{"product_id":"secret-rendezvous-isbn-9780375726545","title":"Secret Rendezvous","description":"From the acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eWoman in the Dunes\u003c\/i\u003e comes \u003cb\u003eSecret Rendezvous\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e,\u003c\/i\u003e the bizarrely  erotic and comic adventures of a man searching for his missing wife in a mysteriously  vast underground hospital.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From the moment that an ambulance appears in the middle  of the night to take his wife, who protests that she is perfectly healthy, her bewildered  husband realizes that things are not as they should be. His covert explorations reveal  that the enormous hospital she was taken to is home to a network of constant surveillance,  outlandish sex experiments, and an array of very odd and even violent characters.  Within a few days, though no closer to finding his wife, the unnamed narrator finds  himself appointed the hospital’s chief of security, reporting to a man who thinks  he’s a horse. With its nightmarish vision of modern medicine and modern life, \u003cb\u003eSecret  Rendezvous\u003c\/b\u003e is another masterpiece from Japan’s most gifted and original writer of  serious fiction.\"A gorgeously entertaining, provocative book.\" --\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A disconcertingly funny book . . . both original and edgily entertaining.\" —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Reads much as if it were the collaborative effort of Hieronymus Bosch, Franz Kafka, and Mel Brooks.\" --\u003ci\u003eChicago Sun-Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eKobo Abe was born in Tokyo in 1924, grew up in Manchuria, and returned to Japan in his early twenties. In 1948 he received a medical degree from Tokyo Imperial University, but he never practiced medicine. Before his death in 1993, Abe was considered his country's foremost living novelist, and was also widely known as a dramatist. His novels have earned many literary awards and prizes, and have all been best sellers in Japan. They include \u003cb\u003eThe Woman in the Dunes\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eKangaroo Notebook\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Ark Sakura\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Face of Another\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Box Man\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003cb\u003eThe Ruined Map.\u003c\/b\u003eSex:  Male \u003cbr\u003eName: (omitted) \u003cbr\u003eCode number: M-73F \u003cbr\u003eAge:  32 \u003cbr\u003eHeight: 1.76 meters \u003cbr\u003eWeight: 59   kilograms\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Thin at first glance, but muscular. Wears contact lenses for mild near-sightedness   in both eyes. Slightly frizzy hair. Inconspicuous scar at left corner of mouth (from   a quarrel during student days, although the subject is extremely mild-tempered).   Smokes under ten cigarettes daily. Special talent is roller skating. Has worked temporarily   as male nude model. Currently employed at Subaru Sporting Goods Store. Director of   sales promotion for jump shoes (sporting shoes with special elastic body--air-bubble   springs--built into soles). Hobby is tinkering with machines. In sixth grade, won   a bronze medal in newspaper-sponsored inventor contest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This report contains the   results of an investigation of the above man. Since it is not apparently meant for   publication, I won't adhere strictly to form.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before dawn, at around ten minutes   past four, as I recall, I went as scheduled to the site of the old army target practice   range to take the horse his dinner, and while there was suddenly entrusted with this   assignment. Since I had been about to insist that the investigation be moved into   full gear anyway, I was not particularly upset. But the investigation I'd had in   mind concerned the whereabouts of my wife. Unfortunately, at that point there were   no indications of any kind regarding the person to be investigated, not even as to   sex, and so naturally I assumed my wishes had been respected. Usually an investigation   confers certain powers on the one in command; it seemed possible that at last I had   won that much confidence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Besides, the horse was in uncommonly good spirits this   morning. He said he had trotted around and around the well-trodden 248-meter-long   target range, managing to complete eight laps in all. During the whole time he claimed   to have fallen down only three times; if true, it was quite a feat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"In short, the   trick is to run just with your two hind legs.\" Breathing hard between words, he wiped   the sweat from his face with a towel wrapped around his neck, gulped down in a single   draught the carton of milk I had brought, then stood up proudly on his hind legs   and gave a little skip. \"You see, I end up using my front legs, from force of habit.   That's the problem right there. To run like a horse, you've got to leave all the   kick up to your hind legs, and just throw in the forelegs as a kind of rudder.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We were on the impact side of the indoor target range, which stretched out on an   east-west axis, long and cavernous. High along the walls at the ceiling's edge, fixed-sash   skylights were lined up like train windows, but still it was quite dark. By the wall   straight ahead of us were layers of sandbags, directly in front of which was a deep   trench used in manipulating the targets. On either side of the trench were big lighting   fixtures, also used in target practice. Their slanting rays were all that illuminated   the enclosure. The west end, where the firing positions were, was like a black hole.   When the horse skipped, a double shadow stretched out long and thin across the dry,   white ground, like insects struggling in a spider's web.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Since the fellow was obviously   convinced that he was a horse, I didn't contradict him to his face, but he was a   far cry from the real thing. His balance was all off. His trunk was short and dumpy,   with the hips lowered and the hind legs bent as though he were squatting over the   toilet. At that rate, not even a paper saddle would have stayed put. However charitable   I tried to be, at best he looked like a rickety baby camel, or a four-legged ostrich.