Authors: Yukio Mishima
Runaway Horses (38 page)
Isao wrenched away this dark lever that had forced his thoughts back to the past, and he spread the written plan out on the grass before him:
1. The month, date, and hour:2. A summary of the plan:Our objective is to throw the capital into disorder, bring about a state of martial law, and thereby promote the establishment of a Restoration government. We are fully resolved to sacrifice ourselves for such a Restoration, hoping to achieve the maximum result with the minimum number of men. We believe that others who share our ideals will rise in response throughout the country. We will have copies of our declaration scattered from an airplane, contending that an imperial command has been issued to Prince Toin, and we will see to it that in short order this will in fact be the case. With the proclamation of martial law, our mission will be accomplished, and no later than the following dawn, whether we have succeeded or failed, we will commit seppuku honorably together.The purpose of the Meiji Restoration was to return the governing power and the control of the military functions to His Imperial Majesty. The purpose of our Showa Restoration is to place finance and industry under the direct control of His Imperial Majesty, to uproot capitalism and communism, those doctrines of Western materialism, and thus deliver our people from their misery, and here beneath the bright light of the sun to seek the direct rule of the Emperor that will glorify the Imperial Way.As for throwing the capital into disorder, we will first blow up every transformer substation throughout the city, and in the dead of night we will assassinate the ringleaders of industrial capitalism: Busuké Kurahara, Toru Shinkawa, and Juemon Nagasaki. At the same time, we will occupy the Bank of Japan, the kingpin of the Japanese economy, and set it afire. We will then gather by sunrise at the latest before the Imperial Palace and put an end to ourselves by committing seppuku as one. Should we be unable to meet, there is nothing to prevent our turning our swords against ourselves in whatever place each man happens to find himself.3. Table of Organization:A. First Unit (The attacks upon the Tokyo Electric transformer substations)
| Kamedo Substation: | Hasegawa Sagara |
| Kinuden Substation: | Seyama Tsujimura |
| Hatogaya Substation: | Yoneda Sakakibara |
| Tabata Substation: | Horié Mori |
| Mejiro Substation: | Ohashi Serikawa |
| Yodobashi Substation: | Takahashi Ui |
B. Second Unit (The assassinations)
| Toru Shinkawa: | Iinuma Miyaké |
| Juemon Nagasaki: | Miyahara Kimura |
| Busuké Kurahara: | Izutsu Fujita |
C. Third Unit (The occupation and burning of the Bank of Japan)The action will be carried out by fourteen men under the command of First Lieutenant of Infantry Hori, with two men, Takasé and Inoué, joining the twelve men who will assemble rapidly by bicycle immediately after the destruction of the transformer stations.D. Special AssignmentAn airplane piloted by First Lieutenant Shiga will drop flares and scatter leaflets.
The truth of the matter was that Isao was still disturbed about the assignment to kill Kurahara. It was a task that he really wanted to reserve for himself, but something prevented him from doing so. Sawa’s words had somehow struck home.
Isao felt that even now as they were talking, Sawa might take it into his head to go out and kill Kurahara on his own initiative. If he did, they would have no choice but to delay their full-scale plan until the public outcry had died down. Then again, perhaps Sawa had been merely bluffing, trying to force Isao’s assent, and would actually do nothing at all.
If Isao were to kill Kurahara, disregarding all that Sawa had said, he would be fulfilling the role he had always seen for himself. Obviously Kurahara would be the man most closely guarded. Isao had used the pretext of friendship in yielding Kurahara to Izutsu, that cheerful and credulous young man of extravagant bravery. Izutsu had been overwhelmed with gratitude, but Isao, deep within him, felt that for the first time in his life he had flinched from something.
As for using the airplane, it had been Lieutenant Hori’s counsel that caused the substitution of flares and leaflets for bombs. Hori, however, had guaranteed that his staunch friend Lieutenant Shiga would participate.
Weapons were a problem. Of the twenty young men, ten of them had access to a Japanese sword, but, in the assaults upon the transformer stations, a sword might perhaps prove a hindrance. If they carried concealed daggers, that would suffice. As for the various explosives to be used, their aim was to obtain some of the most recently developed kind.
“Sagara. Read us the list of the items we need.”
“All right,” said Sagara, and he began to read in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard:
1. A large piece of bleached cotton: one length of about sixteen feet to be used for a banner proclaiming our ideals, to be set up at the place where we commit suicide. The rest of the material to provide a belly band for each man.
2. Headbands, armbands, pins for armbands, and rubber-soled footwear to equip twenty men.
3. Paper: one ream of white, two or three of varicolored, a large enough supply for printing the leaflets.
4. Benzine: for incendiary use. One or two cans each to be purchased from three or four dealers by different men.
5. One mimeograph machine and accessories.
6. Writing brushes, ink, etc.
7. Bandages, styptic drugs, strong liquor to be used as a restorative.
8. Canteens.
9. Flashlights.
“That’s about all. We’ll buy everything individually and then assemble it in a good hiding place somewhere. Once we’re back in Tokyo we’ll get busy finding a place.”
“Do we have enough money set aside?”
“Yes. Iinuma has saved eighty-five yen in all, and putting this with the savings of the rest of us, we have a total of three hundred and twenty-five yen. And then, just before we came up here, I received a letter to the ‘Meiji History Study Club’ with no return address. I brought it along so that I could open it in front of everybody. It might be money. I feel a little uneasy about it.”
Sagara opened the envelope to find ten one-hundred yen bills. A shock ran through the group. Sagara read aloud the single sheet of stationery with two or three lines upon it: “I had some forest land at home sold off, and that’s where this money came from. It’s clean. Please use it as you like. Sawa.”
