doorway staring fixedly at him. He was understandably embarrassed and took a step back in confusion, glancing around as if in search of help. He raised his eyes, and there at the top of the east bank were three men, all in a row, looking down at him. They wore towels wrapped around their heads; as they were not visible from the mouth down, he could not be sure, but they seemed to be the old men of the day before. At once he straightened up, but just as suddenly he changed his mind and decided to ignore them and go on with his work. The fact that he was being watched spurred him on.

The perspiration ran into his eyes and dripped from the end of his nose. Since there was no time to wipe it away, he just closed his eyes and shoveled. Under no condition must he rest his arms. When they saw his unflagging pace, they would realize, unless they were dim-wits, how despicable they were.

He looked at his watch. He wiped it against his pants to remove the sand on its face; it was only 2:10. The same ten minutes after two as when he had looked before. He suddenly lost confidence in his pace. From a snail’s point of view the sun probably moves with the speed of a baseball. He changed his grip on the shovel, and turning back again to the wall, he set frantically to work.