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To make matters worse, above the waist he had on a blue tank top edged in dark red,   while-below the waist, in front and back, he had on navy-blue sweat pants and heavy   white sneakers. Around his waist he had wrapped enough bleached cotton cloth to hide   the gap between his top and his pants. It was altogether tasteless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Actually, now   that you mention it, that's how it is with bicycles, too, isn't it? You have to apply   the brakes to the rear wheel first, or going downhill it's dangerous.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Anyway,   at this rate who knows. Maybe by tomorrow I'll be able to hop around in a pair of   jump shoes!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The horse gave a short laugh; I did not join in. The echo of his laughter   reverberated emptily in the air, passing by like a puff of breath. The structure   of the ceiling, arches alternating with square blocks, was evidently intended to   muffle sound, but it had little effect. Maybe they had built it that way to keep   from using pillars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After gulping down a ham-and-lettuce sandwich, barely chewing,   the horse sipped on a cup of sugarless coffee from a thermos. He told me he wanted   to stay a little longer and go on practicing. With his appearance in the founding   day celebration only four days off, he seemed fairly nervous. He is evidently determined   to keep his own existence a secret until then, for greater effect, but he has nothing   to worry about; nobody would be crazy enough to go poking around a firing range at   such an odd hour.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was just leaving when he asked me to take charge of the investigation.   Casually, he handed me a notebook and three cassette tapes. The notebook was a large   one with fine-quality paper--the very notebook I am writing in now. The labels on   the backs of the tapes all bore the code M-73F, with serialized numbers; he explained   that they contained records of wiretapping and other means used in tracking the object   of the investigation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I couldn't help feeling suspicious. All along, with information   about my wife in hand, they had been pretending to know nothing! I was enraged, and   yet relieved at this evidence that somehow their plans had changed. In any case,   three days had already gone by since she disappeared. It was impossible to sit still   any longer. I hurried back to my room, sat down, and played the tapes through from   start to finish. It took just over two hours. After listening to them all, I spent   another hour or so just sitting and staring into space.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My expectations were betrayed.   Nowhere in those recordings was there the slightest trace of my wife. In fact, there   was no trace of any woman, let alone my wife. The one being minced, peeled, and poked   at by wiretaps and shadowers was a man. A man on display, torn into fragments of   tongue-clucking, throat-clearing, off-key humming, chewing, entreaties, hollow obsequious   laughter, belches, sniffling, timid excuses. . . . And that man was none other than   I myself, running around in frantic circles seeking my vanished wife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gradually,   consternation gave way to indignation. Of all the asinine tricks. I could only think   that I was being ridiculed. \"If you want to find your wife, first find yourself\"--was   that what the horse was trying to say? Unfortunately, I only wanted to know where   she was, nothing so very complicated. Looking for my own whereabouts would be like   a pickpocket filching his own wallet, or a detective slipping handcuffs on himself.   No thanks, I could do without the moralizing at this point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On top of everything   else, the horse has made me agree to some rather strange conditions. For example,   to keep me from twisting facts to my own advantage, he insists that I undergo a lie   detector test at any time, on demand. Also, he wants me to avoid personal pronouns   as far as possible, and to write in the third person. In other words, I'm supposed   to refer to myself as \"the man,\" and to him as \"the horse.\" Is he trying to put a   gag on me, and keep me from dealing directly with anyone but himself? What is he   so jittery about?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But finally, in fact, I have begun to write. Nor is this merely   in grudging compliance with the horse's request. His attitude this morning contained   enough genuine sincerity to satisfy me that he isn't up to any tricks. He was enthusiastic   about his practicing, and when he did bring up the matter of the investigation, I   was certain his expression contained sympathy. Besides, I can't overlook the fact   that he used the word \"incident\" for the first time, thereby acknowledging my predicament,   even indirectly. This curious self-investigation could be taken as just a more precise   way of filing a complaint. And the directive to write in the third person might be   intended to increase the credibility of the report, and attract the attention of   the right people within the system--surely different ones are in charge of crime   prevention, regulation, discipline, and so on. When caution is carried too far, it   is all too often taken for spite.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Following instructions as closely as possible,   I hope to have the semblance of a report put together by tomorrow morning. I intend   to reconstruct the fragments on the tape using facts known only to me, and reproduce   as faithfully as I can the conditions of the labyrinth into which this I called \"he\"   has been driven. I do have the feeling that things which would be awkward to write   about in the first person may be more manageable in the third.