The cold was biting. No matter how brave a figure Iinuma cut when he went out to perform his daily devotions, he shook now as the cold struck his back and crept through him until it covered his skin like an icy compress. Miné had probably been delayed until there was an opportunity to leave the table without attracting attention.
As he waited, his desire grew, sharp and insistent. Then a mass of disagreeable feelings combined with the piercing chill and the smell of decay to assault his already taut nerves. He had a sinking sensation as though the foul waters of a drainage ditch were rising against his legs, soiling his fine silk hakama. “Is this my way of finding pleasure?” he thought—a man of twenty-four, capable of great bravery and ripe for the highest honors.
There was a light knock at the door. Iinuma reacted with such speed that he crashed painfully into a bookcase. Finally, however, he managed to turn the key in the lock. Miné turned slightly and slipped through the doorway. When Iinuma had turned the lock behind her, he took her by the shoulders and propelled her unceremoniously toward the back of the library. Whatever the reason, his mind was fixed on the dirty gray snow he had seen shoveled into piles along the outside wall of the library on his way there. Though he had no time or inclination to speculate about this, he was consumed with the need to violate Miné in the corner that was closest to the dirty snow.
Driven to savagery by his fantasies, he was brutal with the girl. The more he pitied her, the crueler he became. And when in the midst of it all he realized that his viciousness was a passion to revenge himself on Kiyoaki, he was overcome by an indescribable misery. Since time was short and silence imperative, Miné let Iinuma have his way without offering any resistance. But the meekness of her submission only tormented Iinuma the more, for her gentle manner bespoke a quiet understanding of himself as someone very similar to her.
Still, this was by no means the only reason for her gentle compliance. Miné was cheerfully promiscuous. And for her the total awkwardness of his manner—his attempt to intimidate her by his silence, his clumsy, fumbling hands—proved the reality of his desire. She never dreamed that he might be pitying her.
Lying there in the dark, Miné suddenly felt the cold like a sword thrust under the spread skirt of her kimono. Looking up through the gloom, she saw shelves laden with books, each tucked into its case, the gold of its title dulled by the passage of time. They seemed to be pressing in on her from all sides. Speed was essential. Tadeshina had briefed her down to the last detail so that she would be clear on every point, and all that was required of her in this brief moment was to act without hesitation. She saw her role in life as that of someone who was ready to give her body freely to soothe and comfort. This was enough for her. And her small ripe body, with its firm flesh and smooth, flawless skin, was pleased to give satisfaction.
It would be no exaggeration to say that she was fond of Iinuma. Whenever she was desired, Miné had a wonderful knack of discovering the good points in her suitor. She had never joined the other maids in their contemptuous mockery of Iinuma, and so his virility, so long harassed and ridiculed, at last received its due in her woman’s heart.
She suddenly had a vision of a temple holiday in all its gaudy festivity: the acetylene lights with their glare and acrid smell, the balloons and pinwheels, the gaily-colored candies. . . .
She opened her eyes in the darkness.
“What are you staring at?” asked Iinuma in irritation.
The rats were scurrying around in the ceiling again. Their movements were almost soundless, and yet they held a note of desperate urgency. They seemed to be rushing frantically through their dark domain in a frenzy that dashed them from one end of it to the other.
15
ALL THE MAIL that was delivered to the Matsugae household was handled according to a fixed ritual: the steward Yamada took charge of it and stacked it neatly on a gold-lacquered tray engraved with the family crest. This was then borne into the presence of the Marquis and Marquise. Since Satoko was aware of this procedure, she had taken the precaution of entrusting her note to Tadeshina, who, in turn, was to give it to Iinuma.
So it was that Iinuma, in the middle of studying for his final examinations, took the time first to meet Tadeshina and then to hand over Satoko’s love letter to Kiyoaki.
