As Honda looked on, he felt a kind of intoxication overcoming him. He had never seen such a beautiful ritual. The effects of his sleepless night made the spectacle begin to blur, and the lily festival he was now watching started to merge with the kendo match he had seen the previous day. The girls’ lilies became bamboo staves and then, in another moment, flashing sword blades. As the miko circled about with easy grace in the sunlight, the shadows of their long eyelashes on their white-powdered cheeks became for Honda the shadows cast by the glittering bars of the kendo mask.
After the guests and other worshippers had lifted the pendant-festooned sakaki branch in reverence before the sanctuary, the doors were shut once more. By noon the ritual was over.
The Naorai, the sacred banquet following a ritual, was to take place in an adjacent hall. The chief priest came over to Honda with a middle-aged man he wanted to introduce. As soon as Honda saw young Iinuma in his school cap walking along behind him, he realized that the man was Shigeyuki Iinuma. Iinuma’s slender moustache had thrown him off for a moment.
“This must be Mr. Honda,” Iinuma said. “What memories this brings back! Has it really been nineteen years? My son Isao told me about yesterday, how kind you were to him. What a strange turn of fate!”
Iinuma pulled a sheaf of calling cards from his pocket, picked out one of his own, and presented it to Honda. As he read it, the fastidious Honda could not help noticing that one corner of the card was slightly soiled and bent:
THE ACADEMY OF PATRIOTISM
SHIGEYUKI IINUMA
HEADMASTER
What startled him about Kiyoaki’s old tutor was his talkative and open manner, so unlike the Iinuma Honda remembered. Years before he had been quite different. As Honda looked more closely, he saw that some things about him were unchanged: the uncouth tuft of hair just visible at the neck of his kimono, his square shoulders, the dark, brooding eyes, with a tendency to waver. His outward bearing, however, was altogether different.
“Forgive me for addressing you so familiarly!” said Iinuma, looking up from Honda’s card. “You certainly have attained eminence. The truth is, your fame came to my notice some time ago, but it seemed rude for someone like me to presume upon past acquaintance, so I restrained myself. Now that I look at you, you haven’t changed a bit. If the young master were alive, you would be his most trusted friend. Anyway, as I learned afterwards, you proved the depth of your friendship by what you did for him. Everyone said how wonderful you were.”
As Honda listened, feeling as though he were being slightly mocked, it occurred to him that Iinuma would not speak so openly of Kiyoaki if he were aware of his young master’s reincarnation in his own son. Then again, possibly Iinuma’s apparent frankness was a means of seizing the initiative and warning Honda not to intrude into this mystery.
Still, when Honda looked at Iinuma in his crested hakama and at young Isao standing behind him, he could only see everyday reality. Iinuma’s face was marked by the years and by the common tribulations. The smell of day-by-day existence was so strong that the wild thoughts that had pursued Honda from the dreams of the night before seemed no more than ephemeral fantasy. He began to wonder if even the moles he had seen on Isao’s side might have been no more than a trick of vision.
Nevertheless, despite the urgency of the work that awaited him that evening, Honda found himself asking Iinuma: “How long will you be in the Kansai?”
“I’m afraid I’ll be taking the train back to Tokyo tonight.”
“That’s too bad.” After a moment’s thought, Honda made his decision. “What do you say to this? Before you leave tonight, won’t you and your son have dinner at my home? It’s a rare chance for us to have a leisurely talk.”
“You do me too much honor. I couldn’t think of imposing myself and my son upon your hospitality.”
Honda turned directly to Isao: “It will be my pleasure. You and your father must come. You’ll be returning to Tokyo on the same train, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Isao, somewhat inhibited by his father’s presence.
Iinuma, however, now said that he would accept Honda’s kind invitation, and promised that, after attending to a few matters in Osaka, both of them would come to his home that evening.
“Your son was superb yesterday in the kendo match. It’s really a pity that you couldn’t be there. It was a performance to take one’s breath away.” As he spoke, Honda looked from one to the other.
