The Temple of Dawn

by Yukio Mishima

  While he hoped he would never be put in the position of defending such a man, it would be a breach of etiquette on his part, as an invited guest, to ask to have his guide replaced.

  Every time the obese branch manager asked Honda in the waiting room at court or at a dinner party: “Is Hishikawa doing all right by you?” Honda would answer: “He’s very capable, yes,” concealing in his words a certain bitterness. The manager seemed satisfied to take his reply at face value, and Honda was irked that he made no attempt to read behind the words.

  Familiarity with the covert human relationships in this country, which were like the dank jungle undergrowth rapidly rotting away beneath the surface green that shone in the blistering sun, had enabled Hishikawa to develop his talent for smelling out rottenness in human matters faster than anyone else. And that was the source of his income. He would have rested his powerful, housefly wings of gold on the leftovers in the manager’s plate.

  “Good morning!”

  Honda was awakened from deep sleep by a familiar voice on the interphone at his bedside, a voice he heard every morning—Hishikawa.

  “Did I wake you? Forgive me. The court people think nothing of making you wait for hours, but they’re terribly fussy about visitors being punctual. I called early to be on the safe side. Take your time shaving. What? Breakfast? No, no, don’t worry about that. Well, to tell the truth, I haven’t yet, but I can do without. Oh? In your room with you? Well, thank you very much indeed. I’ll accept the invitation and come on up. Shall I let you have five minutes? Or ten? Well, since you’re not a lady, perhaps I don’t have to be so punctilious.”

  This was not the first time that Hishikawa had partaken of the Oriental Hotel’s sumptuous, multicourse English breakfast in Honda’s room.

  Shortly, dressed in a well-cut white linen suit, Hishikawa walked in, busily fanning his chest with a panama hat. He stopped squarely under the large, white, sluggishly rotating blades of the fan.

  “Before I forget,” said the pajama-clad Honda, “what shall I call the Princess? Is it proper to say ‘Your Highness’?”

  “No, no!” replied Hishikawa with assurance. “She’s the daughter of Pattanadid and he’s half brother to the king. His title is Pra Ong Chao; you address him as ‘Your Royal Highness’ in English. But the daughter is Mon Chao, and you should call her ‘Your Serene Highness.’ Anyway don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

  The unrelenting heat had already invaded the room. Having left his sweat-dampened bed and standing under the cold shower, Honda felt for the first time the morning on his skin. The experience was a strangely sensuous one. He who never contacted the external world without first filtering it through rational thought, here felt through his skin; only through his skin sensing the brilliant green of the tropical plants, the vermilion of the mimosa flowers, the golden decor adorning the temples, or the sudden blue lightning could he come into contact with the world about him. This was a totally exotic experience for him. The warm rains, the tepid showers. The external world was a richly colored liquid, and it was as if he were constantly bathing in it. How could he have anticipated all this in Japan?

  While waiting for breakfast, Hishikawa paced back and forth around the room like a European, scoffing at the mediocre landscape that hung on the wall. The heels of his freshly polished black shoes reflected the patterns of the carpet as he outrageously postured. Honda was suddenly tired of the game where Hishikawa played the artist and he the Philistine.

  Abruptly turning, Hishikawa removed a small purple velvet case from his pocket. Handing it to Honda, he said: “You mustn’t forget this. Hand it directly to the Princess.”

  “What is it?”

  “A present. Royalty has made it custom here never to receive a visitor who arrives empty-handed.”

  Honda opened the case and discovered a fine pearl ring.

  “Oh, I see. I never thought of that. Thank you for reminding me. How much do I owe you?”

  “Oh, nothing. Really it’s not necessary. I told Itsui Products you needed it for a royal audience. Anyway the manager probably picked it up cheap from some Japanese. You don’t need to worry.”

  Honda immediately understood he should not ask further about the price for the time being. But Itsui Products should not be expected to pay for his private expenditures. He would repay the manager. Hishikawa had probably charged them a fat commission. He would have to overlook that and reimburse the local representative, whatever the cost.