Though the morning after that snowstorm was clear and bright, I just couldn’t help thinking about what had happened the day before. In my heart it seemed as if the snow had not stopped, but was falling still. And the snowflakes seemed to merge into the form of Kiyo’s face. How I wished that I could live somewhere where the snow fell every day of the year so that I would never stop thinking of you, Kiyo.
If we were living in Heian times, you would have composed a poem for me, wouldn’t you? And I would have had to offer one of my own in reply. I am shocked to think that although I have been learning waka since my childhood, at a time like this I can’t set down a single poem to express my feelings. Is it because I lack the talent?
Why do you believe that I’m so happy? Just because I have found someone who is kind enough not to be upset by whatever I say or do, no matter how capricious? That would be the same as thinking that I enjoy treating Kiyo however I choose—and nothing could cause me greater pain than to know that you believe this.
No, what really makes me happy is your gentleness. You were able to see through that whim of mine the other day. You could see how desperate I secretly felt. And without a word of reproach you came with me on that ride through the snow and you fulfilled the dream that I had buried deep inside me with so much embarrassment. That is what I mean by your gentleness.
Kiyo, even now, remembering what happened, I feel my body tremble with joy and shame. Here in Japan, we think of the spirit of snow as a woman—the snow fairy. But I remember that in Western fairy tales I read it’s always a handsome young man. And so I think of Kiyo as the spirit of snow, so masculine in your uniform. I think of you as overwhelming me. To feel myself dissolve into your beauty and freeze to death in the snow—no fate could be sweeter.
At the end, Satoko had written: “Please be kind enough not to forget to throw this letter into the fire.”
Up to this final line, the style was smooth and graceful, for Satoko never expressed herself other than with elegance. Nevertheless, Kiyoaki was startled by the sensuous vigor that seemed to flare up here and there.
After he had read it, his immediate reaction was that it was the kind of letter that ought to transport a man into ecstasy. On reflection, however, it seemed more of a textbook exercise from Satoko’s classes in the art of elegance. He felt she wanted to teach him that elegance overrides any question of indecency.
If the two of them had really fallen in love that snowy morning, how could they bear to let a day pass without meeting, if only for a moment or two? What could be more natural? Yet Kiyoaki was not inclined to follow his impulses in such a way. Oddly enough, living only for one’s emotions, like a flag obedient to the breeze, demands a way of life that makes one balk at the natural course of events, for this implies being altogether subservient to nature. The life of the emotions detests all constraints, whatever their origin, and thus, ironically enough, is apt eventually to fetter its own instinctive sense of freedom.
Kiyoaki delayed seeing Satoko again, though not to practice self-denial. Still less was he guided by a profound knowledge of the subtleties of emotion which are only open to those already experienced in love. His behavior was simply the result of his imperfect grasp of the art of elegance, and was still so immature, almost bordering on vanity, that he envied Satoko her serene freedom, wantonness even, and was made to feel inferior.
Just as a stream returns to its normal course after a flood, Kiyoaki’s predilection for suffering began to reassert itself. His dreamy nature could be as demanding as it was capricious, so much so, in fact, that he was angered and frustrated at the lack of obstacles to his love. The meddlesome assistance of Tadeshina and Iinuma provided a ready target, and he came to view their
maneuvers as inimical to the purity of his feelings.
His pride was hurt when he realized that this was all he had to rely on as the fierce pain and agony of love spun their coil. Such pain ought to be fit material for weaving a magnificent tapestry, but Kiyoaki had only a tiny domestic loom with nothing but pure white thread at his disposal.
“Where are they leading me,” he wondered, “at this very moment when I am gradually, genuinely, falling in love?”
But even as he decided that what he felt was love, his contrary nature was asserting itself once more.
For any ordinary young man, the memory of Satoko’s kiss would have been enough to lift him into ecstasies of joy and satisfaction. But for this young man, for whom complacency was already too common a condition, it was a memory that caused greater heartache with every passing day.
