Forbidden Colors

by Yukio Mishima

  On one such day Yasuko, left home to mind the house, went into the garden for exercise. She walked around the backyard flower bed, only about four hundred yards in area, which was mostly kept up by the hard work of Kiyo. She held a pair of scissors, planning to cut some flowers for the living room.

  Azaleas rimmed the garden, blooming at their best. Seasonal flowers—pansy, sweet pea, nasturtium, Rodger’s bronze leaf, and homwort—romantic flowers all, were blooming. She wondered which to cut. Actually, she wasn’t very much concerned about the flowers. The luxury of choice, the ease of acquiring whichever she selected, the beauty of them all—what did it matter? She hesitated, clicking the scissors. The blades were a little rusty, and they resisted in her fingers with a slightly gritty sound.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that she was thinking of Yuichi, a reflection that threw doubt into her mind about her maternal instincts. But was this not, after all, Yuichi? This lovely creature shut up inside her, that expressed such outright self-indulgencies, that however much violence it dealt would not be expelled until the appointed time—was it not, after all, he? Fearful that she might become discouraged when she saw the baby, she went so far as to think that this confining pregnancy might go on- for years and she would not care.

  Unconsciously she cut the stem of the light purple Rodger’s bronze leaf in front of her. Left in her hand was a single blossom on a stem about the length of her finger. “Now why did I cut such a short one?” she asked herself.

  “Pure heart! Pure heart!” The words sounded empty and awkward. Yasuko was acutely aware in her mind’s eye as to how greatly she had matured. What in the world is a purity that is close to a desire for vengeance? Hasn’t it always given me pleasure to look into my husband’s eyes with my special look of purity and then wait for his expression of guilt and embarrassment? All the various pleasures she anticipated her husband would not give her—and for that reason even the concealment of the purity of her heart—these things she wished to think of as her “love.”

  That serene hairline, however, those lovely eyes, the delicacy of the elaborate tracery between her mouth and nose, were almost noble, owing to a slightly anemic skin color. The loose garment she had specially made to hide the shape of the lower half of her body fit remarkably well in its classic pleats. Her lips were dry in the wind, and she moistened them frequently with her tongue. The charm of her lips was thus enhanced considerably.

  Yuichi, returning home from school, came up the path in back of the house and happened to approach by way of the garden gate. The gate usually set the bell ringing wildly when it was opened. Before the bell rang, however, he had held the gate with his hand and slipped into the garden. He stood in the shadow of the row of pasania trees and watched his wife. He did it purely and innocently out of mischief.

  “From here, now,” he said sadly in his heart, “from here, now, I can really love my wife. Distance gives me freedom. When I cannot reach her, when I can simply look at her, how beautiful Yasuko is. The pleats in her dress, her hair, her look—how pure it all is. If only I could keep this distance!”

  At that moment, however, Yasuko saw the brown leather brief case peeping behind a trunk in the shade. She called Yuichi’s name. It was a shout like that uttered by a person about to drown. He stepped into the open and she hurried in his direction. Her skirt caught on the low, bent bamboo palings of the flower garden. She stumbled and fell on the slippery earth.

  Yuichi closed his eyes as a nameless fear struck him. He ran to his wife and helped her up. Her skirt had been muddied by the red earth, no more; she did not have a scratch.

  Yasuko breathed heavily.

  “You’ll be all right, won’t you?” Yuichi said fearfully. Having said this, he recognized that the fear he felt when Yasuko fell was related to a certain wish, and he shuddered.

  As he spoke, Yasuko went white. Until he helped her up her mind was engrossed with Yuichi. She had not thought of the child.

  Yuichi put Yasuko to bed and phoned the doctor. When his mother returned shortly with Kiyo and saw the doctor, she was, oddly enough, not concerned. As she listened to Yuichi’s story, she told him that during her own pregnancy she had fallen downstairs two or three steps and nothing had happened.

  “Are you really not worried?” Yuichi could not keep from asking.

  “I suppose it’s natural that you’d be worried,” his mother said with a smile.

  Yuichi flinched, as if she had seen through his dire wish.

  “The body of a woman,” his mother said, as if she were lecturing, “is, for all its seeming fragility, surprisingly strong. When she took that little tumble, the baby in her belly probably felt it was going down a slide and enjoyed it. A man, on the other hand, is brittle. No one thought your father’s health would break down as it did.”

  The doctor left, saying that Yasuko was probably all right but they would have to wait for developments, but Yuichi did not leave his wife’s side. When a phone call came from Kawada, Yuichi told Kiyo to say he was not home. Yasuko’s eyes overflowed with gratitude; the youth could not help feeling satisfaction that he had come to grips with something serious.

  The next day the fetus again kicked his mother’s insides vigorously, almost arrogantly. The whole family was greatly relieved. Yasuko did not doubt that such proud strength- of foot belonged to a boy baby.

  Yuichi could no longer keep his deep-felt joy to himself. He told Kawada of the episode. On the haughty face of the listening businessman in the early stages of decrepitude, jealousy swam.

  Chapter 24 DIALOGUE

  TWO MONTHS WENT BY. It was the rainy season. Shunsuke, on his way to a meeting in Kamakura, went up to the Yokosuka Line platform in Tokyo Station and discovered Yuichi standing with both hands thrust into his raincoat pockets, a perplexed look on his face.

  With Yuichi were two rakishly dressed boys. One, in a blue shirt, held Yuichi’s arm. The other, in a red shirt with sleeves rolled up, faced Yuichi with his arms folded. Shunsuke stepped behind them and listened to their conversation from the concealment of a pillar.

  “Yuchan, if you’re not going to break up with this guy, kill me right here.”