  “Well then, I accept your kindness with gratitude.” Honda arose, and slipping the small case into the pocket of the jacket he was going to wear, casually asked: “By the way, what is the Princess’s name?”

  “Princess Chantrapa. I hear that Prince Pattanadid named his last daughter after a fiancée who died long ago. Chantrapa means ‘moonlight.’ What a coincidence she’s a lunatic,” Hishikawa commented smugly.

  3

  ON THE WAY to the Rosette Palace, Honda saw from his car window some boys in the Yuwachon Movement marching in khaki uniforms reputedly modeled on those of the Hitler Jugend. Hishikawa, seated next to him, complained that American jazz was rarely heard in town those days, and that Prime Minister Phiboon’s nationalism seemed to be taking effect.

  It was the kind of transformation Honda had already witnessed in Japan. Just as wine slowly turns to vinegar or milk to curd, matters long neglected slowly change in response to the various forces of nature. People have long lived in fear of too much freedom, too much carnal desire. The freshness of the morning after an evening when one has abstained from drinking wine. The pride one feels on realizing that water alone is essential. Such refreshing, new pleasures were beginning to seduce people. Honda had a vague idea where such fanatical ideas would lead. It was a realization that had been born of Isao’s death. Single-mindedness often gives rise to viciousness.

  Honda suddenly recalled Isao’s drunken, incoherent words two days before his death. “Far to the south . . . Very hot . . . in the rose sunshine of a southern land . . .” Now, eight years later, he was hastening to the Rosette Palace to meet him.

  His was the joy of a parched and feverish land awaiting the drenching rains.

  It seemed to Honda that in experiencing such emotions as these he was brought face to face with his innermost self. As a youth he had judged his fears, his sorrows, and his rationality to be his true inner core, but none was real. When he heard about Isao’s suicide, he had felt a kind of sudden frustration instead of the sharp pain of sorrow; but with the passage of time, this had changed into the expectant pleasure of meeting him again. Honda realized in his heart that in moments like this, his emotions contained not one human element. His inner self was ruled perhaps by some extraordinary pleasure not of this world. It must be so, for he alone, in Isao’s case, had escaped the sorrow and pain of parting.

  Far to the south . . . Very hot . . . in the rose sunshine of a southern land . . .”

  The car drew up before an elegant gate beyond which lay a stretch of greensward. Hishikawa got out first and spoke to the guard in Siamese as he handed him a calling card.

  From the car window Honda could see an iron gate of repeating octagon and arrow motifs, while beyond, the smooth green lawn quietly soaked up the intense sun. Two or three bushes with white and yellow flowers, trimmed into round shapes, cast their shadows on the grass.

  Hishikawa escorted Honda through the gate.

  The building was too insignificant to qualify as a palace; it was merely a small two-story structure with a slate roof, painted a faded yellowish rose. Except for a large mimosa tree to one side, soiling the wall with its severe black shadow, only the expanse of yellow soothed the harsh brilliance of the sun.

  They met no one as they walked along the winding path over the lawn. As Honda approached his goal, and despite the joy that he knew was metaphysical, he felt as though the sound of his footsteps was that of the sharp claws of some jungle beast stalking its prey with drooling fangs. Yes, he had been born for jus
t this pleasure.

  The Rosette Palace seemed confined in its own stubborn little dream. The impression was enhanced by the shape of the building itself. It was a little box with neither wings or extensions. The ground floor displayed so many casement windows that it was difficult to discern which was the entrance. Every one was paneled in wood carved into roses, above which octagons of yellow, blue, and indigo glass encircled small, five-petaled, purple rose-shaped windows in the Near Eastern style. The French windows facing the garden were half open.

  The second floor bore a panel of fleur-de-lis, and three windows opening on the garden formed a triptych. The central one was higher than its neighbors, but all were bordered with carved rosettes.

  The entrance itself at the top of three steps consisted of a French window of the same design. As soon as Hishikawa rang the bell, Honda indiscreetly peeped through the small rose pane of purple glass. Inside all was dark violet, like the ocean floor.