No matter what else might be true, the happiness he had felt at that moment had the brilliant fire of a rich jewel. There was no doubt about that. It was engraved on his memory. In the midst of a formless, colorless snowy desert, with his emotions in turmoil, not knowing how he had embarked on this journey or how it should end, the warm glow of that jewel had been like a compass point.
His sense of discrepancy between the memory of that happiness and his present heartache grew steadily, and its effect on him deepened; he finally lapsed into the black melancholy that had been so congenial before. The kiss ceased to be anything more than another reminder of Satoko’s humiliating mockery.
He decided to write a reply to her letter as chill as he could make it. He tore up several sheets of stationery in the attempt, making a fresh start each time. When he had finally composed what he thought was the ultimate in unfeeling billets-doux and put down his writing brush, he suddenly became aware of the extent of his achievement. Without intending to, he had hit upon the style of a man of great worldly experience, having built on the letter of accusation he had once sent her. This time the very thought of such outright deception was so painful that he began yet another letter. In it, without any attempt at qualification, he conveyed the joy of experiencing a kiss for the first time. It was filled with boyish passion. He closed his eyes as he slipped it into an envelope and ran the tip of his tongue over the flap. The glue tasted vaguely sweet, like medicine.
16
THE MATSUGAE ESTATE was most famous for its autumn display of maple leaves, but its cherry blossoms were also the object of much admiration. Cherry trees were scattered among the pines in the long rows of trees that flanked the drive to the main gate for more than half a mile. The best view was from the second-floor balcony of the Western-style house. Standing there, one could take in all the cherry blossoms on the Matsugae estate in a single sweeping glance; some bloomed along the drive, several trees stood among the huge gingko trees in the front garden, some ringed the small grassy knoll where Kiyoaki’s Otachimachi ritual had taken place, and a few grew on the maple hill beyond the pond. Many discriminating viewers preferred this arrangement to an overwhelming display of massed blossoms in the middle of a garden.
From spring to early summer, the three principal events in the Matsugae household were the Doll Festival in March, the cherry blossom viewing in April, and the Shinto festival in May. But since the prescribed year of mourning following the death of His Imperial Highness had not yet elapsed, it was decided that this year the March and April festivals would be curtailed to strictly family observances—much to the disappointment of the women in the house. For throughout the winter, as happened every year, all sorts of rumors had been filtering down from the quarters of the senior staff about plans for the Doll Festival and the blossom viewing—such as the story that a troupe of professional entertainers would be brought in. The house was always full of such tales, the kind of speculation that gave a thrill to simple souls accustomed to making a great deal out of the arrival of springtime. To have their expectations blighted in this way seemed like a blight on spring itself.
The full Kagoshima-style celebration of the Doll Festival at the Matsugaes’ was renowned; thanks to appreciative foreign visitors invited in years gone by, it was now famous abroad as well, so much so in fact that every year, a large number of Americans and Europeans who were in Japan at the festival time would use whatever influence they had to try to obtain invitations.
The pale cheeks of the two ivory dolls representing the Emperor and Empress shone cold in the early spring light, despite the gleam of the surrounding candles and the reflection from the scarlet carpet beneath. The Emperor doll was dressed in the splendid ceremonial robes of a Shinto high priest, and the Empress in the extravagantly rich Heian court costume. Despite the bulk of their countless skirts, their gowns dipped gracefully at the back to reveal the pale translucence of the napes of their necks. The scarlet carpet covered the entire floor of the huge main reception room. Countless wooden balls inside richly embroidered cloth hung down from the beamed ceiling, and bas-relief pictures of various kinds of popular dolls covered the walls. An old woman named Tsuru, famed for her skill at this sort of picture, came to Tokyo every February to throw herself wholeheartedly into the preparations; her pet refrain was a mumbled “as madam wishes.”
Even though this year’s Doll Festival lacked the usual gaiety, the women were nevertheless cheered by the prospect of the cherry blossom season; it would not be observed publicly, but it would still be celebrated with considerably more festivity than they had first been led to believe. This hope was warranted by a communication from His Highness Prince Toin announcing that he would deign to be present, though in a private capacity.
