Authors: Yukio Mishima
Spring Snow (28 page)
Following his plan, he left the rickshaw at Aoyama, 6-chome, which was the terminus for the streetcar that went to Roppongi. He boarded it and rode to the end of the line. Around the corner from Roppongi, at the turn to Toriizaka, were three huge zelkova trees, the remainder of the six that had given the Roppongi or Six Trees district its name. Beneath them, just as in old times before there were streetcars in Tokyo, a big placard with “Rickshaw Stand” scrawled on it was fastened to a post, and rickshaw men in conical wicker hats, short jackets, and blue trousers were gathered waiting for customers.
Kiyoaki called one of them, immediately handed him an exorbitant tip and told him to take him at once to the Ayakura mansion, which was no more than a few minutes away on foot. The old-fashioned Ayakura gate would not admit the Matsugaes’ English carriage, and so if it were still waiting outside with the gate open, he would know that his mother was still there. However, if it were gone and the gate closed, he could safely assume that she had already fulfilled her ceremonial obligations and left.
When the rickshaw passed the gate, he saw that it was shut and in the road in front he recognized the marks left by a carriage.
He instructed the rickshaw man to take him back to the top of Toriizaka. Once there he sent him back on foot for Tadeshina while he himself remained behind, making use of the cover provided by the rickshaw.
As it turned out, he had a long wait. Through an opening in the side of the rickshaw, he watched the setting rays of summer sun flood the new leaves clustered at the tips of the branches. It seemed to be slowly submerging them in liquid brilliance. A giant horse chestnut towered above the red brick wall that ran along the edge of the slope of Toriizaka. Its very topmost leaves made him think of a white bird’s nest decorated with a loosely woven crown of white flowers tipped with pink. Then all at once he was thinking of that snowy morning in February, and for no obvious reason he was shaken by a violent wave of excitement. But nevertheless, his intention was not to force an immediate meeting with Satoko, for since passion had now found a definite course, he was no longer vulnerable to each new onrush of emotion.
Tadeshina came out of a side entrance, followed by the rickshaw man. When she reached the rickshaw, Kiyoaki pushed back its top to reveal his face and so startled her that she could only stand there gaping up at him. He reached down, seized her hand and jerked her up into the rickshaw.
“I’ve something to tell you. Let’s go somewhere we can talk safely.”
“But, master . . . this is such a shock! The Marquise your mother took her leave just a few minutes ago. Then tonight we’re preparing for an informal celebration . . . I’m really so busy.”
“Never mind. Hurry up and tell the boy where to go.”
Since Kiyoaki kept a firm grip on her hand, she had no choice but to comply.
“Go toward Kasumicho,” she told the rickshaw man. “Near Number Three there’s a road going downhill that turns toward the main gate of the Third Regiment barracks. Please take us just to the bottom of the slope.”
The rickshaw lurched forward and Tadeshina stared straight ahead with desperate concentration, nervously smoothing back a stray hair. This was the first time he had been so close to this old woman with her thick mask of white powder, and the experience was far from pleasant. Yet he could not help but notice that she was even tinier than he had imagined, hardly more than a dwarf in fact. Buffeted by the shaking rickshaw, she kept up a mumbled stream of protest that he could only barely understand.
“It’s too late, too late . . . no matter what, it’s just too late.” And then: “If only you’d sent one word of answer . . . before this happened. Oh why . . . ?”
Kiyoaki said nothing and so she finally said something about their destination just before they got there: “A distant relative of mine runs an inn for soldiers near here. It’s not a very presentable place but an annex is always available, and it will permit me to hear whatever the young master wishes to say in confidence.”
Tomorrow was Sunday, when Roppongi would be transformed suddenly into a bustling garrison district, its streets full of khaki-uniformed soldiers, many out strolling with their visiting families. But it was still Saturday afternoon, and this transformation was yet to take place. As the rickshaw carried him along through the streets toward Tadeshina’s destination, he had the feeling that on that snowy morning too, he and Satoko had passed first this spot, then another. Just as he became convinced that he remembered the slope they were following, Tadeshina told the man to stop.
They were in front of an inn at the foot of the slope. Its main wing was two stories high, and although it had neither gate nor entranceway, it was surrounded by a good-sized garden enclosed by a broad fence.
Standing outside this fence, Tadeshina glanced up at the second floor of the rough wooden structure. It showed no sign of life. The six glass doors facing the front were shut, and none of the interior was visible. The low-quality panes in the latticed doors mirrored the evening sky in their own warped fashion, even catching the reflection of a carpenter working on an adjacent roof and distorting his image as though it were lying across water. The sky itself bore a watery image as seen there, tinged with the melancholy of a lake at evening time.
“It would of course be awkward if the soldiers were back—but only officers take rooms here,” Tadeshina said as she pushed open a close-worked lattice door beside which there hung a plaque of the Goddess of Children. She then called out to announce their presence.
A tall, white-haired man who was on the verge of old age appeared.
“Ah, Miss Tadeshina! Please come in,” he said in a somewhat squeaky voice.
“Is the annex available?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
The three of them went down the back hallway to the rear of the inn and entered a small room perhaps ten feet square, the kind often used for assignations.
“I can’t stay very long, though,” said Tadeshina. “Besides, being alone like this with such a handsome young man, I don’t know what people would say.” Suddenly she was speaking casually and coquettishly, addressing herself to both Kiyoaki and the old innkeeper.
The room was suspiciously tidy. A small scroll suitable for a tea ceremony room hung in a little alcove, and there was even a sliding Genji screen. The atmosphere was quite different from what one would have expected from the exterior, that of a cheap inn frequented by the army.
