Authors: Yukio Mishima

Runaway Horses (21 page)

BOOK: Runaway Horses

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His mother came with some fruit and tea, and as soon as the sound of her footsteps had faded in the corridor, Isao unlocked and opened a drawer. He took out a folded map, and spread it out on the floor. It was a map of Tokyo, parts of which were heavily shaded with a purple pencil.

“Here’s how it is,” said Isao, with a sigh.

“That bad?” asked Izutsu.

“Yes, that bad. The corruption has already gone this far.” Isao took a shaddock from the bowl and began to rub its bright yellow lava-like skin with his hand. “If the inside of this fruit was as rotten, it wouldn’t be fit to eat, and you’d have to throw it out.”

Isao had used the purple pencil to indicate the presence of corruption, marking every critical spot. From the vicinity of the Imperial Palace to Nagata and throughout the entire Marunouchi area near Tokyo Station the color was a deep purple, and even the palace area itself was not without a purple tinge. The Diet Building wore a heavy coat of it, and this saturation area was linked by a dotted line to the purple mass that covered Marunouchi, the home ground of the
zaibatsu
.

“What’s that?” asked Sagara, pointing to a spot of purple a little distance removed in the neighborhood of Toranomon.

“The Peers Club,” Isao answered coolly. “They like to call themselves the Emperor’s ‘Shield of Flesh,’ but they’re just parasites on the Imperial Household.”

In the Kasumigaseki area, as was hardly surprising, the avenue lined with government bureaus, whatever the variations of shade, was purple from one end to the other. The Foreign Ministry, the chief architect of the weak and vacillating foreign policy, had taken such severe punishment from Isao’s pencil that it gave off a purple glow.

“So, this is how far the corruption has spread! And the Army Ministry, and the General Staff too!” Izutsu exclaimed, his eyes flashing and his voice surprisingly harsh and loud for his age. Izutsu’s voice, however, expressed true belief, its tone one of quick and ready affirmation surging up through a channel free of all impurity.

“Of course. I put my pencil to work only where I had certain knowledge.”

“I wonder what we could do to purify this all with one sweep?”

“The men of the League of the Divine Wind would disapprove perhaps, but if you want to do it all at once there is no other way but this,” Isao answered. He lifted the shaddock in his hand above his head and let it fall upon the map. The shaddock struck with a dull plop and bounced heavily a single time before rolling to one side and coming to rest upon Hibiya Park. When it stopped rolling, its reflection sluggishly took form as a broad circle of pale yellow over the cocoon-shaped pond of Hibiya Park and the winding paths that surrounded it.

“I see,” exclaimed Sagara, so excited that he nearly let his glasses slip from his nose. “We drop bombs from an airplane.”

“That’s it,” answered Isao, smiling easily.

“Of course, what else?” said Izutsu. “In that case, though Lieutenant Hori is a wonderful man, we must make contact with somebody in the Air Corps. If we tell the plan to the Lieutenant, he’ll introduce us to the right man. I’m sure Lieutenant Hori will soon be one of our most valuable comrades.”

Izutsu’s credulity was almost a thing of beauty, and Isao allowed himself a moment to savor it. Izutsu would be obedient to the end, to any decision Isao made. His character was such, however, that he became completely taken up with whatever good qualities he discovered in those whom he met. This credulity turned the world of his ideals into something as bright and level as a meadow. Izutsu had no fear of encountering contradictions, and, in his world which was without complexities, evil, as he conceived it, took the flattest imaginable form. He thought of himself, no doubt, as crushing evils like so many wafers, and here lay the source of his rash boldness.

“All very well,” said Isao, after letting Izutsu’s credulity sink in, “but as for bombs, let me remind you that Kengo Ueno of the League of the Divine Wind wanted to use firearms, but his plan was rejected. Our ultimate reliance too must be upon the sword. Never forget that. We can only rely on our swords, and on bombs made of our flesh.

13

L
IEUTENANT
G
ENERAL
K
ITO’S
home in Hakusanmae was within easy walking distance of the Academy of Patriotism. Isao knew by heart the number of the thirty-six stone steps that one climbed to reach the house after crossing the stone bridge that lay at the foot of the rise upon which it stood. In the surroundings of his home, the General’s manner was especially gracious. He was a widower, and he was content to entrust the running of his household entirely to his daughter Makiko, who had returned home after an unsuccessful marriage. His relations with the Academy were cordial, and since he had always shown special fondness toward Isao, Iinuma did nothing to prevent his son spending a great deal of time at the General’s home, beyond warning him not to make too much of a nuisance of himself.

Whenever Isao went there with his friends, the task of entertaining the young men always fell to Makiko. Her kindness was extraordinary. The General and his daughter both assured them that, though they were to come whenever they liked, they were especially welcome just before dinner since nothing could give the two of them greater pleasure than to feed young men whose appetites so well showed their appreciation.

Makiko’s manner was one of unvarying impartiality. Cheerful, gently graceful, coolly reserved, she never had a single hair out of place or the slightest disarray in dress.

Since it was a Sunday night and Isao, Sagara, and Izutsu had no particular place to go in mind, they decided to spend the evening at General Kito’s. Izutsu and Sagara had persuaded Isao to forget about his promise to treat them, and to put aside the money, however little, so that it could be of some use when the time came to carry out their plan. And so the three had to go somewhere that did not require money.

Makiko met them at the entranceway, wearing a kimono of light purple serge. Isao felt a sudden chill at the sight of it, hoping that it did not recall to Izutsu and Sagara the map splotched with corruption which he had just shown them.