This had also cheered the Marquis immensely. He was happiest in the midst of extravagance and ostentation, and the restraints of polite society weighed heavily on his outgoing nature. If the Emperor’s cousin himself saw fit to take a lax view of the observation of mourning, then no one would dare cast aspersions on the Marquis’s own sense of what morality required.
Since His Highness Haruhisa Toin had been the Emperor’s personal representative at the coronation of Rahma VI and so was personally known to the royal family of Siam, the Marquis decided that it would be proper to include the two young princes in the invitations.
Years before in Paris, during the Olympic Games of 1900, the Marquis had become rather intimate with the Prince while rendering him valued service as a guide to the night life of the city. Even now the Prince was fond of recalling those days with references that only the Marquis understood. “Matsugae,” he would say, “remember that place with the fountain that gushed champagne? That was a night to remember!”
April the sixth was the day set for the formal viewing of the cherry blossoms, and as soon as the rather subdued observance of the Doll Festival was over, the tempo of life in the household quickened as preparations got underway.
Kiyoaki, however, did nothing at all during his spring vacation. His parents urged him to take a trip somewhere, but even though he did not see Satoko very often, he was not in the mood to leave Tokyo while she was there.
As spring came gradually, day by day, despite the sharp cold, Kiyoaki struggled with a series of unsettling premonitions. Finally, when his ennui became overpowering, he decided to do something he did only rarely; he paid a visit to his grandmother’s house on the estate. She seemed unable to shake off a lifetime’s habit of treating him like an infant, and this, together with her fondness for cataloguing his mother’s faults, was reason enough for his reluctance to visit her. Ever since the death of his grandfather, his grandmother, with her masculine shoulders and no-nonsense face, had turned her back on the world completely, and ate little but a handful of rice a day, as though living in anticipation of the death she hoped was soon to come. As it turned out, however, she thrived on this diet.
When people came from Kagoshima to visit her, she talked to them in the dialect of her home region, indifferent to what others might think. With Kiyoaki and his mother, though, she spoke in the Tokyo manner, however stiffly and awkwardly. Furthermore, since she had none of the
nasal tone of Tokyo speech, the strong parade-ground quality of her voice was all the more apparent. He was convinced that she carefully preserved her Kagoshima accent as an implicit condemnation of the easy fluency of his own Tokyo inflections.
“So, Prince Toin is coming to see the blossoms, eh?” she said without preamble as he entered; she was warming her legs in the kotatsu.
“Yes, that’s what they say.”
“I’m not going. Your mother asked me, but I prefer being here out of everybody’s way.”
Then, showing concern over his idleness, she went on to ask him if he didn’t feel inclined to take up judo or fencing. There had once been an exercise hall on the estate, but it had been torn down to make way for the Western house. She made the sarcastic comment that its destruction had marked the beginning of the decline of the family. This was one opinion, however, that was congenial to his own way of thinking. He liked the word “decline.”
“If your two uncles were alive, your father wouldn’t be carrying on the way he does. As far as I’m concerned, this being on familiar terms with the Imperial Family and pouring out money on entertainment is just a big show. Whenever I think of my two sons dead in the war without ever having known what luxury was, I feel I don’t want to have anything more to do with your father and the rest of them—floating through life and thinking of nothing but having a good time. And as for the pension I receive for my two boys, that’s why I put it up there on the shelf beside the household altar without ever touching it. It seems to me that His Imperial Majesty gave it to me for the sake of my sons and the blood they shed so gallantly. It would be wrong ever to use it.”
His grandmother enjoyed delivering herself of little sermons like this, but the truth was that the Marquis was unstintingly generous in granting whatever she wished, be it clothes, food, spending money, or servants. Kiyoaki often wondered if perhaps she was acutely ashamed of her rural origins and so was trying to avoid any kind of Western social life.