Death Sentences by Kawamata Chiaki

of lines of words that could transform the French language into something that reflected light, into a veritable mirror. It is not a concept. Words ... are sending back a reflection, connecting the "image" of the reader himself to that site where the magical moment of stringing words together conjures forth a boundary.
    In any event-it was a "work" that possessed definite qualities.
    For a long time the silence deepened between the two men.
    Neither one of them was about to look at the manuscript still lying on the table.
    Both sat there, gazing off into space.
    Duchamp was clearly in a bad mood. He had been laughing, but as soon as he stopped a deep crease appeared between his eyebrows.
    He seemed to be deep in thought. Or maybe he was trying not to think. It was surely one or the other.
    "Well, that's that."

    Duchamp finally parted his lips. He spoke as if to himself.
    "Let's meet with Who May. And we'll ask him. We'll get the answer from him. We'll just have to have him tell us ... why he wanted to write something like this ... why he thought something like this could be written."
    "That's fine by me."
    Feeling like he'd been saved, Breton stood up.
    He went to his study, to get the manuscript of "Another World."
    Who May's contact information was written on it. He found the manuscript.
    Breton picked up the phone on his desk.
    Duchamp came into the room after him.
    Breton put his ear to the receiver. He gave the number to the operator.
    The connection went through. The phone began to ring.
    After seven or eight rings, someone picked up the phone at the other end.
    Who May had said that it was his landlord's number.
    Breton gave his name and asked the landlord if he could call Who May.
    "Who May? Is that someone's name?"
    The landlord didn't know Who May.
    Come to think of it, Who May was supposed to be living with his stepfather.
    "Could you wait one minute?"
    Searching his memories, Breton just managed to remember the stepfather's name.
    "Carron, that's it, I'd like to speak to Mr. Carron's son."
    "Carron, I know. You mean the guy with the Oriental son?"
    "That's right."
    "They're not here anymore."
    "Not there? Have they moved?"
    "Probably. It was last night. They packed up and cleared out of here late at night."
    "Where to?"

    "I don't know anything about that. They said something about going out west but ... they didn't tell me where."
    Breton bit his lip.
    In that case, Who May had come by to drop off the manuscript the night before he left.
    "Did they leave anything, a message of any kind?"
    "Well, they seemed in quite a hurry. I don't think that they had the time to leave messages."
    It sounded like he was covering up something.
    He gave the impression that some sort of serious trouble had suddenly fallen on the father and son.
    "Is that right ... ?"
    Breton's voice dropped off.
    He asked the landlord please to contact him if he heard where they'd gone, and hung up the phone.
    He looked at Duchamp again.
    "Not there, is he?"
    Duchamp, who had been listening to the exchange, raised an eyebrow.
    "That's right." Breton nodded. "He's vanished. Gone somewhere-"
    Duchamp shrugged his shoulders.
    "It's a shame. A bloody shame. I really wanted to see him-"
    Still, even as he spoke, an expression of relief flitted across his face, as if he'd been relieved of some burden.
    "By the way," he added. "I think we talked about it before, but what do you intend to do with it? Are you thinking of putting this-'Mirror'-into print?"
    Breton gazed at Duchamp.
    Then he slowly shook his head side to side.
    "There's no way. I know that. At least it is not a task for a surrealist to publish this. Or, even if it were, not now ... not yet..."
    "You think that it's too soon, don't you?"
    "It may be too soon, or it may be its day will never come. In any event, I think it's clear that `now' is not the time. If something like this fell into the hands of the American mili tary, Who May would surely be carted off to some secret base for the