Once excluded from the interiority of the home—regardless of whether the space of domesticity is defined here in terms of the mother or of the Japanese community in Baharin—Kyūzō is reduced to a beastlike existence. This is primarily what binds him to Kō, whose lack of any fixed national identity (he identifies himself over the course of the novel as alternately Chinese, Japanese, and Korean) appears to permanently condemn him to the status of outsider. In their wandering through the wasteland,23 their regression from human to animal is marked by a gradual departure from the mediation of reason to the immediate or bare instinct for survival. As Abe writes, “Since their confrontation, what had sustained the two was not rational will [riseiteki na ishi] but merely fear, phantoms, and a beastlike [kedamono jimita] visceral impulse.”24 By the end of the novel, Kō indeed appears to have lost all semblance of reason in his lunatic ravings, while Kyūzō, who is consistently described in bestial imagery—for example, panting like a dog, eating like a dog, potentially being killed like a dog, and so forth—seems to have surrendered all traces of humanity in being transformed into a howling, enraged beast. The pain that these two men suffer is extreme, and yet Abe steadfastly resists any notion that salvation is to be found through an ideal return to humanity. As Abe realized, such a return can, in the specific terms of the novel, be effected only by passing through the various mediations of national identity.
NOTES
1. “Kokka kara no shissō: ‘Nihon dokusho shinbun’ no intabyū ni kotaete” [Disappearance from the state: In response to an interview with the “Japan Readers Newspaper”], in Abe Kōbō zenshū [The complete works of Abe Kōbō] (Tokyo: Shinchōsha, 1997–2000), 21:428.
2. Kemonotachi ha kokyō wo mezasu, in Abe Kōbō zenshū, 6:324.
3. Ibid., 303.
4. Ibid., 414.
5. Abe Kōbō, Kemonotachi ha kokyō wo mezasu (Tokyo: Shinchō bunko, 1957), 245.
6. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 347–48.
7. In the language of Heidegger, whose influence on Abe is widely recognized, it is a question of thinking the Greek notion of peras: “A space is something that has been made room for, something that is cleared and free, namely within a boundary, Greek peras. A boundary is not that at which something stops but, as the Greeks recognized, the boundary is that from which something begins its presencing” (“Building Dwelling Thinking,” in Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. Albert Hofstadter [New York: Harper and Row, 1971], 154).
For Abe’s reflections on Heidegger, and particularly Heidegger’s notion of “being-in-the-world,” see, for example, Abe’s essay “Shi to shijin (ishiki to muishiki)” [Poetry and poets (Consciousness and the unconscious), 1944], in The Frontier Within: Essays by Abe Kōbō, trans. and ed. Richard F. Calichman (New York: Columbia University Press, 2013), 1–17.
8. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 422, 426, 447.
9. Ibid., 451.
10. In Abe Kōbō no toshi [The “city” in Abe Kōbō] (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2012), 177–78, Karube Tadashi interprets this dream as emblematic of Kyūzō’s desire for his lost hometown of Baharin.
11. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 319–20.
12. Jacques Lacan, Écrits: A Selection, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1977), 160.
13. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 322. This image of Kyūzō being buried in place of his mother will reappear in one of his dreams (393).
14. Ibid., 393. While this dream cannot be read as a mere reflection of earlier events, it is nonetheless important to note that Alexandrov had in fact given Kyūzō a meal of soup and black bread immediately prior to his mother’s death.
15. Throughout his work, and particularly in his essays, Abe repeatedly sought to explore the inherent tension between the necessity and danger of conceptual abstraction. See, for example, “Eizō wa gengo no kabe wo hakai suru ka” [Does the visual image destroy the walls of language?, 1960], in The Frontier Within, 61–65.
16. Here one understands more broadly how the formation of area studies, with its articulation of particular difference along explicitly national lines, remains essentially indebted to the modern system of nation-states. For Abe’s resistance to this framework, see his series of dialogues with Donald Keene titled Hangekiteki ningen [The antitheater person] (Tokyo: Chūkō shinsho, 1973). I undertake a reading of this text in Beyond Nation: Time, Writing, and Community in the Work of Abe Kōbō (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 2016), 171–201.
17. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 438.
18. Ibid., 329–30. Mark Laurent Gibeau also refers to these lines in his fine analysis of the novel. “Nomadic Communities: The Literature and Philosophy of Abe Kōbō” (Ph.D. diss., Stanford University, 2005), 77.
19. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 428.
20. John W. Dower, War Without Mercy: Race and Power in the Pacific War (New York: Pantheon, 1986), 209.
21. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 434, 408.
22. Ibid., 451.
23. The great importance of this notion of the wasteland as a key to understanding Abe is underlined by Miyanishi Tadamasa, whose Abe Kōbō: Kōya no hito [Abe Kōbō: Man of the wasteland] (Tokyo: Seishidō, 2009) is instructive in a biographical sense.
24. Abe Kōbō zenshū, 374.
Beasts Head for Home
Chapter 1
The Rusted Tracks
I
“It’s finally set for tomorrow. I heard that’s when the southbound train will depart,” said First Lieutenant Bear upon entering. The snowflakes clinging to the shoulders of his overcoat grew smaller, beading into water.
“Tomorrow, you say?” First Lieutenant Alexandrov looked at him questioningly, partly raising his face from the soup bowl he was hunched over. “Then what about the Chinese Nationalist troops at the number twelve railway bridge zone?”
“It seems they’ve disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“I bet they ran off. That’s why the departure time is set for tomorrow morning at 9:00.”
(“In that case,” thought Kuki Kyūzō as he stirred the ashes in the stove, “I can finally escape tonight.”) His hand suddenly trembled, upsetting the grille. A red ball of flame fell to the floor, emitting smoke as it gave off a hissing sound.
“Careful!” said Alexandrov in a businesslike tone, lightly striking the edge of his bowl with his spoon.
“It seems to be a direct train to Tieling.” Bear squinted as he peered into the soup pot on the stove. “If everything goes well, by this time next year we’ll be over the Ural Mountains.”
“Want to try some of that soup?”
“No, Second Lieutenant Shiver is waiting at the office.”
“Then we’ll certainly be drinking tonight.” Removing from his pants pocket an absurdly large green handkerchief nearly a meter in length, Alexandrov wiped his mouth briskly while rising to his feet.
(“That’s a good sign,” Kyūzō thought to himself as he went to get Alexandrov’s overcoat.) Bear flicked his Adam’s apple, smiling at Kyūzō. Kyūzō tried to smile back, but his heart stuck in his throat, and he could only grin feebly.
After the men left, Kyūzō jumped on his bed, made of empty boxes and old newspapers. Swinging his feet, one after the other, he opened his mouth wide and, without making a sound, laughed heartily. He then went out back to fetch some coal. The frozen wind struck his cheeks like a damp cloth. Still he could not seem to stop laughing.
After washing the dishes, there was not a thing left for him to do. He looked around the room once again, thinking how utterly forbidding it was. On the wall, pale traces remained of such long ago objects as a dresser and picture frame, adding to the sense of emptiness. Even the built-in Russian-style oven was cracked and useless, the ventilation hole covered by a photograph of Stalin. This meant that the stove had to be brought in separately. His escape finally set, however, he realized that he would never again s
ee this room and felt a twinge of regret for those things with which he could never reconcile himself. The room was in every way peaceful. Particularly at times like this, such thick, solid walls were in and of themselves already a rare treasure.
With a sense of stillness, Kyūzō pulled out from under his bed the waterproof blanket that he had prepared just for this moment. He then took some clothes as well as food supplies that he had gathered at every opportunity—salt, two hunks of cheese, a dozen packets of dry bread, a smoked sausage, and a bottle of vodka—and bundled everything together with some hemp rope. There was nothing else to take. After considering a while, it occurred to him to bring matches. From the large box of yellow phosphorous matches, about half still remained. Making three piles of twenty matches each, he put these in three separate places.
II
Two hours later, at about 4:00, Alexandrov and Bear returned with two guests, Second Lieutenant Shiver and Dania, a female army medic.