  The French door opened and an old woman appeared. Honda and Hishikawa removed their hats. The white-haired brown face with its flat nose wore a smile of friendly greeting in the characteristic Thai manner. But the smile was a formality, nothing more.

  The woman spoke with Hishikawa for a few moments. Apparently there had been no change in the appointment he had arranged.

  Four or five chairs were lined up in the foyer that was too small for a reception hall. Hishikawa handed a package to the woman and she accepted it after joining her hands respectfully. Opening the central door, she at once led them into a spacious audience hall.

  After the morning heat outside, the musty, stagnant coolness of the room was pleasant. The two men were invited to sit in red and gold Chinese chairs supported by legs in the form of lion paws.

  While waiting for the Princess, Honda took the opportunity to scrutinize the room. There was no sound save the faint buzzing of a fly.

  The reception hall did not give directly onto the windows. A pillared gallery supported a mezzanine; only the throne was heavily draped. And directly above it a portrait of King Chulalongkorn was displayed in the upper gallery. The Corinthian pillars of the gallery were painted blue with vertical incisions inlaid with gold, while the capitals were adorned with golden roses in the Near Eastern style instead of the usual acanthus leaves.

  The rosette pattern was tenaciously repeated throughout the palace. The gallery, painted gold and bordered in white, had openwork balustrades of golden roses. An immense chandelier suspended from the center of the lofty ceiling was also decorated with gold and white roses. When Honda looked down at his feet, he saw that the red carpet had a rosette pattern.

  A pair of gigantic ivory tusks placed behind the throne—an embracing pair of white crescent moons—was the sole traditionally Thai decoration. The impressive polished ivory gleamed yellowish white in the gloom.

  Upon entering, Honda discovered that the French windows occupied only the forepart of the house facing the front garden. The open ones looking out on the rear garden, barred by a corridor, were only chest high. It was through the northern windows that a light breeze entered.

  As his eyes wandered toward the windows, he suddenly glimpsed a black shadow flitting by the window frame. He shuddered. It was a green peacock. The bird perched on the sill, stretching its long elegant neck that glittered a greenish gold. The plumed crest on its proud head was like the delicate silhouette of a miniature fan.

  “I wonder how long they’re going to make us wait,” Honda whispered into Hishikawa’s ear, thoroughly bored.

  “It’s always like this. It doesn’t mean anything. They’re not trying to impress you particularly by making you wait. You know by now that you mustn’t rush things in this country. In the days of Chulalongkorn’s son, King Urachid, His Majesty used to go to bed at dawn and arise in the afternoon. Everything was slow and easygoing; day and night were reversed. The Minister of Palace Affairs put in his appearance about four in the afternoon and returned home only in the morning. But in the tropics perhaps that’s the best way. The beauty of these people is the beauty of fruit; fruit should ripen lazily and gracefully. There’s no such thing as diligent fruit.”

  Honda was annoyed with Hishikawa’s typically long, whispered disquisition, but before he could turn away to avoid his bad breath, the old woman reappeared. Joining her hands respectfully, she indicated the approach of the Princess.

  There was a hissing from the window where the peacock perched. It was not the warning sound used in the ancient Japanese court to signal the arrival of royalty. They were simply chasing the peacock away. There was a flutter of wings at the window, and the bird disappeared. Honda saw three old ladies coming down the northern corridor. They walked in a straight line, keeping an equal distance between them. The Princess was led by the first lady-in-waiting, her one hand held by the woman, the other toying with a garland of white jasmine. As the little seven-year-old Princess Moonlight was led toward the great Chinese chair before the ivory tusks, the old woman who had first met the guests at the door immediately knelt down on the floor and kowtowed in the manner called krab in Thai. She was presumably of low rank.

  The first lady-in-waiting put her arm around the Princess and sat down with her in the center Chinese chair. The other two seated themselves in small chairs to the right of and facing the throne. The third lady was now next to Hishikawa. The woman who had knelt down had already vanished when Honda looked around.

