Authors: Yukio Mishima
Runaway Horses (43 page)
The sword of justice need flash but once in the darkness. The light that shone from its blade would tell the world that the dawn was not far off. But men knew that a single glint from a Japanese sword was like the pale blue of daybreak along a mountain ridge.
Assassins had to be lone wolves, argued Sawa. There were twelve of them in the room, and therefore they had to make the chillingly bold decision to kill twelve. The date of December third could remain unchanged, but, having ruled out the attacks on the transformer stations, they should aim for a time just before dawn, rather than at night. Dawn was when these rich men, poor sleepers because of their years, lay awake in their beds. This was when the faint light would reveal their faces and so prevent mistakes. This was when they listened, heads on their pillows, to the twittering of the first sparrows of the morning, and calculated how best that day to spray all of Japan with the poisonous breath of their rule. This was the time to aim for. Now each man had to investigate the sleeping accommodations of his victim and then carry through his task with a burning sincerity that flamed up to the heavens.
Such was Sawa’s counsel, and its adoption resulted in the assassination plan being altered as follows, in order to wipe out the principal figures of the economic world:
Busuké Kurahara—SawaToru Shinkawa—IinumaJuemon Nagasaki—MiyaharaNobuhisa Masuda—KimuraShonosuké Yagi—IzutsuHiroshi Teramoto—FujitaZembei Ota—MiyakéRyuichi Kamiya—TakaséMinoru Gota—InouéSadataro Matsubara—SagaraGenjiro Takai—SerikawaToshikazu Kobinata—Hasegawa
This was a plan that struck at every great capitalist family in Japan. All the
zaibatsu
-controlled heavy industries, iron and steel, light metals, shipbuilding—an illustrious name from each of these sectors was on the list. That morning of mass killing would, beyond any doubt, send a severe shock through the economic structure of the nation.
zaibatsu
-controlled heavy industries, iron and steel, light metals, shipbuilding—an illustrious name from each of these sectors was on the list. That morning of mass killing would, beyond any doubt, send a severe shock through the economic structure of the nation.
Isao was amazed at the skill in persuasion shown by Sawa, who had set aside Kurahara for himself. Izutsu’s boldness had been aroused by the very strength of Kurahara’s guard, but Sawa easily turned him aside, saying: “The Kuraharas dismiss the police on guard at their home every night at nine and don’t let them return until eight the next morning. He’ll be the easiest one to attack, so leave it for an old man like me.”
Sawa reached down inside his trousers and drew out the dagger in its plain wooden sheath that he had shown to Isao. “From now on, I’ll come here every day, and I’ll show you how to go about killing a man,” he said. “It would be good to make a straw dummy. The most important thing is practice. I’ll show you how it’s done. . . . All right? There’s your enemy. He’s shaking with fear. A pitiful fellow, ordinary-looking, on the old side—a Japanese just like you. Pity is taboo! The evil of these men has taken such deep root inside them that they’re not even aware of it themselves. You’ve got to keep your eye on that evil. Do you see it? Whether you see it or not will decide whether you succeed or fail. You’ve got to destroy the flesh that’s blocking your way. You’ve got to get at the evil that’s festering inside. Here, let’s try this. Look!”
Sawa faced toward the wall and gathered his strength, his shoulders hunched.
As Isao watched he realized that before one could attack with one’s whole being like Sawa, there were many rivers to be leaped over. And one clouded stream that never ran dry was that choked with the scum of humanism, the poison spewed out by the factory at its headwaters. There it was: its lights burning brilliantly as it worked even through the night—the factory of Western European ideals. The pollution from that factory degraded the exalted fervor to kill; it withered the green of the sakaki’s leaves.
So be it then. The leaping, head-on attack! The body, bamboo stave held high, breaking through an invisible barrier all unaware and coming out on the other side. The quick and marvelous emotional abrasion gives off sparks. One’s enemy, as though of his own accord, presses heavily against the point of one’s sword and impales himself. Just as prickly seeds cling to the sleeves when a man makes his way through a thicket, so the assassin’s kimono becomes splotched with blood without his noticing it.
Sawa pressed his right elbow against his lower side, and then, with his left hand pushing down upon his right wrist to prevent the blade from turning up, his icy blade seeming to spring directly from his fat body, he screamed: “Yaaah!” and struck the wall with full force, slashing through it.
The following day Isao began to investigate the layout of the Shinkawa house. The house stood on a knoll and was surrounded by a high wall. Isao discovered, however, one place at the top of a slope behind the house where a portion of the upper wall had been cut out to accommodate an ancient pine in the garden, a branch of which curved out over the street. Here it would be easy to get a footing, climb up into the tree, and then slip down into the garden. The trunk had, of course, been surrounded with barbed wire as a guard against burglars, but, if one disregarded a few cuts, this was nothing to be concerned about.
The Shinkawas often went away on the weekends, but would no doubt be found sleeping at home on Friday night. Since the Baron and his wife were so fond of English customs, perhaps they slept in a double bed; in any case, they surely shared the same bedroom. A mansion so large would have many bedrooms, but it seemed likely that the Shinkawas would naturally take advantage of the pleasant southern exposure. The view of the sea was from the east, however, and therefore Isao felt that their room would be in the southeast corner of the house, thus combining comfort with the beauty of the view.
Trying to sketch the plan of the house, with its many wings, was no easy matter. By chance Isao happened to come across an old issue of the magazine
Bungei Shunju
in which an affected essay by Toru Shinkawa caught his eye. Shinkawa was one who had long prided himself on his literary ability, but phrases such as “my wife this,” “my wife that” were conspicuous in his style. Perhaps this was merely an unconscious affectation, but possibly he was insinuating a criticism of the Japanese custom of avoiding direct references to one’s spouse.