Just then a lean but erect old man in Western clothes approached them. He was accompanied by an extremely attractive woman of about thirty.
“General Kito and his daughter,” Iinuma whispered into Honda’s ear.
“General Kito, you say? The poet?”
“Yes, yes. That’s right.”
Iinuma had become tense, and his hushed, respectful tone made Honda think of a courtier sent to prepare the way of a lord.
Kensuké Kito was a retired major general of the Imperial Army, but his fame came from his poetry. Honda, urged by friends, had read his highly praised Hekiraku, a collection of poems that, according to critics, revived the bold spirit and style of the thirteenth-century poet Sanetomo. Such classical elegance and simple beauty were wholly unexpected from a contemporary military man, and Honda had found his poems so moving that he could recite two or three of them from memory.
Iinuma greeted the General with the utmost deference and then turned to introduce Honda: “This gentleman is Judge Honda of the Osaka Court of Appeals.”
Honda would have preferred to be presented merely as an old friend, but now that Iinuma had seen fit to introduce him with such a flourish, Honda had no choice but to assume his role as an official and stand on his dignity.
The General, however, seemed quite equal to the occasion, his military background having accustomed him to distinctions of rank. He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and said quietly: “My name is Kito.”
“I am a great admirer of your poetry, especially of Hekiraku.”
“You’ll have me blushing.”
General Kito had the affability and utter lack of arrogance of a man who has spent his life as a soldier. Having survived a profession that offered ample opportunity to die young, he inspired a feeling of strength and steadfastness. His old age shone with cheerful detachment, like the winter sun shining through white paper stretched over a latticework of fine, aged wood, not in the least warped, beyond which patches of snow lay here and there on the ground.
As he and Honda were exchanging a few words, his beautiful daughter spoke to Isao: “I hear that you defeated five men in succession yesterday. Congratulations.”
Honda glanced over toward her, and the General introduced them: “My daughter, Makiko.” Makiko bowed her head politely.
During that moment Honda found himself eagerly waiting to look into the lovely face beneath her Western-style hairdo. Now that he saw her close at hand, Honda noticed by both the whiteness of her skin, almost devoid of makeup, and the faint, telltale signs, like the grain of thick Japanese paper, that she was no longer a young girl. Her smooth features seemed somehow to express a distant sorrow. The tautness at the corners of her mouth gave a disturbing hint of disdainful resignation but her eyes were brimming with a soft, gentle light.
As Honda and Iinuma stood talking with the General and his daughter about the beauty of the Saigusa Festival, young priests in white robes and pale yellow hakama came out and urged all the guests to take their places at the Naorai.
The General and his daughter met other friends, walked ahead with them toward the reception hall, and were soon lost in the crowd.
“What a lovely young woman!” said Honda, half to himself. “And she’s still not married?”
“She’s divorced,” Iinuma replied. “I suppose she must be in her early thirties. It’s hard to think a man would let a beauty like that get away from him.” His voice sounded muffled, as if the lips beneath the neat moustache were reluctant.
The worshippers cro
wded the entrance of the hall, jostling together as they struggled to remove their shoes and enter. Honda let himself be carried along by the flow of people, and, looking ahead through the crowd, caught his first glimpse of the tables set up for the banquet. A mass of wild lilies was spread over the white tablecloths.
Somewhere Honda had become separated even from Iinuma. As the crowd surged by, it occurred to him that Kiyoaki himself, alive again, was caught in this same press of humanity. How wild a fancy this seemed here at midday beneath the early summer sun! He was dazzled by the excessive brightness of the mystery.
Just as sea and sky blurred together at the horizon, so, too, dream and reality could certainly become confused when viewed from a distance. But here, at least around Honda, everyone was clearly subject to the law and, in turn, guarded by the law. His role was that of a guardian of the order established by the operative law of this world. This operative law was like a heavy iron lid upon the pot in which the multifarious stew of the day-to-day world simmered.