“Sawa?” Isao felt his heart thump when he heard the name. Sawa was again behaving in incomprehensible fashion. Even if Isao were to believe that the money was indeed “clean,” Sawa’s purpose in giving it eluded him. Did he intend this gift as a substitute for his offer to assassinate Kurahara? Or did he mean this vast sum of one thousand yen as an apologetic farewell contribution before acting alone?
But Isao had to give an immediate answer. “It’s from Mr. Sawa at the school,” he said. “He’s secretly one of us. So it’s all right to take it.”
“Well, what a windfall! There’s no need to worry about finances now. The Divine Assistance is with us.” Sagara gleefully raised the money up to the level of his glasses as though offering thanks to the gods.
“Now we have to get down to details. First, let’s settle the time of day and the date. Naturally, the time is critical to our plan. If it’s too late at night, the effects of the power stoppage will be insignificant. So ten p.m. would be the limit, I think. And, within an hour after that, the attack on the bank. Now for the date . . .” As he spoke, Isao saw in his mind’s eye the vague image of Tomo Otaguro in the shrine at Shingai, prostrate before the gods as he awaited their will.
The priest had offered two Ukei formulations in the midday summer heat of the sanctuary:
To bring an end to misgovernment by admonishing authority even to the forfeiture of life.
To cut down the unworthy ministers by striking in darkness with the sword.
The gods had favored neither, however. Now it was their latter wish that Isao and his comrades were presenting to the gods.
Summer and fall, Kumamoto and Kai, the Meiji era and the Showa era—such were the differences. But the swords of these young men were thirsty for blood, and they indeed wanted to strike in the darkness of night.
The story told in that small pamphlet had at some point or other burst through the dam of literary convention and poured out upon the present. Reading that story had ignited a flame in the hearts of these young men, and now they could not be content until the fire within them had set off a conflagration.
As the white swan soars to heaven,Leave no traces here below.
The poem of Master Oen suddenly came to Isao’s mind, as freshly and vividly as if it had been composed only the day before.
No one ventured an opinion. The boys sat in silence, earnestly studying Isao’s expression. He himself had raised his eyes to the sky above the cliff on the other side of the river. The brightness that edged the cloud fragments was now somewhat more subdued. But the streaked pattern, as though a fine-toothed comb had been at work, still held firm. Isao felt that the eyes of the gods might glance down through this.
Evening darkness had already claimed the cliff’s rock face. Only the white water of the rapids below stood out in the gloom. He himself had become a character in a romance. Perhaps he and his comrades were on the verge of a glory that would long be remembered. True or not, the cold evening wind conveyed the chill of a bronze memorial tablet. The moment seemed suited to a manifestation of the gods. . . .
No revelation came. Nothing at all about a date or a time. Nothing came down out of the lofty brilliance of the cloud-streaked evening sky to seize hold of him. No immediate communication of wordless feeling. It was as though a koto’s strings had snapped and not a single note could be plucked from them.
But even so, the gods had not expressed their disapproval as clearly as they had to Tomo Otaguro. They had not made their rejection obvious.
Isao struggled with the implications. Now at this moment a group of young men, all of them under twenty and vibrant with youth, had their eyes fixed upon him, their eyes sparkling with fervor, while he himself kept gazing up at the divine brightness above the towering rock wall. Matters had moved relentlessly to this point, and never would the moment be more apt. Some sort of revelation had to take place. Yet the gods had neither consented nor denied. They had abandoned the decision, like a sandal casually let slip there in the brightness of the heavens, as if imitating the uncertainty and imperfection of this world.
Isao had to answer immediately. Something in his heart closed up for a moment, just as a clam closes its shell, for a time covering over its “pure” flesh which should always be open to the cleansing waters. A tiny evil concept had scampered like a sea louse across one corner of his heart. Though the memory of closing up in defense may be vague, once done it would no doubt take on the force of custom. After two or three times, it must seem as common as eating and drinking.
Isao did not think of himself as lying. If something was not designated by the gods as either true or false, then it would be highly presumptive for a human being rashly to think of it as a lie. Isao’s case was no different from that of a bird that had to give nourishment to its young. They had to be fed, and had to be fed at once.
“It’s December third, ten o’clock at night. That seems to be the will of the gods. Let’s make it definite. There’s over a month remaining, so I think we’ll have plenty of time to prepare. And now, Sagara, you’re forgetting something important. Our struggle will be pure and without blemish, like a white lily. And so in order that men in years to come can speak of the ‘War of the Lilies,’ I want each of you, when you go into battle, to make certain that you carry in your breast pocket a petal from one of the Saigusa Festival lilies that General Kito’s daughter distributed to us. The protection of the harsh god of the Sai Shrine will surely be with us. Now, as to the date being December third, a Friday, is there anyone who objects? If so, speak up. Maybe it’s inconvenient for someone.”
“If we’re all going to die,” one boy responded in a loud voice, “how could it be inconvenient?” Everyone laughed.
“All right then, let’s go on to the reports on individual projects. Ohashi, Serikawa, let’s hear the report on your investigation of the Mejiro station and your plan for bombing it.”
At Isao’s order, Ohashi and Serikawa tried to defer to each other, but finally the articulate Ohashi began the account. Whenever Serikawa spoke to Isao he squared his shoulders and was as tense as a raw recruit, but because his strong feelings choked the flow of his words, the others had difficulty understanding him. Still, his reliability in performance was peerless. Never had he failed to carry out to the letter any order. When he spoke passionately of something, his voice sounded as if he were weeping. Presenting clearly detailed reports was not his forte, and so the task fell to the clever and articulate Ohashi, with Serikawa standing beside him and nodding vigorously at every significant point.
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