Beasts Head for Home: A Novel by Abe Kōbō (from chapter 1)

Abe Kōbō Beasts Head for Home A Novel

Translated by Richard F. Calichman

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

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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 see 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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Alexandrov 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.

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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 . . .”

Bear gradually pressed down on his body as if lying on him, making a strange sound in his ear. Perhaps he was laughing.

Kyūzō lay petrified, unable to move. He should calmly do what he usually does, asking, “Bear, isn’t this a little embarrassing?” while poking him in the ribs. Bear gave another snort. (“Maybe he’s discovered my secret!”)

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Bear pulled out a card from the back of his collar.

“This is my daughter in Kiev.”

It was a card-sized photograph. Frayed and edgeless, it revealed the laughing figure of a young, white-haired girl. Bear continued muttering, spraying saliva on the back of Kyūzō’s neck. Son of a bitch!

With a sudden realization, Kyūzō took the photograph, pretending to look at it while extricating himself. Bear then collapsed to his hands and knees, falling to his side fast asleep. (“This will be useful when I steal the map.”)

It was 2:30. Everyone was already half-asleep, but not yet fully so.

Every two or three minutes, someone closed their eyes, stared, snored, or hummed. It must be too cold. I’ll stoke the fire a bit and make them drowsy . . .

The red flames had merged together, stifling the air. Removing the ashes, Kyūzō gently added some coal, and before long the fire was burning with a crackling sound. The soup boiled as the window glass sweated.

Everyone quieted down.

Before making his move, Kyūzō decided to wait and see for thirty minutes. The weather strip on the window screeched like a grass whistle.

Wild dogs barked to one another from afar as red patches began forming on the surface of the stove. (“Damn, I want to sleep too!”) He hurried to the window, pressing his forehead against the pane. Between the double frame of glass, the wood grain appeared like the cleft of a seashell, its thin film of snow and smoke intricately overlaid. The sharp smell of winter filled his nostrils.

Pretending to go to bed, he circled behind Shiver and confirmed that his knife handle stuck out some five centimeters from his pants pocket.

“Water, water,” groaned Alexandrov, thrashing about on the table. Kyūzō hurried over and brought him a cup before then closing the ventilation hole of the stove. Once again he circled behind Shiver, making sure that he was fast asleep. There was a very long interval between his exhaling and inhaling, which Kyūzō had heard was proof that someone was sleeping deeply. At times he would suddenly stop breathing, making Kyūzō

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wonder if he were dead. Standing diagonally behind him on his left, Kyūzō planted his right knee, using it to support his weight as he turned Shiver around, repositioning him. With his right hand he lightly grasped the knife handle, feeling for the edge of the grip with his left index finger, and then slowly pushed up. Shiver was sitting in such a way that the opening of his pocket was now closed tightly, the knife digging into his buttocks. When half the knife was drawn out, he forcefully shifted his body. This altered his position, shifting his weight such that the pocket became slack. Kyūzō was now able to extricate the knife without difficulty by simply pulling the handle. Tucking it into his belt underneath the jacket, he suddenly felt his courage rise.

He then walked around the table over to Bear, who with his left side raised clutched the table leg with his right hand. Bear’s bent left leg pressed against his chest as he extended his right leg around Alexandrov’s chair.

Kyūzō leaned down behind his back, the knife handle slightly restricting his movement.

The map should be in his right coat pocket. For precaution’s sake, Kyūzō first took out the photograph, holding it in his right hand. Grabbing Bear’s shoulder with his left hand, he boldly pushed his upper body over so as to force him faceup. Clawing the air, Bear lay back with his limbs sprawled out beside him. Kyūzō then slipped his right hand with the photograph into Bear’s pocket, removing the map. Folding the map tightly in four, he placed it in his inside pocket.

Kyūzō suddenly noticed that Second Lieutenant Shiver was looking up from under his brows, staring right in his direction. He felt rooted to the spot. The pores all over his body immediately opened up. His tongue, dry in his mouth, began twitching, blocking his throat. It seemed to him that the second lieutenant was slowly raising his head . . . With a sinking feeling, Kyūzō waited for his first words. The time of danger seemed to leap past. It was brief, but felt much too long.

Yet nothing happened. When Kyūzō looked again at Second Lieutenant Shiver, he was sleeping, eyes closed, the same as before. Kyūzō uttered a sigh of relief. The storm had passed, and yet blood rang in his ears like

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the raging sea. He returned to his bed, clutching his knees to his chest as he leaned against the wall.

By his head stood the Russian-style oven, beyond which could be seen the bed on which Dania was sleeping at a right angle. The front of the oven was illuminated, and while he couldn’t glimpse the photograph of Stalin inside, he was able to see Shiver’s sleeping figure.

It was now 3:40. Kyūzō unconsciously kept staring under Alexandrov’s bed. If possible, he didn’t want to think about what was there. This was where Alexandrov kept his possessions, although he didn’t particularly try to conceal this fact. On numerous occasions, he had fumbled with his collection right in front of Kyūzō. Of course these things were not worth much money. There were some imitation old coins, a woman’s comb set in a gaudy pattern, a cracked ceramic pipe, and some other unusual odds and ends. Alongside these things, however, Alexandrov had also casually tossed in several wads of red military currency.