Human beings eating, digesting, excreting, reproducing, loving and hating . . . Honda reflected that these were the human beings under the court’s jurisdiction. If worst came to worst they would appear before it as defendants.
They alone had reality. Human beings who sneezed, laughed, human beings who went about with absurdly dangling reproductive gear. If all human beings were like this, there was no basis whatsoever for Honda’s fearful mystery. Even if a single reborn Kiyoaki might be hidden in their midst.
Honda sat at the place of honor to which the priests directed him. On the table before him were wooden boxes of various delicacies and jars of saké as well as plates and small bowls. At appropriate intervals stood vases of wild lilies. Makiko was sitting on the same side of the table, and he was occasionally able to catch a glimpse of her lovely profile and the wisps of hair that fell over her cheek.
The rays of the early summer sun, scattered by tree branches, fell upon the garden. Now it was the turn for humans to feast.
8
AFTER HONDA HAD returned home in the afternoon, he asked his wife to arrange for dinner guests and then took a short nap. He had a dream that Kiyoaki suddenly appeared and began telling him how joyful he was at their being reunited. When Honda awoke, however, he did not allow this to excite him. He accounted for it as merely an illustration of the lingering thoughts that had occupied his fatigued mind since the previous night.
Iinuma and his son arrived at six o’clock. Intending to leave directly by train afterwards, they had brought their luggage with them. When Honda and Iinuma sat down together, they felt awkward about immediately returning to their talk of the past, and instead began to discuss recent politics and social conditions. But Iinuma, apparently in deference to Honda’s position, refrained from voicing any outright complaints about the evils of the times. Isao sat upright, hands on knees, as he listened.
Those eyes of his, which had flashed brightly even from behind a kendo mask yesterday, seemed extravagantly brilliant here in an ordinary room. They seemed to express intense determination. To have such eyes close to one, to be gazed at intently by such eyes was an extraordinary experience.
Honda sensed Isao’s eyes on him as he talked with Iinuma, and he felt uneasy. “It’s quite uncalled for to stare like that during a conversation,” he thought, feeling tempted to say a word of remonstrance. Eyes of that kind should not be brought to bear upon the petty doings of everyday life. Honda felt somehow accused by their clear brilliance.
Two men may talk together enthusiastically for an hour or so about shared experiences, and yet not have a true conversation. A lonely man who wants to indulge his nostalgic mood feels the need of someone with whom to share it. When he finds such a companion, he starts to pour out his monologue as though recounting a dream. And so the talk goes on between them, their monologues alternating, but after a time they suddenly become aware that they have nothing to say to each other. They are like two men standing at either side of a chasm, the bridge across which has been destroyed.
Then at last, since they cannot bear to remain silent, their conversation turns again to the past. For some reason, Honda found himself yielding to the urge to ask Iinuma why he had published an article in a right-wing newspaper accusing Marquis Matsugae of being disloyal and unfilial.
“Ah, that!” answered Iinuma. “I hesitated before making an attack on the Marquis, who was so kind to me, but I felt I had to write that article regardless of the consequences. I did it solely out of concern for the nation.”
Such a smooth, ready answer naturally did not satisfy Honda. He remarked that Kiyoaki, after reading the article and sensing its significance, told him he missed Iinuma.
A startling surge of emotion swept over Iinuma’s face, which had already begun to show the effects of the saké they were drinking. The neat moustache trembled slightly.
“Is that right? The young master said that? He must have known how I felt. My motive in writing that article—how should I put it—was to make a public complaint, even though it meant sacrificing the Marquis, so that no one could blame the young master himself. I was afraid the young master’s involvement might somehow become known, and the scandal would do him irreparable harm. By taking the initiative and exposing the Marquis’s disloyalty, I could shield the young master. And then, too, wouldn’t any good father want to bear the brunt of the scandal himself? That was what I expected. Perhaps it was inevitable that the Marquis would become enraged at me, but when I think how the young master understood my intentions, I feel an overwhelming gratitude.
