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Authors: Yukio Mishima

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BOOK: Spring Snow
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A breeze came in off the night sea. The salty fragrance of the tide and the smell of seaweed thrown up on the beach made their bodies tingle with emotion, bare to the cool night air. The sea breeze, heavy with the smell of salt, coiled against their naked flesh, but made them burn rather than shiver.
“Well, it’s time we went back,” said Kiyoaki abruptly.
It was meant, of course, as a reminder that it was time for them to get ready for dinner. Honda, however, knew that Kiyoaki’s mind was fixed on the departure of the last train for Tokyo.
34
 
K
IYOAKI MADE SECRET TRIPS
to Tokyo at least once every three days, and on his return, he would give Honda all the details of what had gone on. The Toinnomiyas had indeed postponed the betrothal ceremony, but that by no means meant that there was any significant obstacle to Satoko’s marriage to the young prince. She was, in fact, often invited to their home, and the Prince’s father, His Imperial Highness himself, had started treating her with cordial affection.
Kiyoaki was not at all satisfied with the way things stood. Now he was thinking of having Satoko down to Kamakura to spend the night at the villa, and he asked Honda if he had any idea about how to carry out such a dangerous plan. But on even the most cursory reflection, one grave difficulty after another was brought to light.
One hot sultry night, as Kiyoaki was settling into an uneasy sleep, he began to dream. It was quite unlike his previous experiences. If one flounders in the shallows of sleep, wading where the water is tepid and full of all sorts of flotsam that has come in from deeper water to pile up with the land debris in a tangled heap, one is liable to slash one’s feet.
Kiyoaki was standing in the middle of a road that led through open fields. For some reason he was wearing a white cotton kimono and matching
hakama
, a costume he had never worn, and he was armed with a hunting rifle. The land around him was rolling country, but it was not deserted. He could see a cluster of farmhouses up ahead, and a cyclist passed him on the road. A strange, somber light permeated the entire scene. It was no brighter than the final traces of daylight, and was so diffuse that it could more easily have sprung from the ground rather than the sky, for the grass in the rolling fields gave off a green glow from its very roots and bathed the bicycle in a hazy silver gleam as it vanished into the distance. He looked down and saw that even the thick thongs of his clogs and the veins of his bare feet stood out with brilliant, uncanny clarity.
At that moment, the light filmed over and a huge flight of birds appeared in the sky. When they reached a point above his head, filling the air with their squawking cries, he aimed his rifle upward and pulled the trigger. He did not fire in cold blood. It was rather that he was seized by an unfathomable anger and grief, and he fired, aiming not so much at the birds as at the great blue eye of the sky itself.
The whole flock plummeted earthward in a single mass, a tornado of screams and blood that linked heaven and earth. Countless shrieking birds, their blood spurting out, tumbled down in an unending stream, gathered into one thick column that formed the cone of the whirlwind. The cascade of blood and fury never slackened.
As he watched, the whirlwind suddenly solidified before his eyes and became a giant tree that stretched to the heavens. Its trunk was a forbidding rust color, devoid of leaves or branches. As soon as this giant tree took shape and the screaming died away, the same somber glow that had lit up the fields before the storm spread out over them once more. Down the road appeared a new silver bicycle without a rider and made its way unsteadily toward him.
He was proud to have been the one to sweep away the obstacle that had blocked the light of the sun.
But then in the distance he saw a group coming his way along the road. They were all dressed in white just as he was. They checked their solemn, measured advance a few yards away. He saw that each of them carried a shining sakaki branch in his hand.
They pointed their branches toward him and began to wave them in the rite of purification, the rustle of leaves echoing clearly in his ears. As they did so, he was startled to recognize the face of his former retainer Iinuma in their midst. Iinuma himself spoke to him.
“You are heedless and intractable. You have proved it beyond all question.”
He looked down at his chest when Iinuma spoke. A necklace of crescent-shaped stones, dark maroon and purple, now hung around his neck. The stones were cold and as they touched his skin they sent a chill through his body. His chest felt like a flat, heavy rock.
Then the white-clad group pointed to the tree, and when he looked at it, he saw that the massive trunk of dead birds was now covered with branches, all of which were laden with glossy green leaves. The whole tree was a vivid green, down to its lowest branches.
Then he woke up.
Since the dream had been so extraordinary, he reached out to open his dream journal, which he had neglected for some time now. He began to write, trying to record the events as accurately and as objectively as he could. Even now that he was awake, however, he was torn by the fierceness and antagonism of the dream. He felt as if he had just returned from battle.
∗
Kiyoaki’s problem was to bring Satoko from Tokyo in the dead of night and get her home again by dawn. A carriage was no good. Nor was the train. A rickshaw would be quite out of the question. Somehow he had to get the use of a car.
Obviously it could not be one belonging to anyone who knew the Matsugaes. And, even more important, anyone in the Ayakuras’ circle had to be ruled out. And the car would have to be driven by someone completely ignorant of the situation and the people involved.
The villa area was large enough, but precautions still had to be taken to avoid a chance meeting between Satoko and the princes. Kiyoaki and Honda had no idea whether or not the princes were aware of the circumstances of her engagement, but even if they were not, a meeting could only lead to disaster.
Without the least experience in such things, Honda had to find a way through these difficulties somehow. For he had promised Kiyoaki to see to it that Satoko would be able to come down from Tokyo and return in safety.
