Temple Of Dawn (40 page)
Authors: Yukio Mishima
Momentarily Honda was confident that he could slip into Ying Chan’s heart straight and smoothly, even if he were not forgiven.
“That was quite a feat.” Honda found a momentary interval in the conversation and spoke in Japanese.
“What?”
Ying Chan raised questioning eyes. There was nothing more charming than her mouth, which, when given a riddle, responded with an instant “What?” like a bubble floating on the surface of the water, making no effort to solve it. She did not at all mind unintelligibility, so he should have the same sort of courage. He had prepared a note written in pencil on a page torn from a little memorandum.
“Please see me alone,” he said. “During the day is all right. Only an hour will do. How about today? Can you come here?” He handed her the paper with the time and place written on it.
Ying Chan deftly avoided the observant eyes of the ladies and glanced at the paper in the sun. Her momentary effort at evasion made Honda happy.
“Are you free?”
“Yes.”
“Will you come?”
“Yes.”
Ying Chan’s “yes” was almost too distinct, but it was accompanied by a beautiful smile that at once softened her answer. It was clear that she was thinking of nothing.
Where do love and hatred go? Where do the tropical cloud shadows and the violent rains that fall like stones disappear to? To be made to realize the futility of his suffering was stronger than being made to realize the futility of his occasional happiness.
Keiko had disappeared, but now she returned leading two guests into the garden from the drawing room as she had done when Honda arrived. One old woman, on seeing the beautifully kimonoed figures, one in light and the other in dark blue, made hard and rasping sounds of admiration with her parrotlike tongue. Honda turned to look. It was Makiko attended by Mrs. Tsubakihara.
Honda had been rapturously gazing at Ying Chan’s jet-black hair suddenly blowing in the wind like a sail, and the arrival seemed particularly untimely. As they approached, the two greeted Honda first of all. “How lucky you are today,” said Makiko coldly, looking around at the old ladies. “The only thorn in a bouquet of roses!”
Of course, the two women were introduced to the Westerners and amenities were exchanged, but they were pleased to return to Honda, with whom they talked in Japanese.
When the clouds shifted and the shadows deepened on her hair, Makiko said: “Did you see the demonstration on June twenty-fifth?”
“No, I only read about it in the papers.”
“So did I. They threw Molotov cocktails everywhere in Shinjuku, and some police boxes were burned down. It was a terrible riot, I hear. At this rate, I wonder if the Communists won’t take over.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But things seem to get worse every month; even homemade guns are appearing. I imagine that the Communists and the Koreans will soon turn the whole of Tokyo into a sea of flames.”
“We can’t do much about it, can we?”
“You’ll have a long life because you don’t worry,” said Makiko. “But looking at the world these days, I wonder what would have happened if Isao had lived. I started to write a series of poems called ‘June Twenty-fifth.’ I wanted to write poetry at the lowest level, one on which it would be impossible to create; I’d been looking for material that could never be turned into poetry when I finally hit on this.”
“You say you hit on it, but you didn’t go to see it yourself.”
“A poet has long sight, unlike people like you.”
It was unusual for Makiko to talk in such a relaxed fashion about her own poetry. But her attitude was a kind of priming. She looked around and smiled into Honda’s eyes.
“I hear you were pretty upset in Gotemba the other day.”
“Who told you?” Honda asked, unperturbed.
“Keiko,” said Makiko calmly.
“Come to think,” she continued, “it might have been an emergency, but Ying Chan has a lot of nerve barging into someone’s house in the middle of the night and banging on the lovers’ bedroom door. Jack’s a lovely boy to treat her so kindly. He’s really a well-bred and charming American.”
Honda was confused. He was certain that Keiko had said that morning: “Lucky that Jack wasn’t here. What a scene if he had been.” And now Makiko was talking as though he
had
stayed the night. It was either Makiko’s misunderstanding or Keiko’s lie. The discovery of Keiko’s meaningless little falsehood gave him a secret feeling of superiority that he was reluctant to share with Makiko. He wanted to avoid the absurdity of getting involved in women’s gossip. Furthermore, Makiko had thought nothing of perjuring herself in front of judges. Honda never lied, but at times he had the habit of ignoring some paltry truth gliding away in front of him like trash flowing down a little gutter. It was a small vice that dated from the days of his judgeship.
had
stayed the night. It was either Makiko’s misunderstanding or Keiko’s lie. The discovery of Keiko’s meaningless little falsehood gave him a secret feeling of superiority that he was reluctant to share with Makiko. He wanted to avoid the absurdity of getting involved in women’s gossip. Furthermore, Makiko had thought nothing of perjuring herself in front of judges. Honda never lied, but at times he had the habit of ignoring some paltry truth gliding away in front of him like trash flowing down a little gutter. It was a small vice that dated from the days of his judgeship.
As he attempted to change the subject, Mrs. Tsubakihara came sidling up as though seeking Makiko’s protection. He was surprised that her face had become so drawn in the short time since he had last seen her. Her sorrowful expression itself had a wasted look, her eyes were hollow, and her lips, garishly painted orange, made her utterly grotesque.
With a smile in her eyes, Makiko suddenly lifted her disciple’s round white chin with one finger and showed it to Honda.
“She gives me such a difficult time, threatening me with her ideas of suicide.”
Mrs. Tsubakihara let her chin rest on Makiko’s finger as though she wished to remain forever in that position, but the latter immediately removed it. Mrs. Tsubakihara, looking across the lawn where an evening breeze was beginning to rise, half spoke to Honda in a thick voice: “But without talent how can one go on living?”
“If the untalented had to die, everybody in Japan would be dead,” Makiko responded in amusement.
