The Face of Another by Kōbō Abe Page A

direct the look on me.
    “Let’s talk.”
    But when your face turned toward me, the expression had already disappeared.
    “I went to see a movie today.”
    Looking into the slits in my bandages with such care that it could not be recognized as care, you awaited my next words.
    “No, I don’t mean I really wanted to see a movie. I really wanted the darkness. Walking the streets with a face like this was like a burden, as if I were doing something bad. A strange thing, the face. I never felt anything about it at any given time, but when I found I didn’t have one, I felt as if half the world had been torn away from me.”
    “What movie was it?”
    “I don’t remember. Perhaps because I was so upset. Actually, I was suddenly possessed with a feeling of persecution. I dashed into the nearest movie, quite as if I were taking shelter from the rain.…”
    “Where was the movie house?”
    “It doesn’t make any difference where it was. I wanted the dark.”
    You pursed your lips as if in reproval. But your eyes narrowed sadly, as if to show you did not blame me. I was overcome by a terrible sense of remorse. I should not have been. I meant to talk about something quite different.
    “But then, it just occurred to me … it’s probably a good thing to go to the movies occasionally. The whole audienceputs on the actor’s face. No one needs his own. A movie’s a place where you pay your money to exchange faces for a while.”
    “That’s true. Maybe it is good to go to the movies once in a while.”
    “It definitely is, I think. Because at least it’s dark, isn’t it? But I wonder, wouldn’t it be awful if you didn’t like the actor’s face? You put on his face, so half the fun would be gone if it didn’t fit perfectly, wouldn’t it?”
    “Can’t there be movies without actors? For example, something like a documentary …?”
    “That wouldn’t work. Everything has a face; it’s not limited to actors. Even a fish, or an insect—they all have faces. Even chairs and tables have something corresponding to a face, and you either like them or you don’t.”
    “But I wonder if anybody would watch a movie, wearing a fish’s face.”
    Butterfly-like, you tried to shift the conversation with a joke. Of course, you were right. Any silence must still be preferable to bringing up the subject of a fish’s face.
    “No, you misunderstand. It’s not a question of my face at all. Anyway, since I don’t have a face I can’t say I like it or dislike it. But you’re different. In your case, you can’t help being concerned about what actor you want to see in a movie.”
    “Even so, I really would like one without an actor. I don’t seem to be interested in tragedies or comedies now.”
    “Come on. Why do you always defer to me?”
    Without realizing it, my voice had taken on a strident tone, and displeased with myself, I scowled invisibly beneath my bandages. Perhaps it was because the heat had come back, but the scars had begun to squirm like leeches, and in the flesh around them I felt a creepy, burning sensation.
    I could not overcome the silence with such conversation.Wherever we began, the destination of our dialogue was always the same. I lost all power to say more, and of course you fell silent too. Our silence was not the vacuum that comes from having said all there is to say. Whatever conversation we had fell naturally to pieces and crumbled in bitter silence.

    T HEN for several weeks I continued to walk through the silence, mechanically, as if I were moving on borrowed joints. Suddenly one day I looked up and saw that it was early summer. Outside my window the wind was teasing the slender, soft-green branches of the pine tree. My decision was equally abrupt. I wonder if you remember. I have quite forgotten what the motive was, but it was the night I suddenly exploded in the middle of dinner.
    “Why in God’s name are you living with me?” I knew that no matter how I shouted, the silence persisted;