Free The Ruined Map by Kōbō Abe

before I heard it what the chief’s answer would be: the investigation of the brother’s record was precisely the invasion of privacy he was talking about. The point was probably well taken.

                 T HIS MORNING , in the parking lot in front of the Camellia coffee house, he—my client’s brother—had actually been ingeniously evasive with me. He had cleverly urged me to take care, for I had been close to overlooking the No Entrance sign.
    Certainly, only the area where I was licensed was the hunting ground indicated by my client. Since one motive the client had placed out of bounds for the investigation, as was clearly set forth in the application, was the one connected with his—her husband’s—disappearance, I would pursue him in all events, successful or not, and there was no need to question why I should be doing so. In the meantime, even though my client might begrudge me information or force conflicting information on me, I must not worry about it.
    You knew that all the time. You were not about to be enlightened by the chief. Supposing that the client was using us to cover up her own crime, even so it was our business to keep the line clear and we had no right to refuse her.
    For example, the brother’s clever explanation about our much too accidental encounter in the parking lot saved me from giving up my role as investigator and at the same time, from another angle, strengthened my suspicions. If the husband was so conversant with car repair and equipment, thenthere was the possibility of his having something to do with a ring of car thieves. That was brought to my mind by a newspaper article I had recently read about the arrest of a gang of crooks that had been operating on a large scale.
    No, it had to be something a lot more run-of-the-mill. He was working on the scratches on a car in some hit-and-run case, for instance; or he was changing license plates; or he had been compelled by someone to do so; or he himself was the hit-and-run driver.
    Fortunately, thanks to the excellence of his techniques, the incident had become labyrinthine, and contrary to his expectations had resulted in his being cornered himself. In the end, it would get too hot for him and he would go into hiding somewhere. However, supposing the wife, who was the client, knew all about these events and was covering up his escape … Then I had no role to play here.
    But if I did nothing at all, I would be sorry later. Whatever happened I could not give up—there was some hope, albeit slight. I had been numbed to the bone like a frozen fish by that frigid wind, but the faint light of the lemon-yellow window had transfixed me. I could not help but feel I was being beckoned in, that she wanted me to ignore the fence and come in. There was no basis for such a thought. Yet my heart throbbed. I had a nagging suspicion that my client’s fence was not necessarily one and the same as that of her self-styled brother. No, I was not happy with things. Somehow I had a terrible feeling of alienation from the brother. So I would be as watchful as a hunting dog, hiding myself in the breach in the fence ready to jump through at any time.
    The breach in the fence was the matchbox …
    There were no untruths in the report I had composed concerning the Camellia coffee house. Not only were there no untruths; there was a definite line of thought. I had not been able to make a single discovery linking the husband with the Camellia. Providing I took into consideration only the exterior of the matchbox. Once I looked inside, there was that bothersome fact which I could not make jibe with the plot no matter how I might plead and entreat: the different kinds of tips—nine white tips mixed with twenty-six black tips. For, yes, the tips of the matchsticks which I had received this morning at the Camellia were white, and so the twenty-six black ones must obviously have been added later. Could there be anyone today who went around