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Well, if this preamble   seems unnecessary, I'll have no objection if it is cut out later. I leave all that   to the horse's judgment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One summer morning an ambulance suddenly drove up, although   no one remembered having sent for one, and carried away the man's wife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was an   utter bolt from the blue. Until the siren woke them up in surprise, they had both   been sound asleep, and so they were caught completely unprepared. Indeed, his wife   herself, the one in question, had never complained of a single symptom. But the two   men who carried in the stretcher were gruff, perhaps from lack of sleep, and paid   no attention: of course she wasn't ready, they said; this was an emergency, wasn't   it? They both wore crested white helmets, starched white uniforms, and big gauze   masks. What's more, the card they held out was accurately filled in with her name   and date of birth, so it was useless to try to protest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was nothing to do   but let matters slide for the moment. Seemingly embarrassed at her wrinkled, shrunken   nightclothes, his wife lay down as directed between the two poles of the stretcher,   pressing her knees together, and the two men promptly wrapped her up in a white blanket.   The man and his wife never even had a chance to say good-bye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Emitting an odor like   a mixture of hair tonic and cresol, the stretcher creaked its way down the building   stairs. He remembered in relief that his wife was wearing panties. Shortly thereafter   the ambulance pulled away, red light flashing and double siren sounding. The man   watched it off timidly through a crack in the door. Looking at his watch, he saw   it was then just three minutes past four in the morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e (The conversation below   is taken from side two of tape one. The playback counter reads 729. Time is around   1:20 on the afternoon of the day in question. Place is the office of the assistant   director at the hospital where the man's wife seems to have been taken. The assistant   director speaks slowly in a low, unhesitating voice; occasionally, when he says something   in an undertone, his words have an ironic twist. My own voice is impatient yet expressive,   and comes off rather well, I think, although I should break that habit of pursing   my lips at the end of every sentence. A watch busily ticking off seconds near the   mike has a jarring effect.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: But what I can't understand is,   why didn't you take some steps right then and there?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: I did switch on the electric   hot-water heater, but I guess I must have lost my head for a while.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR:   You should have gone along in the ambulance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: That's what they said over the   phone at emergency, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: It only stands to reason.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: But   don't you think it's normal to hesitate in a situation like that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR:   I wouldn't have hesitated for a minute myself. With very little effort an ambulance   can make just as good a cover as a hearse, you know; the perfect tool for a crime.   And inside that sealed room on wheels, a scantily clad young woman and two strong   masked men. If it were a movie, the next scene would be pretty grim. You say your   wife was dressed in thin material, crepe or something; that sort of stuff is light   and comfortable in hot weather, but it's so flimsy the front would tear right off,   wouldn't it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: Please, don't even say such a thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: Just   a little joke. I am a realist, though, so don't expect me to swallow any story that's   too far out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: But surely you know that that ambulance came to this hospital?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: On paper it did, yes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: Then that guard was just talking   through his hat?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: Without proof, there's no telling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: In   that case, my wife has to be here in the hospital. You see, she couldn't have gone   out without a change of clothes. Besides, at that hour only the side entrance was   open, and the guard there was keeping a sharp lookout.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: If you   want, I'll have her paged whenever you say. But really now, how could a grown woman   get lost inside a hospital, in broad daylight? The police aren't going to buy a story   like that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: Isn't it possible that she was forced to register by mistake?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT   DIRECTOR: But she refused to be examined, didn't she?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: Only a person connected   with the hospital could have carried off anything this elaborate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR:   All we really know for certain right now is that someone called for an ambulance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: What's that supposed to mean?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: If this is all true, it's   a terrible disaster. I want to be of help if I possibly can, but first I have to   have some substantiation. The guard is under questioning, so just leave him to us.   Actually, at this point it seems to me that the question of your own innocence deserves   top priority.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: What are you talking about?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: I'm simply discussing   the possibilities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: Look, I'm the victim!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: That doesn't   necessarily mean the hospital is at fault, however.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e MAN: What am I supposed to do?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: For now, why don't you have a talk with security? You were a   little remiss in not personally checking out the scene yourself. Anyway, since you   know the approximate time and place, the best thing you could do is to go back to   square one and see if you can pick up any clues around the waiting room. Who knows,   you might even turn up a witness or two.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302697160933,"sku":"NP9780375726545","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375726545.jpg?v=1767736265","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/secret-rendezvous-isbn-9780375726545","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}