The Decay Of The Angel (16 page)

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Authors: Yukio Mishima

BOOK: The Decay Of The Angel
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17
 
 H
ONDA CHOSE
a day late in October for Tōru’s first lesson in foreign table manners. The small parlor was set for a banquet in the French style, complete with caterer and butler, and Tōru wore a new navy-blue suit. He was informed that he must sit well back in the chair and bring it close to the table, that he must not put his elbows on the table or lean too low over his soup, and that he must keep his arms close to his sides. There followed instructions in the disposition of the napkin and the taking of the soup, with the spoon tilted toward the mouth for purposes of avoiding noise. Tōru followed all the instructions carefully, repeating over and over again sequences that did not come easily.
“Foreign table manners may seem a trifle stupid,” said Honda, “but when they come in an easy, natural way they give a person a sense of security. Evidence of good breeding gives a person status, and by good breeding in Japan we mean a familiarity with the Western way of doing things. We find the pure Japanese only in the slums and in the underworld, and may expect them to be more and more narrowly circumscribed as time goes by. The poison known as the pure Japanese is thinning, changing to a potion acceptable to everyone.”
There can be little doubt that Honda was thinking of Isao as he spoke. Isao knew nothing of Western table manners. Such elegant accessories were no part of the grandeur of his world. And so Tōru, still sixteen, must be taught Western table manners.
Food was served from the left and drink from the right. Knives and forks were taken in order from the outside. Tōru looked at his hands like one engulfed in a torrent.
The instructions continued. “And you must make polite conversation while you eat. That puts your table companion at ease. You must be careful about timing your swallows, because there is a danger, when you talk with food in your mouth, of spitting something out. Now, then. Father”—Honda referred to himself as “Father”—“will say something to you, and you must answer. You must think of me not as your father but as a very important man who might be able to do a great deal for you if he likes you. We are acting out a play. All right, now. ‘You are studying hard, I see, and you have your three tutors all speechless with admiration; but it seems a little odd that you should have no real friends.’”
“I don’t feel any great need for them.”
“That’s no answer at all. If you give that sort of answer people will think you queer. Now, then. Give me a proper answer.”
Tōru was silent.
“It won’t do. Studying will do you no good if you don’t use common sense. This is the sort of answer you should give, as pleasantly as can be: ‘I’m studying so hard that I really don’t have time at the moment for friends, but I’m sure I’ll have some as soon as I start prep school.’”
“I’m studying so hard that I really don’t have time at the moment for friends, but I’m sure I’ll have some as soon as I start prep school.”
“That’s it, that’s it. That’s the style. And all of a sudden the conversation turns to art. ‘Who is your favorite Italian artist?’”
There was no answer.
“Who is your favorite Italian artist?”
“Mantegna.”
“No, no. You’re far too young for Mantegna. Probably your table companion has never heard of Mantegna, and you’ll make him uncomfortable, and give an unpleasant impression of precociousness. This is how you answer. ‘I think the Renaissance is just wonderful.’”
“I think the Renaissance is just wonderful.”
“That’s it, that’s it. You give your table companion a feeling of superiority and you seem all cute and charming. And he has an opening for a long lecture on things he only half understands. You must listen all aglow with curiosity and admiration even though most of what he says is wrong and the rest is old hat. What the world asks of a young person is that he be a devoted listener, nothing more. You’re the winner if you let him do the talking. You must not forget that for a moment.
“The world does not ask brilliance of a young person, and at the same time too firm a steadiness arouses suspicions. You should have a harmless little eccentricity or two, something to interest him. You must have little addictions, not too expensive and not related to politics. Very abstract, very average. Tinkering with machinery, or baseball or a trumpet. Once he knows what they are, he feels safe. He knows where your energies can go. You can even seem a little carried away by your hobbies if you want to.
“You should go in for sports but not let them interfere with your studies, and they should be the sports that show off your good health. It has the advantage of making you look a bit stupid. There are no virtues more highly prized in Japan than indifference to politics and devotion to the team.
“You can graduate with the highest marks in your class, but you have to have a sort of vague stupidity that puts people at their ease. Like a kite full of wind.
“I’ll tell you about money once you’re in prep school. You’re in the happy position for the moment of not having to worry about it.”
As he lectured to the attentive Tōru, Honda had the feeling that these were really instructions for Kiyoaki and Isao and Ying Chan.
Yes, he should have spoken to them. He should have armed them with the foreknowledge that would keep them from flinging themselves after their destinies, take away their wings, keep them from soaring, make them march in step with the crowd. The world does not approve of flying. Wings are dangerous weapons. They invite self-destruction before they can be used. If he had brought Isao to terms with the fools, then he could have pretended that he knew nothing of wings.
He had only to say to people: “His wings are an accessory. You needn’t trouble yourself about them. Just keep company with him for a while, and you’ll see that he’s an ordinary, reliable boy.” Such tidings could have been remarkably effective.
Kiyoaki and Isao and Ying Chan had had to make do without them, and had been punished for their contempt and arrogance. They had been too proud even in their sufferings.
18
 
