Yet perhaps all this was essential to his attaining true beauty—this inner emptiness, this loss of all joy, even this utter inability to believe that the oppressive weight of each moment was something real, that his pain, at least, was something that was his. The symptoms of a man afflicted by true beauty are much like those of leprosy.
Since he no longer looked in the mirror, he had no way of knowing that the sad and haggard cast of his features had evolved into the classical expression of youth pining away for love.
One evening when he was eating dinner at a table laid for him alone, the maid set down a small wineglass beside his plate, with cut-glass sides that were darkened by the crimson liquid they contained. Without bothering to ask the girl, he presumed it to be wine and drained the glass without hesitation. But then a strange sensation, a thick, slippery aftertaste lingered on his tongue.
“What was this?”
“The blood of a snapping turtle, sir,” the maid answered. “I was ordered not to tell you unless you asked what it was. It was the cook, sir. He said that he wanted to make the young master fit and healthy again. So he caught a turtle from the pond and prepared it for you.”
As he felt the unpleasantly smooth liquid sliding down his throat, he remembered the story the servants had so often used to frighten him when he was a child. Once again he saw the disturbing picture he had formed at that time of a snapping turtle raising its head like a sinister ghost from the dark waters of the pond, its eyes fixed on him, a creature that usually lay buried in the warm mud on the bottom, but never failed to force its way up to the surface time and again, pushing through the hostile weeds of dreams that conquered time, to fix its eyes on him at every stage of his life. But now, suddenly, the spell was broken. Death had overtaken the turtle, and he had just drunk its blood without knowing it. And with that, a whole era seemed suddenly at an end. Inside him, the terror was being docilely transformed into this unfamiliar energy that was coursing through him with a force whose intensity he could only guess.
∗
The order of procedure each year at the Imperial Poetry Recitation was to read the selections according to the status of the writer, beginning with poems written by those of lower rank. With these first poems, the lector began by reading the poet’s brief words of introduction, and then gave his office and rank. With the later poems, however, the lector first gave office and rank and then immediately began to recite the poem itself.
Among those who functioned as imperial lectors, Count Ayakura held the honored position of chief. Once more today both their Imperial Majesties and His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince graced him with their attention as the clear tones and beautifully modulated voice sounded through the chamber.
No tremor of guilt blurred its clarity. On the contrary, it was so brilliant as to stir sadness in the hearts of his audience. As he read each poem, the languid cadence of his words kept the pace of a Shinto priest’s gleaming black-shod feet climbing, one by one, the stone steps of a shrine bathed in the strange warmth of the winter sun. It was a voice whose tone was neither masculine nor feminine.
Not a single cough marred the silence of the audience. But although his voice was supreme in the palace chamber, it was never sensual, nor called attention to itself at the expense of the poem itself. What poured smoothly from his throat was the very essence of elegance, impervious to shame, and its paradoxical blend of joy and pathos flowed through the room like the rolling mist in a picture scroll.
Up to now, each of the poems had been repeated only once, but when the Count concluded the Crown Prince’s poem with the formula, “Such being the most eminent composition of His Majesty the Heir to the Imperial Throne,” he went on to recite it twice more.
The Empress’s poem was recited three times. The Count read the first verse, and then from the second verse on, all four lectors recited it in unison. With the exception of the Emperor himself, the rest of the Imperial Family, including the Crown Prince, and of course everyone else in the audience, stood up to listen.
This year, Her Imperial Majesty had composed a poem of exceptional grace and nobility. As he stood listening to it, Kiyoaki stole a glance at Count Ayakura, who was standing some distance from him. He noticed how the paper bearing the poem rested folded in the Count’s small, white hand, so like a woman’s. The fine tissue was a light plum color.
Although an affair that involved the Count and that had shaken the whole country was barely concluded, Kiyoaki was not surprised to hear no trace of a nervous quiver in his voice, much less the deep sorrow of a father whose only daughter has been lost to the world. The voice went on, clear, beautiful, never strident, performing exactly what had been entrusted to it. Let a thousand years go by, the Count would still be serving his Emperor as he served him now, like the rarest of songbirds.
The Imperial Poetry Recitation came to its climax at last. It was the moment for the reading of the poem of His Imperial Majesty himself.
Count Ayakura made his way reverently into the immediate vicinity of the Emperor and gravely took the imperial composition, which had been placed on the cover of an inkstone case in the traditional manner, and raised it to the level of his forehead. He then recited it five times.
As he read, the purity of his voice became, if anything, more pronounced, until he came at last to the end of the fifth recitation and concluded with the words “Such being the most august composition of His Sacred Majesty.”
Kiyoaki, meantime, glanced up fearfully at the Emperor’s face, his imagination quickened by the memory of the late Emperor’s having patted him on the head when he was a boy. His Majesty seemed to be rather more frail than his imperial father had been, and although he was listening to the reading of his own composition, his face showed no sign of complacency, but retained an icy composure. Kiyoaki suddenly shook in fear at the totally improbable notion that His Imperial Majesty was in fact suppressing an anger that was directed at him.