  He imitated Hishikawa, who stood up and bowed deeply, then sat down on the red and gold Chinese chair. The women seemed to be close to seventy, and the little Princess appeared more their charge than their mistress.

  The little girl was not wearing the old-fashioned panun, but a Western-style blouse of some white material embroidered in gold, and a printed Thai cotton skirt called passin that resembled a Malayan sarong. On her feet she wore a pair of red shoes decorated in gold. Her hair was cut short in the characteristic Thai style. This traditional coiffure honored the brave maidens of Khorat who long ago, dressed as men, had fought against an invading Cambodian army.

  Her lovely, intelligent face showed no sign of insanity. Her delicate, well-shaped brows and lips were commanding, and her short hair made her look more like a prince than a princess. Her skin was a golden tan.

  Audience to her was receiving the two men’s obeisance; this over, she toyed with her jasmine wreath and swung her legs over the edge of the high chair. She looked intently at Honda and whispered to the first lady-in-waiting; the latter rebuked her with a single word.

  At Hishikawa’s signal Honda brought out the purple velvet case with the pearl ring. It was passed to the third lady, then by way of the second and the first, respectively, it finally reached the Princess’s hand. The time spent as it made its way to her seemed to deepen the torpor of the summer heat. As the case had been examined by the first lady, the Princess was deprived of the childish delight in opening it herself.

  Her lovely brown fingers carelessly discarded the jasmine garland and took up the pearl ring. She inspected it intently for some time. Her unusual quietness that signified neither emotion nor lack of emotion lasted so long that Honda began to think this might be one of the symptoms of her madness. Suddenly a smile, like a bubble in water, broke out on her face, showing her white, childishly irregular teeth. Honda was relieved.

  The ring was returned to the case and given back to the first lady-in-waiting. The Princess spoke for the first time in a clear, intelligent voice. Her words were then transmitted through the three ladies like a green snake slithering from branch to branch in the sun-touched shade of the palms and finally, translated by Hishikawa, reached Honda. The Princess had said: “Thank you.”

  Honda asked Hishikawa to translate for him. “I have for long been an admirer of the Thai royal family, and I understand Her Serene Highness likes Japan too. If I may, I should like to send her a Japanese doll after I return. Would she accept it?” The Thai sentences spoken by Hishikawa were rather simple, but as they were passed on by the t
hird and the second ladies-in-waiting, they grew longer and more numerous, and by the time the first lady-in-waiting conveyed the import to the Princess, they seemed endless.

  And the Princess’s words when they returned to Honda were devoid of any sparkle of emotion or charm after they had traveled through the ladies’ dark and wrinkled lips. It was as though the meat of the young Princess’s vivacious expressions had been sucked out in the process, chewed up by their ancient dentures, leaving only unsightly refuse for Honda.

  “They say that Her Serene Highness is pleased to accept Mr. Honda’s kind offer.”

  Then a strange thing happened.

  Catching the first lady off-guard, the Princess jumped off the chair, covered the three feet that separated her from Honda, and clung to his trouser legs. Honda rose in alarm. Quivering and still clinging to him, the Princess cried out, weeping loudly. He bent over and put his arms around the fragile shoulders of the sobbing girl.

  The ladies-in-waiting, nonplussed, were unable to pull her away. They clustered together, whispering uneasily among themselves as they stared at her.

  “What does she say? Translate!” Honda called to Hishikawa who was standing in amazement.

  Hishikawa translated in a shrill voice: “Mr. Honda! Mr. Honda! How I’ve missed you! You were so kind, and yet I killed myself without telling you anything. I have been waiting for this meeting to apologize to you for more than seven years. I have taken the form of a princess, but I am really Japanese. I spent my former life in Japan, and that is really my home. Please, Mr. Honda, take me back to Japan.”

  Finally the Princess was brought back to the chair and somehow the propriety of an audience was restored. Honda looked from where he stood at the black hair of the girl who was still weeping, now leaning against the first lady-in-waiting. He cherished the child’s warmth and fragrance which still lingered on his knee.