As he began to size up the problem, he thought of a friend of his named Itsui, the eldest son of a wealthy commercial family. Since Itsui was the only one in his class at Peers who had his own car to use as he liked, Honda had no choice but to go up to Tokyo to visit him in Kojimachi and ask if he would lend him the Ford and a driver for a night.
High-living Itsui, whose career at Peers continually veered toward the shoals of academic shipwreck, was astounded. That the class genius, who was notorious for his sobriety and application moreover, should come to him with such a request! When he had recovered a little, he decided to make the most of the opportunity, and so with no more arrogance than befitted the occasion, he said that if Honda would tell him honestly why he wanted the car, he might be willing to lend it to him.
With that, Honda began to stutter through the confession he had concocted for the loutish Itsui’s benefit, and as he did so, was conscious of an unaccustomed and pleasurable sensation. This was provoked by the rapt expression of total belief on Itsui’s face; he obviously took Honda’s stumbling manner not as an indication of an outright lie, but as testimony to his classmate’s brooding sense of shame.
A man may be hard to persuade by rational argument while he is easily swayed by a display of passion, even if it is feigned. Honda was amused at the spectacle, but his amusement was tinged with disgust. He wondered if Kiyoaki had used him in much the same way as he was using Itsui.
“Well, you are turning out to be altogether different from what I imagined. I never thought I’d see this side of you. But you’re still being secretive. Won’t you at least tell me her name?”
“Fusako,” said Honda, spontaneously coming up with the name of the second cousin he hadn’t seen in months.
“I see. So Matsugae is going to provide a place to spend the night and I’m going to provide the car. And in return, when the exams come round, you’ll remember old Itsui, won’t you?” he said, bowing his head in mock supplication that was still meant in earnest.
The light of friendship shone in his eyes. Despite Honda’s awesome brain, Itsui now felt on a par with him in many respects. He was vindicated in his unimaginative view of human nature.
“After all, people are all alike,” he said, summing it up, his voice expressing the fact that he felt at one with the world, which was exactly the state of mind Honda had been intent on inducing from the beginning.
And so, thanks to Kiyoaki, Honda could soon expect to enjoy a romantic reputation that any boy of nineteen would envy. All in all, this transaction would benefit each of them: Kiyoaki, Honda, and also Itsui.
Itsui’s car was a 1912 Ford, the newest model. It was one of the first equipped with a self-starter, the recent invention that had eliminated the nuisance of the chauffeur having to get out each time it happened to stall. It was the ordinary Model T, with a two-speed transmission, painted black with a crimson line around the doors. The driver’s seat was open and the rear enclosed, an arrangement that seemed to preserve something of the air of a carriage. A speaking tube in the back seat led to a trumpet-shaped device next to the driver’s ear. A rack fastened onto the roof, besides holding a spare tire, could also carry baggage. The car seemed altogether capable of making a long journey.
Mori, the driver, had been the Itsuis’ coachman and had learned his new trade from a master driver. He had pointedly arranged for the man to accompany him to the police station to get his license. Every time Mori ran into a difficult question on the written examination, he went into the lobby to consult with his master before returning to the examination room to continue.
Honda went to Itsui’s house very late at night to borrow the car. In order to conceal Satoko’s background from Mori as much as he could, he had him park the car near a boarding house for military officers where they waited until Satoko and Tadeshina appeared according to plan, arriving inconspicuously in a rickshaw. Kiyoaki had hoped that Tadeshina would not make the trip to Kamakura, but she could not possibly come even if she wanted to, for it was up to her to stay behind and pretend that Satoko spent the night fast asleep in her room, a task of crucial importance. Her face betrayed her worry. She cautioned Satoko at great length before finally surrendering her to Honda’s care.
“I’ll call you Fusako in front of the chauffeur,” he whispered in her ear.
Mori started the Ford with a blast that shattered the midnight silence of the residential neighborhood.
Satoko’s calm and resolution surprised Honda. She was in Western clothes, and the white dress she had chosen seemed to enhance her air of quiet determination.
∗
Riding through the night like this in the company of the woman claimed by a friend was an odd experience for Honda. There he sat as the car bounced over the rough road, friendship personified, while the scent of Satoko’s perfume wafted around him in the summer night.
She belonged to another man. Her very femininity, moreover, seemed to be mocking him. The unprecedented trust that Kiyoaki had shown in him made him more sharply aware than ever before of the cold, subtle poison that permeated their relationship. His friend’s contempt and trust were as closely linked as a fine leather glove and the hand inside it. But Kiyoaki had an aura about him that made Honda forgive him.
The only way he could cope with contempt of this sort was to hold onto a belief in his own nobility, and this he did with moderation rather than with the blind traditionalism of so many young men. This meant that he would never come to think of himself as ugly, as Iinuma did. For if this ever happened, there would be nothing left but for him to become Kiyoaki’s slave.
Although the breeze blowing in through the window naturally ruffled her hair, Satoko maintained her poise throughout the trip. Kiyoaki’s name had become a sort of taboo word between them, quite of its own accord. And the name “Fusako” served as a mild, fictional term of endearment.
∗
The return trip was quite different. “Oh, there’s something I forgot to tell Kiyo,” she said soon after they had left the villa. But if they turned back, there would be no hope of her getting home before the early summer dawn.
BOOK: Spring Snow
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