“I’ve dared to betray His Majesty. There’s nothing to do but to die.”
He held fast to that one thought as he stood there, the atmosphere around him heavy with the rich fragrance of incense, feeling as though he might collapse at any moment. A thrill ran through him, but whether of joy or dread he could not tell.
51
IT WAS FEBRUARY. With the pre-graduation exams looming over them, all Kiyoaki’s classmates were now wholly caught up in their work. And he, who was indifferent to anything of the sort, stood more aloof than ever. Honda was certainly willing to help him with the preparation for his tests, but he held back, feeling that Kiyoaki would have none of it. He knew only too well how Kiyoaki reserved his keenest displeasure for any excessive show of friendship.
One day, just at this time, the Marquis suddenly presented his son with the suggestion of entering Merton College, Oxford. His admission could be arranged with no great difficulty, especially since the Marquis was on good terms with the dean of this famous institution founded in the thirteenth century, but in order to qualify, Kiyoaki would at least have to get through the final exams at Peers. The Marquis had, in fact, been painfully aware that Kiyoaki was becoming more pale and haggard by the day, and he had finally devised this means of saving his son, who was to attain a court rank of at least fifth degree, junior grade, before long. Since the plan of salvation was so unexpected, Kiyoaki’s interest was certainly aroused. He therefore decided that he would give every appearance of being delighted with his father’s proposal for the present.
Prior to this, he had cherished a moderate sort of desire to see something of the West. But now that his whole existence was focused on a single object, a tiny, exquisitely beautiful part of Japan, he could look at the map of the world spread out before him, and be filled with a sense of crudity, not only by the vast array of foreign countries, but even by the red-painted image of his own, curving like a shrimp against the flank of Asia. His Japan was light green, a country without shape, full of a pathos, as pervasive as rising mist.
His
father bought a huge new map and had it hung on the wall in the billiard room. His intention was obviously to arouse great thoughts in Kiyoaki. However, its flat, lifeless seas failed to excite him. What came to his mind instead was the memory of a night sea like a huge, black beast with a living warmth, a pulse of its own, and blood that cried out—the sea at Kamakura, whose awesome rumbling had tormented him to the limit of endurance on a summer night.
Though he had mentioned it to no one, he had recently been troubled with frequent headaches and dizzy spells. He slept less each night. As he lay in bed, he told himself that the next day would surely bring a letter from Satoko. She would set a time and place for them to meet so that they could run away together. He would find her in some small, unfamiliar town, perhaps on a corner in front of an old-fashioned storehouse converted into a bank. She would run up to him and he would take her in his arms and hold her as he had been longing to do. Over and over again, he visualized the scene down to its last detail. But the image he cherished in this way was formed in a mirror backed with thin, brittle foil that was easily torn away to reveal nothing but a dismal blankness. His tears soaked his pillow and he called her name again and again through the night in helpless frustration.
As he did so, there were moments when her image was suddenly there beside him, somewhere between dream and reality. His dreams ceased to tell stories objective enough to be recorded in his journal. Hope and despair, dream and reality, now came together to cancel each other out, the border between them as vague as the shoreline against which the rolling waves break without cease. There for an instant, on the surface of the water that lapped back over the smooth sand, he saw the reflection of her face. Never had she seemed more lovely nor more grief-stricken. And when he put his lips close to this face that glimmered like the evening star, it vanished.
A frantic desire to break out of his plight grew more intense every day. Although everything had one single message for him—be it every hour, every morning, every noon and night, or the sky, the trees, the clouds and wind all telling him to give her up—he was still tormented by uncertainty. He felt a desperate need to lay hands on one thing at least that was sure and certain, to hear no more than a single word from her own lips, if he could only know that it was true. And if a word was too much to ask, he would be satisfied with just a glimpse of her face. He could no longer endure his racking anxiety.
In the meantime, the storm of rumors had quickly subsided. People did not take long to forget even so unprecedented and inexplicable an affair as an engagement sanctioned by imperial decree being broken on the very eve of the betrothal ceremony, especially since a naval bribery scandal had recently come to light to attract their indignation.
He made up his mind to leave home. Since his parents were on their guard, however, they had stopped giving him any allowance, and so he didn’t have so much as a sen of his own.
Honda was taken aback when Kiyoaki approached him for money. In accordance with his father’s ideas, he had been given a bank account of his own, which he was free to manage as he saw fit. He now withdrew the entire amount and gave it to Kiyoaki without asking a single question about what he intended to do with it.
It was the morning of the twenty-first of February when Honda brought the money to school and handed it over to his friend. The sky was bright and clear, but the morning air was bitterly cold.
“You’ve about twenty minutes left before class,” said Kiyoaki after taking the money. His voice sounded a little timid. “Won’t you come along and see me off?”
“Where are you going?” asked the startled Honda. He knew that Yamada must be standing guard at the front gate.
“That way,” Kiyoaki answered, smiling and pointing toward the woods.