“Judge Honda, please listen to what I have to say. It’s the saké that gives me the courage to tell you this, but I’m not exaggerating. When I heard that the young master had passed away I wept for three whole days and nights. I thought that I would at least attend the wake, and I went to the Matsugae mansion, only to be turned away at the door. It seems that the arrangements concerning me were very thorough. Even on the day of the public funeral service I was kept out by their police. And so I could not offer incense for the departed young master.
“Of course I brought it on myself, but it’s a grievance that I’ll bear for the rest of my days. Even now I sometimes speak bitterly about it to my wife. What an unhappy fate for the young master! To die without achieving what he wished, and at barely twenty.” Iinuma pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away his tears.
Honda’s wife had come in to pour the saké, and sat there speechless. Young Isao, who had apparently never seen his father so overcome with emotion, had stopped eating and was looking down. Honda stared at Iinuma across the brightly lit, dish-laden table as if he were gauging the distance between them.
Honda did not doubt the genuineness of Iinuma’s sentiment. Thus, since his grief expressed such finality, he could hardly have known of Kiyoaki’s reincarnation. Otherwise his emotion would surely have been far more ambiguous and uncertain.
As he reflected, Honda found himself scrutinizing his own inner thoughts. Why did the sight of Iinuma’s grief provoke no tears from him? For one thing, there was the tempering his emotions had undergone in a profession that prized reason. And for another, there was the newfound hope that Kiyoaki lived again. A mere hint of the possibility of reincarnation made even the keenest grief suddenly seem to lose its freshness and reality, and begin to scatter like dry leaves. Somehow that was related to man’s unwillingness to tolerate any injury to the dignity that he achieved through sorrow. In a sense, such a loss was more fearful than death.
When Iinuma had gained control of himself, he at once turned to his son and asked him to go to send a telegram for him. He had forgotten to tell the students of the academy to come to meet them at Tokyo Station the next morning. Rié suggested sending the maid, but Honda, realizing that Iinuma wanted his son out of the way for a time, quickly sketched a map to show Isao how to find the nearest post office that was open at night.
After Isao left, Rié went back to the kitchen. At last Honda had a cha
nce to question Iinuma closely, but, while he was wondering how to broach the subject, Iinuma himself began to speak of Kiyoaki.
“I failed wretchedly in educating the young master, so I intended to do my best to give my own son what I considered an ideal education. But again something was missing. When I look at my grown son, it’s incredible how the young master’s good qualities come to my mind. In spite of how I failed with him.”
“But you have a wonderful son. From what I’ve seen of him, he’s quite superior to Kiyoaki Matsugae.”
“Judge Honda, you’re being too polite.”
“Well, consider Isao’s physical fitness. Kiyoaki neglected his body completely.” Honda felt the excitement rising within him as he tried to lead Iinuma to the crucial point of the mystery. “It’s no wonder he died so early from pneumonia—he was handsome, but he had no strength. But you were with him ever since he was a child. You must have been thoroughly familiar with his body.”
“By no means!” Iinuma hastily protested. “I never so much as washed the young master’s back.”
“Why not?”
Embarrassment contorted Iinuma’s blunt features, and the blood rushed to his swarthy cheeks.
“When the young master was undressed, I could never bring myself to look at him directly.”
After Isao’s return from the post office, it was soon time to leave. Honda, whose profession had not equipped him to deal with the young, realized that he had yet to exchange a word with Isao.
“What sort of books do you like to read?” he asked, rather awkwardly.
“Let me show you, sir.” Isao, who was just putting something into his suitcase, took out a thin paperbound book and showed it to him. “I bought this last month after a friend recommended it, and I’ve already read it three times. I’ve never been so moved by a book. Have you read it, Your Honor?”
Honda looked at the title and author’s name printed in old-style characters on the plain cover: The League of the Divine Wind by Tsunanori Yamao. He turned over the small book, hardly more than a pamphlet, and noted that even the publisher was unfamiliar. He was about to give it back without a word when he found his hand checked by Isao’s strong hand, callused from the kendo stave.
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