“Good evening. Please come right in,” Makiko greeted them, her arm curved gracefully about a hall post like a handle on a delicate vase. “Father is away on a trip, but that doesn’t matter. Do come in. You haven’t eaten yet, I hope?” Her manner was as cordial as ever. Then, as rain suddenly began to fall, she peered outside into the dusk and said: “What lucky young men you are!” her soft tone blending with the light rustle of rain. When she spoke like this, she sometimes seemed to be talking to herself. Isao, feeling that it would be impolite to attempt any sort of clever response, said nothing as he stepped up into the dark house.

Makiko turned on a hanging ceiling lamp in the guest parlor. But just as she was reaching up for the switch above the shade, the lamp swayed and her hand slipped. The light went on and off for an instant, and then on again. During the brief time that she stood there on tiptoe, the seductive whiteness of her
tabi
-shod feet attracted Isao’s eye. He somehow felt as though he had penetrated one of this woman’s secrets.

The ability of the Kito household to have ever on hand an ample selection of dishes no matter how unexpected their guests was always a source of surprise to the boys. This, however, was a long-standing custom of the household dating from the time when they had had to be prepared for the appearance at any moment of young officers with hearty appetites. Dinner was served immediately. Makiko ate with them, having the maid do the serving. Isao had never seen anyone who could eat with Makiko’s grace. She bent her head supplely and moved her chopsticks with a fluid grace, holding but the smallest portion of rice or fish between them. And, furthermore, even while laughing at the boys’ jokes, she nimbly finished her dinner as though skillfully attending to some small task suited to a woman.

“Shall we listen to some records?” asked Makiko when dinner was over.

The atmosphere was hot and humid, and so, despite the light shower, Makiko had the maid open the glass doors facing the porch, and they sat down by them. A mahogany-colored cabinet phonograph stood in one corner of the room. Although electric phonographs had become popular everywhere, the Kito household clung stubbornly to its imported wind-up model. Izutsu undertook the work of winding it up. Isao might well have done so himself, but Makiko was at that moment standing near the phonograph as she looked over the records, and the thought of going beside her made him hesitate.

Makiko selected a twelve-inch record with a red label, a Chopin “Nocturne” played by Cortot, and put it on the turntable. Though this was something outside of the boys’ cultural background and they made no pretense of being familiar with it, they meekly gave themselves over to the selection offered to them. They began to feel as if they had slipped into agreeably chilly water and were swimming about in it. When Isao compared the quiet passivity of spirit he experienced now with his customary state at his father’s Academy, he felt that the latter was like a constant masquerade.

As though to confirm this insight, the music set his mood drifting one way and then another. Vivid memories of things seen and heard during his visits to the Kito home flowed through his mind one by one, carried along by the current of piano music, each one, as though marked with a crest, bearing a small image of Makiko.

Once, on a spring afternoon while the General, Makiko, and Isao were talking, a pheasant flew down into the garden. “Oh, look! It must be from the Botanical Gardens,” Makiko had exclaimed. Her cheerful voice still echoed clearly in Isao’s ears. As the memory flashed before him, the womanly voice seemed to come from the crimson-winged pheasant itself. “It must be from the Botanical Gardens”—her tone seemed to suggest a luxuriantly wooded spot such as he had never seen, a domain of women.

Then the piano music caught Isao’s memory again and swept it along this way and that.

On an evening in May the same voice had spoken: “I was just on my way to flower-arranging class the other morning. It had been raining for days, so I opened my umbrella and was going down the stone steps when a swallow darted by and almost flew into the umbrella. It was a close call, believe me.” But when the General replied that it was indeed fortunate that she had not taken a bad tumble down the steps, Makiko protested that that was not what she meant. She had been concerned, rather, lest the swallow injure itself upon the umbrella’s pointed ribs. And Isao, listening to her, instantly re-created in his mind this critical moment and its captivating circumstances. The face of a woman flashed before him, somewhat pale in the faint green light that shone through the oiled paper of her sheltering umbrella, her cheeks moist from the misty rain, her expression taut with concern. Here was the quintessential woman, a woman standing upon the precipice of womanhood. And then the swallow, secure in the woman’s concern, revels in her pity, risking the ultimate as it flirts with death. Intent on wounding though it will itself be wounded, the swallow obeys a rebellious impulse, like a blade cutting through the purple irises of May, its eye upon the supreme moment. But the moment does not come. The anxiety resolves into a gentle poetic mood: a beautiful woman on her way to practice flower arranging, a darting swallow—they brush past each other and go their separate ways.

“Are you taking good care of the lilies that you received at Izagawa Shrine?” Makiko asked Isao, and her question was so direct and unexpected that Isao could only say “I beg your pardon?” in response. The record had finished.

“The lilies I was given there, the lilies you brought from Omiwa Shrine.”

“No, no. I gave them all away.”

“You kept not even one for yourself?”

“No.”

“What a shame! No matter how withered they get, one should keep them until the next year. People say they are a safeguard against epidemics. At our house we lay them reverently on the family altar.”

“Did you press them?” asked Sagara without thinking.

“No, I didn’t think it would be proper to crush the flowers of the gods under a heavy object, so I put them on the altar just as they were and I’ve been giving them fresh water ever since.”

“But they’re already a month old!” Isao retorted.

“It is a marvelous thing, but they never wither to an unsightly color. I will show you. There can be no doubt that they are the flowers of the gods.”

BOOK: Runaway Horses

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