Kyūzō fully understood that he needed to be determined in order to make his escape. Both the knife and map were excellent weapons. Unless he were traveling in a savage land, however, the most effective weapon would be money.

He glanced at the clock. Only five minutes had passed. Best to leave slightly before dawn. He might be seen and questioned if he left after it was light, whereas if he went too early, he might end up giving them that much more time to come and search for him.

The sleepy rumbling of the earth slowly approached and then slowly receded. (“Right! I should take Alexandrov’s silver spoon!”)

The spoon was large and rather heavy, with a naked woman engraved on the handle. Alexandrov used it often, calling it Dania. Whenever the real Dania visited, however, he would rush to hide the spoon in the box underneath the bed. Something like that would probably fetch a good price.

Kyūzō suddenly felt heartened if he could avoid stealing money. Upon straining his ears to confirm that everyone was still breathing deeply, he quickly crawled out of bed. As he touched the floor, the board underneath

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his buttocks suddenly snapped, ringing out sharply. Second Lieutenant Shiver rolled over, his face turned in Kyūzō’s direction. Nevertheless, his eyes remained closed. That bastard!

The box, which had originally been made to hold apples, was turned over on its side, its opening facing in his direction. Inside was stuffed various types of junk. The box was small, made of tin, and had been made rustproof by coal tar. The lid contained a hinge, which groaned unpleasantly when opened. He moistened it with saliva, slowly and carefully detaching the lid. Still, a piercing sound echoed from within. For a moment, Dania interrupted her breathing.

The silver Dania was piled on the very top together with the military currency. Kyūzō quickly grabbed it, putting it in his pocket. Keeping the lid slightly ajar, he hurriedly returned the box to its original place. He then tiptoed back to the bed. All the preparations were now complete. In order to avoid making his pocket too bulky, he jammed the spoon into the bundle holding the waterproof blanket.

V 6:10—one more hour until dawn . . .

Wrapping himself in a scarf as if buried to the chin, Kyūzō slipped on his coat, put on a pair of skating earmuffs, and donned a student’s cap whose emblem had been removed. Making sure that his gloves were in his pocket, he slowly left the bed. He made a loop with the rope holding his belongings together and placed it over his shoulder. Time to set off ! (“But what will they say later when they discover I’m gone? No doubt they’ll call me an ingrate. But that’s not true. I really liked all of them.”)

Kyūzō passed between the stove and Alexandrov’s bed. The fire pan gave off a clanking sound. (“But if they had known of my plans, they would never have let me leave. At one time, Bear had told Alexandrov about an orphan home run by the Eighth Route Army in the city of T.”)

In the aftermath of World War II, Kuki Kyūzō, a Japanese youth raised in the puppet state of Manchuria, struggles to return home to Japan. What follows is a wild journey involving drugs, smuggling, chases, and capture. Kyūzō finally makes his way to the waters off Japan but finds himself unable to disembark. His nation remains inaccessible to him, and now he questions its very existence. Beasts Head for Home is an acute novel of identity, belonging, and the vagaries of human behavior from an exceptional modern Japanese author.

“Abe Kōbō is one of the most respected postwar Japanese fiction writers and internationally recognized for the unique style, philosophical depth, and experimental quality of his fiction. Although Beasts Head for Home is not one of Abe’s most wellknown works, readers will be eager to see how he wrote about an important historical moment from an essentially realist perspective. An excellent translation of a novel in need of an English-language version.”

—Travis Workman, author of Imperial Genus: The Formation and Limits of the Human in Modern Korea and Japan

“The earliest work by one of Japan’s foremost writers to appear in English, Beasts Head for Home tells the story of a young Japanese man who undertakes a harrowing journey in an attempt to reach Japan after the collapse of the Japanese Empire. The story is particularly affecting to read in this historical moment with so much forced migration all over the world. Calichman’s translation is flawless.”

—J. Keith Vincent, translator of Devils in Daylight by Junichiro Tanizaki

“Calichman’s superb translation of Abe’s semiautobiographical novel brings us a Kafkaesque world of displacement where settlers of Manchuria undergo the loss of home, identity, and belonging after the collapse of the Japanese empire. Beasts Head for Home is a haunting and gripping story and an indispensable read for anyone interested in postcolonial studies, settler colonial studies, and the history of empire.”

—Katsuya Hirano, author of The Politics of Dialogic Imagination: Power and Popular Culture in Early Modern Japan

Abe Kōbō (1924–1993) was one of Japan’s greatest postwar writers, widely recognized for his imaginative fiction and plays of the absurd.

Richard F. Calichman is professor of Japanese studies at the City College of New York, CUNY. He is also the translator and editor of The Frontier Within: Essays by Abe Kōbō (Columbia, 2013).

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Columbia University Press / New York

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