Honda was pleased to see his friend showing signs of energy for the first time in months, but no healthy glow had returned to his face. On the contrary, his gaunt features were pale and strained, making Honda think of a thin sheet of ice in early spring.
“Do you feel all right?”
“I think I have a cold. Otherwise I’m fine,” Kiyoaki replied, leading the way cheerfully along the path that ran through the woods.
It had been a long time since Honda had seen him walking so briskly. Moreover, he had a good idea where his steps were leading, but said nothing. They passed a marsh whose icy surface, laced with intricate designs of frozen driftwood, dully reflected the slanting rays of the morning sun. And then, leaving the wood and its chattering birds behind, they came to the eastern edge of the school property.
They were now at the top of a slope, across the bottom of which stretched a line of factories. Strands of barbed wire had been carelessly strung along here in place of a fence, and the neighborhood children often slipped through the breaks into the campus. Beyond the wire, the grassy hill extended as far as the road, where a rough wooden fence had been put up over a low stone wall.
At this point the two of them came to a halt. Off to the right was a streetcar line. Directly below, the sun glinted from the jagged slate factory roofs as they caught the force of its morning rays. The motley collection of machines gathered under these roofs, already running at full throttle, set up a dull roar like the sea. The smokestacks stretched bleakly toward the sky. The smoke that poured from them left a shadow that crawled over the tops of the factories and shut out the sun from the washing that was hung out beside a row of hovels. But there were also some houses with makeshift shelves hung from the roof to display a number of bonsai. Here and there, one saw constant flashes of light. Once it was the reflection from a pair of pliers on the hip of an electrician climbing a pole. Another time it was the eerie glow of a flame seen through the windows of a chemical plant. In one factory, when the roar of machines ceased, there arose the sustained din of hammers beating on steel plating.
Far away, there was the clear sun. Below, skirting the school property, ran the road over which Kiyoaki was about to escape. The shadows of the small houses that lined it were etched upon its dusty white surface. A man was riding a dull, rusted bicycle past a group of children who were kicking a stone about.
“Well, I’ll be seeing you,” said Kiyoaki.
These were clearly words of farewell. They were graven on Honda’s mind: for once, Kiyoaki had come up with a cheerful expression typical of a young man.
Kiyoaki had even left his book bag in the classroom. All he had on was his uniform and his overcoat trimmed with two rows of brass buttons and the cherry-blossom insignia running down the front of it. He had stylishly spread the collar open, exposing the tight, navy-style collar of his jacket, together with the strip of white celluloid inside it, pressed against his young throat as he now smiled at Honda, his face shadowed by the peak of his cap. Then still smiling, he turned and, bending apart some broken strands of wire with his gloved hands, climbed through the barrier.
∗
His disappearance was immediately reported to his parents, who were thoroughly upset. Once again, however, it was his grandmother’s decisiveness that restored order.
“Don’t you see the way it is? He’s happy about going to school in England. And since he intends to go, he wants to see Satoko first and say good-bye to her. But since you wouldn’t have let him do it if he’d told you about it first, he’s gone down there without telling you. Is there any other likely explanation?”
“But surely Satoko won’t see him.”
“If that’s what happens, he’ll give up and come home. Kiyoaki’s a young man. You’ve got to let him have his head until he gets this out of his system. It’s because you tried to keep too close a rein on him that this sort of thing had to happen.”
“But Mother! After what’s happened the precautions we took were only to be expected.”
“All right, and this was only to be expected too.”
“That’s as may be, but it will be just terrible if this gets out. What I’ll do is get in touch with the superintendent-general at once and have him start a search in absolute secrecy.”
“A search! Why a search? You already know where he’s going.”
“But unless he’s caught and brought back . . .”
“You’ll regret it!” the old woman shouted, her eyes burning with anger. “He might do something really terrible this time. It’s quite all right for safety’s sake to have the police look into things quietly. If they let us know just where he is as soon as they find out, that will be useful. But since we know perfectly well where he’s going and why, they’re to keep their distance, and they must absolutely not let him suspect anything. Right now the boy is to be left completely free, and not to be interfered with. Everything must be done quietly. We must get through this without turning it into a big drama. That’s what’s essential. If there’s any blunder now, the results could be disastrous. That’s what I want you to understand.”
∗
The night of February 21, Kiyoaki stayed at a hotel in Osaka. The next morning he paid his bill and took a Sakurai Line train to Obitoké, where he rented a room at a merchant’s inn called the Kuzonoya. No sooner had he done this than he hired a rickshaw to go to Gesshu. He hurried the rickshaw man through the temple gate and up the slope that led to the Tang front entrance, where he got out. Confronted by a blank expanse of tightly shut sliding door, he called out. The convent janitor appeared, asked him his name and business, and then left him standing there. After a short wait, the next to appear was the senior nun. And she, without even allowing him to step up into the front hallway, rebuffed him by saying with thinly veiled displeasure that Her Reverence the Abbess would not see him and that furthermore it would be unthinkable for a novice to be permitted to do so. Since he had more or less expected this reception, he did not press the issue, but left then and there and returned to the inn.