“What then do you so kindly wish to communicate to me?” Tadeshina asked as soon as the innkeeper withdrew. When Kiyoaki did not answer, she repeated her question, making no further effort to hide her irritation.
“What is this all about? And why choose today of all days . . . ?”
“Because it’s so appropriate. I want you to arrange a meeting between me and Satoko.”
“What do you mean, young master? It’s too late. After what’s happened, how can you ask such a thing? From now on, there’s nothing more to be done. Everything must be subordinated to the Emperor’s pleasure. And now this—after all those phone calls and the letters I sent! You didn’t see fit to give us any reply whatever. And today you make a request like this! It’s not a joking matter.”
“Just remember this: everything that happened was your fault,” said Kiyoaki with as much dignity as he could muster, staring at the veins that throbbed under the white powder caking Tadeshina’s forehead. Angrily he accused her of having allowed Satoko to read his letter and then to lie about it brazenly, and also of having spread malicious gossip that had lost him his faithful retainer Iinuma. Tadeshina finally contrived to burst into tears, and apologized abjectly on her knees.
She then pulled some tissue paper from the sleeve of her kimono and began to wipe her eyes, rubbing away the white powder around them to reveal the pink web of wrinkles over her cheekbones, unmistakable proof of mortality. There was hardly any difference in texture between that wrinkled skin and the crumpled, rouge-smeared piece of tissue. Finally, staring into thin air, she began to talk.
“It’s true. It’s all my fault. I know that no amount of apology can make up for what I have done. But I should apologize more to my mistress than to you. Tadeshina’s grievous failure was not communicating to the young master exactly how Miss Satoko felt. Everything that I had planned so carefully, thinking it for the best, has failed terribly. Please be kind enough to bear with me for a moment, young master. Imagine Miss Satoko’s distress when she read your letter. And think what effort of courage it cost her not to show any sign of it when she met you. And then, after she had decided to take my advice and put a direct question to His Excellency your father, imagine how profoundly relieved she was to learn the truth from him at the family New Year’s party. And after that, morning, noon, and night, she thought of nothing but the young master, until finally she went so far as to issue that invitation to ride through the snow that morning, whatever embarrassment it cost her as a woman. For some time after that, she was happy every day and even whispered your name at night in her sleep. But then she realized that through the kindness of His Excellency the Marquis, she was going to receive a proposal from the Imperial Family itself, and though she was counting on your courageous decision and had staked all her hopes on it, you didn’t say a word, young master, and just let things go on. Miss Satoko’s anxiety and suffering became unspeakable. Finally, when the granting of the imperial sanction was becoming imminent, she said that as a last hope, she wanted to tell the young master how she felt. Despite all my pleas, she decided to write a letter under my name. But now that hope too is dead. Miss Satoko was just coming to consider it all as a thing of the past. And so your demand today is a piece of cruelty. As you know, my mistress was brought up since childhood to revere the wishes of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor. We cannot expect her to go back on her word now. It’s too late . . . simply too late. If your anger is unappeased, hit Tadeshina, kick her—do whatever is necessary to quiet your heart. But there’s no other solution—it’s just too late.”
Listening to Tadeshina’s speech, a thrill of joy went through him like a knife. Yet at the same time he felt somehow that he knew it all already, that he was hearing things repeated that were quite clear to him in his heart. He was now finding himself possessed of an acute wisdom he had never suspected before. Thus armed, he felt strong enough to overcome all that the world had to offer in the way of obstacles. His eyes were full of the fire of youth. “She read the letter I begged her to destroy,” he said to himself, “so why shouldn’t I resurrect the letter of hers that I destroyed?”
He stared wordlessly and fixedly at the little old lady with the white-powdered face. Once more she dabbed her reddened eyes with a piece of tissue paper. The room was growing steadily darker with the onset of evening. Her hunched shoulders seemed so frail that he was sure that if he grasped them suddenly, the bones would give way with a hollow crack.
“It’s not too late.”
“But it is.”
“No it isn’t. I wonder what would happen if I were to show Miss Satoko’s last letter to the Prince’s family? Especially when one considers that it was written after the formal request for imperial sanction.”
At these words the blood suddenly drained from Tadeshina’s face.
Neither said anything for a long time. It was no longer the rays of the setting sun but light from the second-floor rooms of the main wing that lit up the window. The lodgers were returning and there was an occasional flash of khaki uniform at a window. Outside the fence a beancurd-seller sounded his bugle. The evening air was characterized by the mild warmth, like flannel, of the few summer days that come before the final end to the rainy season.
From time to time, Tadeshina whispered something to herself which Kiyoaki heard only in snatches: “This is why I tried to stop her . . . this is why I said not to do it.” She was evidently muttering about having opposed Satoko’s writing of that final letter.
He maintained his silence, with increasing confidence that he held the winning hand. A wild animal seemed to be gradually if invisibly rearing its head within him.
“Very well then,” said Tadeshina. “I will arrange just one meeting. And now the young master will, I trust, be kind enough to return the letter.”
“Splendid. But a meeting of itself is not enough,” he answered. “I want the two of us to be alone together—without your being there. And as for the letter, I’ll return that afterwards.”
27
THREE DAYS WENT BY
. The rain did not cease. After class, Kiyoaki went to the boarding house in Kasumicho, hiding his school uniform under a raincoat. He had received a message from Tadeshina that today would be Satoko’s sole opportunity to escape from the house, since both her parents would be away.
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