Bear and Shiver were both Alexandrov’s drinking companions, and Kyūzō knew them well. However, it was a bit difficult to understand why they had been given these nicknames. Bear received his nickname because his habit of swinging his head around while speaking made him resemble a bear in the zoo, while it seemed that Shiver’s body was always trembling. With his bloated, hairy face and small, round eyes that seemed as if soaked in water, however, Shiver was the one who looked much more like a bear. Compared with him, First Lieutenant Bear was slim like an actor. In terms of body size, Bear was the smallest, followed by Alexandrov and Shiver. If such bears actually exist, they must be a rather unusual type. For a long time, Kyūzō had mistakenly believed that the word medved’ [bear] meant something like a squirrel. As for Dania the medic, she was physically the largest of the group. Her facial features were rather childlike, but she was utterly imposing. Doubtless she was also the strongest. The men always treated her with respect, and this was not simply because of their consideration for her.
Kyūzō felt chilled as he took the overcoat that Dania had tossed to him, as if he were clutching the frozen wind.
“How many are there now?” asked Dania, gazing at the mountain of empty vodka bottles piled up by the front wall.
“Twenty-eight more than the last time,” replied Alexandrov playfully.
The mountain of empty bottles was his pyramid. If he were asked how many there were in total, he would have been able to answer immediately at any time. At that moment, there were perhaps 1,283 bottles.
Dania would then make a serious face and launch into a long speech about the harmful effects of alcohol. Today, however, she merely shook her head and emitted a small laugh of amazement.
The table was now ready. Five cups and five plates, a jar of salt and bread, as well as sliced onions, cheese, and sausage … But there was enough for everyone. There were three hunks of cheese, each the size of a child’s head; several types of sausage, from fatty meat to liver paste; and on the stove a rich soup was boiling. For the next several years, in fact, Kyūzō would always be forced to remember this meal with a sense of despair. He would think of it as his last meal that was humane and satisfying …
Vodka was poured to the brim in each cup. Alexandrov and Bear added to theirs a pinch of salt. Shiver put some salt on a slice of onion and took a bite. Dania and Kyūzō quickly swallowed pieces of liver paste. As if by mutual arrangement, they all then grabbed their cups and downed the first shot. “But this is our last time together,” exclaimed Dania, putting her cup down.
Only Kyūzō took a small sip. When he tried to stand up to take down the soup cans, both Dania and Alexandrov, sitting on each side of him, grabbed his arms, pulling him back. Today was a special day, they said, and so he of course had an obligation to drink like everyone else. Even Dania was firm in her insistence, asking Kyūzō if she herself had not downed this poison. He declined, explaining that he was underage and had never drunk like this before, but his excuses seemed merely to incite the others. “There can be no end without a beginning,” Shiver stated loudly, for some reason constantly flicking his Adam’s apple with his index finger. “Among friends, only fools and traitors would speak of the law,” declared Alexandrov, looking strangely serious. The atmosphere stiffened and it appeared that the mood would be spoiled, so Kyūzō relented, grabbing his cup. Everyone now issued random orders: “Take a bite of an onion!” “Lick some salt!” “Hold your nose!” It’s just like a ritual, Kyūzō thought as he held his breath, downing the shot. His chest burned hotly. Inside his mouth there was a rough feeling, as if he were tasting a peppery lye.
Upon seeing his expression, the others laughed with amusement. Shiver poured everyone a second cup. When the first bottle was empty, Alexandrov stood up and placed it atop the pyramid.
III
Bear took out the folded military map, spreading it out casually atop the sausage and onions. Everyone gazed in silence, as if admiring a piece of art. Grease from the meat seeped through near Vladivostok.
(“All right, I’ll steal this map,” thought Kyūzō.)
“It’s exactly midnight in Moscow,” Alexandrov groaned.
“I’ve been in the Gobi Desert ever since I was twenty-three,” Shiver declared as if in retort.
“You’re always exaggerating,” interrupted Dania, quickly pouring more vodka for herself. The edges of her eyes were red, and she seemed to be on the verge of crying.
Alexandrov turned on the radio. Switching to shortwave, there was first some gibberish before they heard syrupy light music.