 T
HE THREE TUTORS
were all highly gifted students from Tokyo University. One taught sociology and literature, one mathematics and science, and one English. It was known that in 1971 the prep-school entrance examinations would have more essay questions and fewer short-answer questions, and that there would be more emphasis on English dictation and Japanese composition. Tōru was suddenly set to English newscasts. He took them on tape and repeated them over and over.
Here is a question on geography and the movements of the heavenly bodies:
In what position is Venus present longest for morning observation? Indicate on the chart. What is the shape of Venus when viewed in this position? Please indicate which of the following you believe to be the correct answer:
1. The east half is light.
2. The west half is light.
3. It is shining in a thin crescent, like the moon.
4. It is round.
What is the position of Mars when it is visible in the southern evening sky? Please indicate on the chart.
What is the position of Mars when it is visible in the southern midnight sky? Please indicate on the chart.
Tōru immediately circled “B” on the chart, and so answered the first question successfully. He chose the third possibility for the second question, circled “L” for the third question, and, finding spot “G” at which the sun, the earth, and Mars were in a line, circled it.
“Have you been asked this question before?”
“No.”
“Then why were you so quick?”
“I see Venus and Mars every day.”
Tōru answered quite as if he were a child describing the habits of his pets. As a matter of fact Venus and Mars were like the mice that occupied the signal station. He knew all about their feeding habits.
It was not, however, as if he felt nostalgic for nature or regretted the loss of his telescope. He did have a sense of that uncommonly simple work as his own, and the world beyond the horizon was a source of happiness for him; but he did not feel in the least deprived by the loss of them. It was his task, from now until he was twenty or so, to explore a cave with an old man.
Honda had taken pains to choose as tutors bright, companionable, talented young men of a sort Tōru might look to as models. He made a slight miscalculation in the case of Furusawa, Tōru’s literature teacher. Much pleased with Tōru’s disposition and intelligence, Furusawa would take him to nearby coffee houses when they were tired of their lessons, and sometimes they would go on long walks together. Honda was grateful for these services and liked the cheerful Furusawa.
Furusawa did not at all mind saying unpleasant things about Honda. Tōru enjoyed them, though he was careful not to nod too quick an assent.
One day the two of them walked down Masago Rise past the ward office and turned left toward Suidōbashi. The street was torn up for a new subway line, and Kōrakuen Park was hidden behind construction towers. The twilight of late November came through the framework of a roller coaster as through an empty basket.
Passing trophy shops and sports shops and short-order restaurants, they had come to the Kōrakuen gate. Two rows of lights over the red gate flashed from left to right: “We will no longer be open in the evening after November 23.” So the shining nights would soon be over.
“How about it?” asked Furusawa. “How about a good shaking in a teacup?”
“Well.” Tōru thought of himself in a dirty pink teacup, now rather lonely and short of customers among its blinking little lights. He thought of himself being so shaken and twisted by it that objects became streaks of light.
“Well, do you want to or don’t you? You only have ninety-two days left till the examinations, but I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”
“I’d rather have a cup of coffee.”
“Such dissipation.”
Furusawa led the way down the steps of a coffeehouse called the Renoir. It was across the street from the third-base side of the baseball stadium, which was like a huge trophy pouring forth darkness.
The Renoir was larger than Tōru would have expected from the outside. The tables were generously spaced around a fountain. The lights were soft and the carpet was beige. There were few other guests.
“I had no idea there was such a place so close to home.”
“A cloistered maiden like you wouldn’t.”
Furusawa ordered two cups of coffee. He offered Tōru a cigarette, upon which Tōru leaped.
“It’s not easy to keep it out of sight.”
“Mr. Honda’s much too strict. It’s not as if you were an ordinary middle-school boy. You’ve been out in the world. He wants to make a child of you again. But you just have to wait till you’re twenty. You can spread your wings once you’re in the university.”
“Exactly my own idea. But I have to keep it to myself.”
Furusawa frowned and laughed a pitying laugh. It seemed to Tōru that he was trying to be older than twenty-one.
Furusawa wore glasses, but his good-natured face was very engaging when he smiled, and wrinkles formed around his nose. The horns were bent, and he was forever shoving the glasses back up on his nose, the gesture with his forefinger as if he were reprimanding himself. He had large hands and feet, and he was considerably taller than Tōru. He was the gifted son of a railway worker. Hidden in him was a spirit like a squirming red lobster.

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