Bungei Shunju
in which an affected essay by Toru Shinkawa caught his eye. Shinkawa was one who had long prided himself on his literary ability, but phrases such as “my wife this,” “my wife that” were conspicuous in his style. Perhaps this was merely an unconscious affectation, but possibly he was insinuating a criticism of the Japanese custom of avoiding direct references to one’s spouse.
The essay was entitled “Gibbon Through the Night,” and from it Isao was able to draw this essential portion:
By any standard Gibbon’s work is a masterpiece. It goes without saying that I am far too deficient in scholarship and intellect to comprehend its wisdom, but I may safely contend that no Japanese translation can possibly convey the monumental significance of
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
. The lavishly illustrated 1909 edition edited by Professor Bury, seven volumes, unabridged, is absolutely without peer. When I give myself over to the pleasure of reading Gibbon by the light afforded by my bedside lamp, the hour inevitably grows far advanced. The breathing of my sleeping wife beside me, the rustle of the pages of my Bury edition of Gibbon, and the ticking of the antique clock purchased from LeRoi’s of Paris become by and by the only sounds that occupy the silence of my bedroom, forming a kind of delicate nocturnal trio. And the small lamp that illumines Gibbon’s pages is, within the whole house, the last torch of the intellect to be extinguished each night.
When he read this, Isao pictured to himself how, once he had slipped into the garden under cover of darkness, he could take up a position at the southeast corner of the mansion. Then if he saw a light shining through a window curtain, and if the light kept burning after all the others had gone out, he would be able to tell the Baron’s room. To accomplish this he would have to slip into the garden late in the evening and conceal himself there until the last light had disappeared. This kind of residence would no doubt have night watchmen patrolling its garden, but the shelter of the trees would certainly offer him ample place to hide.
After having considered the problem up to this point, Isao experienced doubt from another quarter. How strange it was that the Baron, whom everyone knew to be in constant peril, should deliberately write in a public journal in a fashion to expose himself to further danger. Could it be possible that this essay was meant as a trap?
29
AS
N
OVEMBER
was drawing to a close, Isao found himself fighting with the desire to say farewell to Makiko Kito in a way that would seem casual. He had neglected her recently. He had been busy, for one thing. The circumstances of his enterprise had been frequently altered, and he had been able to spare little time or feeling for anything else. And then there was something about saying farewell after making the decision to die that embarrassed him. Besides, he was afraid he might become so tense before Makiko that his powerful emotions would get the better of him.
He felt that the most beautiful thing would be to die without seeing her, but, as the world viewed it, to do so would be a breach of etiquette. Furthermore, each of the young men would go to his death carrying a petal from the sacred lilies Makiko had given them. Makiko, then, was the
miko
who would preside over the divinely sanctioned conflict that was the War of the Lilies. How could it be otherwise, then, but that Isao, as the emissary of his comrades, go to Makiko to take an inconspicuous leave of her? This thought finally gave him courage.
miko
who would preside over the divinely sanctioned conflict that was the War of the Lilies. How could it be otherwise, then, but that Isao, as the emissary of his comrades, go to Makiko to take an inconspicuous leave of her? This thought finally gave him courage.
Isao shuddered at the possibility that he might not find her at home if he paid a sudden visit. Given his mood, he would hardly be able to force himself to come a second time to say farewell. She had to appear at the door that night to greet him, allowing him a last glimpse of that beautiful face.
Though it was not in accordance with custom and though he realized that it violated the casualness he wanted, Isao ventured to telephone to make sure that Makiko was home. It happened that his family had received a gift of oysters that day, and he was able to say that he wanted to bring some of them over.
One of his father’s old students, who lived in Hiroshima, sent oysters every year in season, and it would be only natural for his mother to have him take some of them to the Kitos, who had treated him with such kindness. The coincidence was fortunate.
Dressed in his student uniform with his feet thrust into clogs, Isao left the house carrying a little keg of oysters. Since it was already long past the dinner hour, there was no reason to hurry.
As one who was sworn to die and about to take an unspoken farewell, Isao resented the incongruity of his gift. The splashing sound that came from the keg as he walked was like low waves lapping at the base of a sheer cliff. He imagined the sea as crammed into that small dark space, its freshness giving way to pollution.
Probably it was the last time he would follow this familiar path. It would also be his farewell to the thirty-six stone steps he knew so well. As he climbed them, the steps seemed to cascade down through the darkness like a waterfall. The cold of the night was bone-chilling even though there was no wind. Suddenly he had an odd feeling that he wanted to turn and look back at the way he had come. Two or three hemp palms grew on the slope on the south side of the house. The hairy fiber that covered their trunks seemed to entangle the stars in the winter sky. There were only a few lights in the houses below, but the eaves of the stores by the Hakusanmaé streetcar stop shone brightly. He saw no streetcar, but the scraping noise of one echoed in the night like an old drawer being pulled out.
The scene was quite ordinary. There was nothing that had to do with death and the spilling of blood. Even the sight of the four or five bonsai in a neat row upon the drying frame outside a house whose shutters were already closed brought to his mind how life would go on along its ordinary course after his death. His death, he was sure, would ever be beyond the grasp of the people living in that house. The turmoil that he and his comrades stirred would not disturb their sleep.
He entered the gate of the Kito home. He pressed the bell. Makiko slid open the door at once as though she had been lying in wait in the entrance hall.
Any other time, he would have slipped off his clogs and stepped up into the house, but he was afraid that if he talked to Makiko too long, his expression would betray his emotions. And so he merely handed her the small keg and said: “My mother asked me to bring you this. It’s a few of the oysters we received from Hiroshima.”
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