“It’s Domino!” exclaimed Alexandrov.
“Yes, it’s Domino,” repeated Dania in a coarse voice.
For a while they all stared at the map silently, reaching for the sausage and cheese underneath, eating as they emptied their cups. When the bottle was finished, Alexandrov rose and placed it atop the pyramid. Bear swung his head around again and again. Shiver took out his cherished sheathed knife and began carving the cheese. The knife was quite rare, a specialty of the Gobi region.
(“Things would be easier if I took that as well,” Kyūzō reflected, stealing a sidelong glance at the knife.) He had borrowed and used the knife once before. When unsheathed, its lightly oiled smoothness made it seem alive. The widely curved blade shone as if transparent, and the sight of it alone gave off a sense of sharpness. The knife was twenty-five centimeters long and heavy in the hand, with both handle and sheath wrapped in a patterned cowhide.
Alexandrov and Dania began dancing.
“As for me, though …” muttered Shiver.
“You’re different,” replied Bear, brusquely folding up the map. Putting it away, he added, “Everyone who has a place to return to has no choice but to return there. That’s called ‘instinct.’ ”
“Don’t use such bourgeois language as ‘instinct,’ ” growled Alexandrov.
“Even Dr. Pavlov uses that word,” said Dania, irritably turning around and waving her hand.
“It makes no difference to me one way or the other,” murmured Shiver, looking down as he carved the cheese into small pieces.
Someone made a movement and a cup fell to the floor, broken. Alexandrov and Dania laughingly returned to their seats.
(“Get drunk, get drunk!”)
Four people suddenly began speaking all at once. Twenty-five tons … gauge … train [poyezd] … absolutely not! [chto tvoy] … mandolin … quickly [bystro] … because [potomu chto] … continuation [prodolzheniye] … freight car roof [krysha vagon]. It sounds like they’re talking about the train tomorrow. Yet Kyūzō was utterly unable to grasp the relationship between their return to the north and tomorrow’s southbound train. After all, words used for work are different from those involving food and laundry.
Suddenly everything changed color. The burning soup and third cup of vodka that Kyūzō was alternately taking sips from suddenly became a black curtain, unfurling from his head down over his face. His heart was like an iron rodent, scurrying around his body, as his blood vessels swore. Alexandr
ov stood up and switched on the light. On the window glass, now darkened to a deep blue, ice crystals rose up in a floral pattern. In Kyūzō’s narrowing vision, Second Lieutenant Shiver’s pale, watery chin floated up and disappeared.
Kyūzō slid down from the chair and pressed his forehead to the floor.
IV
He awoke to the sound of Bear singing. (“Damn! Why are you still awake?”) Suddenly, Alexandrov began sobbing quite violently. His overly large shoulders heaved, beastlike, as he wailed away, sounding like a windbreak forest in a gale. Second Lieutenant Shiver lowered his face to the table directly in front of him, peering up from beneath lowered brows. On the floor lay three empty bottles, overturned. I wonder if Alexandrov grew tired of carrying these over to the pyramid … Glancing at the clock, Kyūzō saw that it was past 1:00. He was now completely sobered up and shaking with cold. On Alexandrov’s bed, huddled in a blanket fast asleep, lay Dania. Three months ago she had passed out in exactly the same manner, and the men had received a good scolding from her the next day. She compelled them to sign a joint statement of apology that read, “We offer our sincere self-criticism for ignoring Comrade Dania’s wishes and forcing her to drink more than 200 cc of vodka, resulting in her loss of consciousness. In the name of our homeland, we vow to never again engage in such misconduct.” Kyūzō was rather amused wondering what would happen this time, although he also felt sorry for them. Since they all liked Dania, however, there was nothing to be done about it.
Bear stopped singing and looked around. He stared at Kyūzō, who was unable to avert his eyes in time. “So it’s you!” he nodded, making his way over as if swimming toward him. Kyūzō gave a start.
“You’re a pathetic fool! Utterly pathetic! I heard that your mother was killed by fascists. Idiot [glupaya mat’], that’s horrible! And what do you plan on doing about it? Tell me … Well then, tell me …”