Secret Rendezvous by Kōbō Abe

Author:Kōbō Abe
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780436000218
Publisher: Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd
Published: 1979-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

NOTEBOOK THREE

I am in an underground room in the old hospital grounds. Last night’s rain is over, and dazzling afternoon sunshine is pouring in through cracks in the ventilator. I just now decided to start writing again, using a cardboard box for a desk. I don’t know how much longer I will be able to keep on with it. When the sun goes down it won’t be worth continuing, and if my pursuers track down this hideout, the game will be up.

With this third volume, the meaning and aim of these notes have undergone a complete change. The other two were ordered by the horse, but this time I have no client. That means I don’t have to hold anything back or feel any constraints; it also means I don’t have to lie to protect myself any more. No matter how I may end up offending the horse, after all, I can’t be any worse off than I am already. This time, for sure, I will make a clean breast of everything. If the other two notebooks were reports, what I am about to write is an indictment. I have no idea yet whom I can possibly get to read it, but in any case I don’t want to sit idly by and let them get away with this.

Just beyond the cardboard box, with the blanket twisted between her thighs, breathing softly in her sleep, is the little girl from room eight. The smell of scalded milk is gone, however, having lost out to the acrid stink of rat urine. Sounds of fireworks and an electric guitar band, advertising the anniversary eve party, scheduled to begin in six hours, echo back and forth through this underground labyrinth, pulsating like weird sighs. I thought I heard sounds of human voices muttering and snickering mixed in with the reverberations, but it could just be that my nerves are starting to go.

Anyway, I will pick up where I left off in notebook two.

Last night, when the horse came as agreed to take him out for a late meal, the man made no attempt to cover his irritation. No sooner had they climbed into the white van than the sky burst open and it began to rain. The front windshield was covered by a sheet of water, and the wipers were useless. The horse bent over the wheel in silence, while the man silently rubbed his temples with his fingertips. He had been writing continuously since that morning, and his nerves were as rusted out as old telephone wires. The horse had been nearly two hours late in coming, and by now his energy pills were starting to wear off.

“Where are we going?’’

“I thought my place, so we could relax.”

A gust of wind blew at smoldering ashes, igniting them into sudden flames. After behaving all along as though he had no private life whatever, here the horse was suddenly inviting the man home with him. The man felt a wave of curiosity, tempered by caution.

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