Yukio Mishima
THE FROLIC OF THE BEASTS
Prologue
It’s hard to believe this photo was taken a few days before the final wretched incident. The three of them looked really happy, at ease with one another, as if there was a bond of mutual trust among them. The photo had been sent right away to the chief priest of Taisenji temple, who cherishes it even now.
Ippei Kusakado, dressed in a white yukata with black abstract patterns, Yūko, in a white dress, and Kōji, wearing white trousers and a white polo shirt, stood on the harbor wall by the shipyard warehouse under the strong summer sunlight, which was reflected back on them off the sea below. Only their suntanned faces stood out in relief against the even whiteness of the scene; and while the picture was sharp, a faint agitation filled the frame, making it seem a little out of focus. That wasn’t surprising, since they had given the camera to the boatman and had him photograph them from the small boat; a certain amount of camera shake was unavoidable, no matter how calm the water.
They were in a small fishing port in West Izu called Iro, which was on the east side of a deep inlet. To the west, abutting the mountains, the inlet stretched out a number of feelers, each of which was cradled by the valley. There was a shipyard, albeit small in scale, oil storage tanks, and two or three warehouses storing netting and other equipment used by the fishermen.
The inland road didn’t reach that far, so the locals had to come and go by boat from the shipyard to the oil storage tanks, and again from the oil storage tanks to the warehouses.
The three had put out from the harbor in a small boat, and the harbor wall they climbed for the photograph belonged to the warehouse.
“Over there looks perfect. Let’s take it over there!”
Yūko, who was standing in the boat resting a parasol against her shoulder, had already indicated the spot and called out instructions from a distance. The August fishing season holiday was almost at an end; many fishermen had already begun setting off toward Hokkaido and the Sanriku coast to fish for Pacific saury, so there were far fewer boats in port than the previous week and the surface of the small inlet suddenly appeared larger than before.
It wasn’t only the fishermen who had departed. Both Kiyoshi, who had been on leave from the Self-Defense Forces, and Kimi, who worked in the factory of Imperial Instruments, like Matsukichi—who had gone Pacific saury fishing—left their hometowns and returned to Hamamatsu. The short summer romances had come to an end and the new ukulele, inscribed with English lettering, was probably right at this moment resting on Kiyoshi’s knees in his barracks room.
Kōji gave Ippei a helping hand up, and as the three ascended the harbor wall, this corner of concrete, which had been exposed to the harsh lingering heat of the day, appeared to lose in an instant—through the agency of this human intrusion—the delicate order, the poetic arrangement of its inert solidity, which it had so far preserved.
In front of the warehouse, nets had been hung carelessly on bamboo drying racks, forming a suitable picture frame for the surrounding scenery. A mast, now lying on its side; coiled lengths of stern rope. The whole scene implicitly related in its stillness memories of a voyage and of rest following hard work. The quiet breathing of the gentle breeze in the still sunlight, the great warehouse door painted sky blue, summer grasses growing thick and lofty between the warehouses, spiderwebs suspended between the grass stems, and the white flowers of wild chrysanthemum growing resplendent from among the cracks in the concrete. Pieces of red rail, rusty wire, the lid of a live-box, and a small ladder…
It was frighteningly still, and from where they stood gazing down, images of clouds and mountains were calmly reflected in the sea. The water close to the wall was especially pellucid and clearly revealed a shoal of small fish as they passed pale clumps of weeds. The white reflection of summer clouds broke into a thousand pieces close to the shore.
As she walked over the nets laid out to dry on the ground, Yūko stopped suddenly, having noticed what appeared to be droplets of blood scattered on the dazzlingly reflective surface of the concrete.
Realizing straightaway what it was, Kōji explained, “It’s iron oxide. Probably spilled while they were painting something.”
As the trembling shadow of Yūko’s parasol moved over the splotches of paint, they turned a blackish red.
“Over there would be good,” said the youthful Kōji, as he took charge and positioned Ippei and Yūko in front of the first warehouse; Yūko complained that the fishing nets would conceal their lower halves.
“That’s perfect,” cut in Kōji shortly. “It’s more artistic that way. Like we’re three fish caught up in a net,” he added, and began adjusting the camera he’d taken down from his shoulder.
It was exactly as Kōji had said, thought Yūko. The three of them—three fish caught in a net of sin…
As he was being positioned, Ippei, as always, did as he was told, as always, with a smile. Ippei was forty years old. He had a lean though regular face with a very rosy complexion. He walked with a limp on his right side, and his movements appeared somewhat sluggish, which at times actually made him look elegantly refined. He had the diligence of his wife to thank for his personal cleanliness, which was thorough, to say the least. It was also plain to see on closer inspection that he wore that interminable smile reluctantly, as though he were constantly perplexed with something. His yukata and sash, despite Yūko’s careful attentions, always looked as if they were about to slip and drag down by his knees, not simply because he appeared unaccustomed to wearing the garment; rather, body and clothing gave the impression of moving away from each other entirely of their own accord.
Supporting her husband, Yūko turned to face the glaring direction of the camera. Struck directly by the sunlight, her face lost its relief and became like the vacant clear surface of a mirror. She was round-faced, and despite her generously proportioned good looks, her lips were thin. And while she seemed able to hide any amount of suffering with a slight application of makeup, panting in the heat, it also appeared that her mouth was emitting silent and invisible flames of anguish. In short, Yūko wasn’t made to conceal her suffering. Her large, misty eyes, ample cheeks, soft earlobes, and even her smile, which displayed a certain ennui when she responded to Kōji, were all evidence of the anguish she experienced within. Yet Yūko did not appear tired, and this spoke volumes about her stubborn resistance to suffering.
“How much longer do we have to wait?” She folded her parasol, asking the question in her typically sensuous voice, which conjured up the image of a small, stifling room filled with fetid flowers.
Kōji reached out from the wall and, explaining the shutter action as he did so, passed the camera to Teijirō, the old boatman, who was standing on top of his vessel. Clad only in short pants, revealing his dark nakedness, Teijirō positioned his towel-wrapped head above the camera’s viewfinder, like he was searching for a fish in a glass tank. Kōji’s deportment in leaping over to the couple, who were now in front of the warehouse, was truly agile. The single unbroken line formed by his white trousers and white polo shirt flexed and snapped as if it were steel wire. He sidled over to where Yūko was standing and, in a completely natural manner, slid his arm around her smooth shoulder. At which point Yūko, out of natural consideration, took her husband’s right arm from the left side, where he was standing, and placed it around her own shoulder.
“It’s bright, isn’t it?” said Kōji.