Honda observed this exchange with a shudder.
41
AT FOUR O’CLOCK
two days later, the appointed hour, Honda was waiting in the lobby of the Tokyo Kaikan. If Ying Chan came, he intended to take her to the roof garden restaurant which had opened that same summer.
The lobby was a convenient place to wait inconspicuously for someone. The easy chairs upholstered in leather were spaciously arranged and he could spread the bound newspaper in front of his face. In an inside pocket Honda had three hand-rolled Monte Cristo Havanas which he had obtained after a long wait. Ying Chan would doubtless be there before he could smoke them all. No sooner had he seated himself in a chair than the windows darkened; his only concern was that the showers might come and they might be unable to have dinner in the roof garden.
Thus a rich fifty-seven-year-old man awaited a Thai girl. The realization ultimately saved him from his fear, and he felt that he had returned to a normal daily life. He was a kind of harbor and not by nature a ship. The only natural state of his existence, that of waiting for Ying Chan, was reestablished. It was almost the form of his very soul.
An older man of means who did not seek the simpler male pleasures. He was a troublesome being, and he easily made the decision to exchange the earth for his boredom; but on the surface he was the embodiment of modesty, a spirit that preferred to lie low in a delimited, hollow area. He had the same attitude toward history and eras, miracles and revolutions. Sitting on a covered abyss as though on a toilet, he simply smoked his cigar and waited. He depended on his opponent’s will for a decision and only under such conditions did his dream for the first time assume a distinct shape. Then, though only through a peephole, he saw the ambiguous form of ultimate happiness. Could death take him to extreme happiness in this condition? If so, Ying Chan must be death.
Honda was ready to play the cards of apprehension or despair he held in his hand. This time of expectant waiting was like black lacquer inlaid with countless mother-of-pearl pieces of uncertainty.
From the cellarlike Grill Rossini on the same floor, the tinkling sound of silverware could be heard as tables were set in preparation for the dinner hour. Like the knives and forks in the waiters’ hands that had not yet been separated, emotion and reason commingled in Honda; and not a single plan (a malicious tendency of reason) had been made—his will was still uninvolved. The pleasure which he had discovered at the end of his life entailed such an indolent abandonment of human will. As he thus relinquished it, the determination to engage himself in history that had so obsessed him since youth was also suspended in space, and history hung detached somewhere in mid-air.
A circus girl soaring on her trapeze through the blinding height of timeless, dark hours, the skirt of her white skintight tunic fluttering . . . Ying Chan.
Outside the window it had grown dark. Two transients and their respective families were exchanging interminable greetings beside Honda; they lasted so long that he felt almost faint. A young couple, apparently engaged, were stonily silent like two manic depressives. Through the window he could see the stir of tree branches along the street, but the rain seemed not to have come. The wooden binding of the newspaper felt in Honda’s hands like an extremely long shinbone. He smoked the three cigars. Ying Chan did not appear.
At long last he ate a reluctant meal and made his way to the Foreign Student Center. His behavior was against all good sense.
He entered the simple, four-storied building in Azabu. In the entry hall two or three dark-skinned, sharp-eyed youths in short-sleeved shirts of a large plaid were reading poorly printed Southeast Asian magazines. Honda went to the front desk and asked for Ying Chan.
“She’s out,” the clerk answered automatically. The response seemed too quick to be genuine. As Honda asked two or three questions the sharp-eyed youths all stared at him. The stifling night air made him feel as though he were in the waiting room of some little tropical airport.
“Could you tell me her room number?”
“It’s against the rules. You can see the students only in this lobby and only by their consent.”
When Honda gave up and left, the young men returned to their magazines. Brown ankles jutted out sharply like thorns from all the pairs of crossed legs.
He could walk freely through the front garden, but no one was there. The sound of a guitar came from a brightly lit room on the third floor, and the windows were open wide to the humid weather. A melody sung in a high but soft voice resembling a high-pitched Chinese viol twined around the sounds of the strings like a yellowed vine. Listening to the sad voice, Honda recalled the unforgettable nights in Bangkok just before the war.
If only he could slip in, he wanted to go through every room, for he did not believe that Ying Chan was out. She was everywhere in the humid evening darkness of the rainy season. In the faint fragrance of flowers that had probably been cultivated by foreign students, in the distinct yellow gladioli or the pale violet of the Roger’s bronze leaf intermingling in the dark . . . Minute elements of Ying Chan floating all about gradually coalesced into shape and solidified into her being. He could sense her even in the faint whir of mosquito wings.
Most of the windows were dark. Only one room at the corner of the third floor cast a bright radiance through moving lace curtains. Curious, Honda gazed at the window. Someone was standing just inside looking down at the garden. The wind caused the curtains to flutter and he caught a fleeting glimpse. It was Ying Chan wearing a slip. Involuntarily he ran toward the window and came directly under a street lamp. Ying Chan seemed shocked on recognizing him. Immediately the light was turned off and the window was closed.
Honda leaned against the corner of the building and waited a long time. The minutes dripped away and the blood throbbed in his temples. Time dripped like drops of blood. He pressed his cheek against the thin blue moss growing on the concrete, letting it cool his hot old cheeks.
After a while, a rustling like that of a snake’s tongue sounded from the third-floor window. It was slowly opened, and something soft and white fell at Honda’s feet. He picked it up and opened a piece of crumpled white paper. Inside was a wad of cotton large enough to fill his palm. It seemed to have been pressed into a compact mass, for as he released the outer wrapping it swelled like something alive. Honda fumbled with the layers of cotton. Inside lay the emerald ring protected by the golden
yakshas
.
yakshas
.
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