The Woman in the Dunes by Kōbō Abe Page A

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