  “Stop that plain nonsense,” the boy in the blue shirt interjected. “Yuichi and I are never goingr to break up. You, as far as Yuichi is concerned, are just a little cupcake he ate. And that’s what you look like, a cheap little, sweet little, icky little cupcake.”

  “Cut it out or I’ll kill you.”

  Yuichi pulled his arm from Blue Shirt’s grasp. Then he said in an older, more composed tone: “Won’t you cut it out? Later on I’ll listen to all you’ve got to say. It doesn’t look right in a place like this.” He turned to Blue Shirt and added: “You’re acting too much like a wife!”

  Blue Shirt lost his temper: “All right, come on outside. I want to talk to you.”

  The red-shirted boy smiled, showing his beautiful white teeth: “You nut, you. You are outside. See? Everybody’s going by with hats and shoes on.”

  Things were getting out of hand, so Shunsuke circled about and approached so that Yuichi faced him. The look with which they met was quite natural. Yuichi bowed with a smile that indicated he had been rescued. It had been a long time since Shunsuke had seen on his face such a beautiful smile full of brotherly affection.

  Shunsuke was dressed in well-tailored tweeds; he wore a natty brown checkered handkerchief in his breast pocket. When the ceremonious and highly theatrical greetings between him and Yuichi began, the two boys watched with blank looks. One of them said, with all the charm he could inject into his glance, “Well, Yuchan, I’ll be seeing you.” The other turned his back without saying a word. Both then disappeared. The yellowish Yokosuka Line train thundered in beside the platform.

  “You make dangerous associations, don’t you?” Shunsuke said, going toward the train.

  “You’re one of my associations, aren’t you, sir?” Yuichi replied.

  “But he was talking about killing or something.”
>
  “So you heard. Those guys always talk that way. You can’t get up a fight between cowards. Besides, those two snapping and snarling fellows are having an affair.”

  “Affair?”

  “When I’m not around, they sleep with each other.”

  The two seated themselves facing each other in the second-class coach. The train picked up speed. Neither inquired about the other’s destination. They looked wordlessly out of the window for a time. The landscape along the railroad touched Yuichi’s heart.

  They passed wet, ill-humored blocks of gray buildings which were followed by cloudy, black factory landscapes. Across a swamp and a wasted, narrow meadow stood a glass-walled factory. Several panes of glass were broken; in the dark, sooty, hollow interior, naked light bulbs could be seen scattered about, weakly shining in the daylight. Then they passed an old wooden elementary school, built on fairly high ground. The U-shaped building looked in their direction out of lifeless windows. In the rain-soaked, vacant schoolyard stood a set of Swedish wall bars with the whitewash peeling. Then endless billboards—Takara Ale, Lion Toothpaste, Plastics, Morinaga Caramels.

  It had grown warm, so the youth took off his coat. His new suit, his shirt, his necktie, his tie pin, his handkerchief, even his wrist watch were the utmost in luxury. They were combined with inconspicuous harmony. Not only these, but also the new Dunhill lighter he took from his pocket, as well as his cigarette case, were elegantly attractive. Altogether they reflected Kawada’s taste, Shunsuke thought.

  “Where are you going to meet Mr. Kawada?” Shunsuke asked sarcastically. The youth suddenly shifted his attention from the lighter flame which he was applying to his cigarette and stared at the old man. The tiny blue flame didn’t flare up; it hung spectrally in mid-air.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m a novelist.”

  “You surprised me. He’s waiting for me at the Kofuen, in Kamakura.”

  “Is that right? I’ve got a meeting in Kamakura, too.” The two were silent awhile. Yuichi became conscious that something distinctly red was cutting unexpectedly across the dark field of his vision. He looked and saw that they were passing by the framework of an iron bridge being repainted. The undercoat was red.

  Suddenly Shunsuke said: “Do you love Kawada, or what?”

  Yuichi lifted his shoulders high: “You’re joking.”

  “Why are you going to meet someone you don’t love?” “Aren’t you the one, sir, who encouraged me to marry a woman I didn’t love?”

  “A woman and a man are two different things.”

  “Ha! They’re the same thing. They’re both horny, and they’re both a bore.”

  “Kofuen—that’s a fine, luxurious inn, but—”

  “But?”

  “In the old days, son, the big businessmen used to take geisha there from Shimbashi and Akasaka.”

  The youth, seemingly hurt, was silent.

  Shunsuke did not understand. He did not know how terribly bored the youth always was; and what kept this Narcissus from being bored even more was the fact that this world was filled with nothing but mirrors; in the prison of the mirror this beautiful captive, could be held for the rest of his life. The aging Kawada at least knew how to transform himself into the mirror.

  Yuichi said: “I haven’t seen you since then. How was Kyoko? You told me on the phone it went very well.” He smiled, but he did not recognize that his smile was a carbon copy of Shunsuke’s. “Everything turns out so well —Yasuko, Mrs. Kaburagi, Kyoko. How about it? I’m always faithful to you.”

  “If you’re faithful why are you never home to me?” Shunsuke said, with an indignation he could not suppress. He did his best to keep his complaint offhand: “In two months I’ve talked to you on the phone just two or three times, haven’t I? On top of that, whenever I suggest we meet, you hem and haw.”

  “I felt if you had some business with me, you’d write me a letter.”

  “I almost never write letters.”

  Two or three stations had gone by. On the wet platform where there was no roof stood the lone sign bearing the name of the station. In the dark congestion on the platform under the roof were the great numbers of blank faces and the great numbers of umbrellas; the workmen clothed in wet blue serge looked up toward the windows of the train from the tracks below—somehow these ordinary scenes deepened the silence of the two men inside.

  Soon Yuichi, drawing his body away, repeated: “How was Kyoko?”

  “Kyoko? How must I say it? I didn’t have the slightest feeling that I’d got what I wanted. When, there in the darkness, I took your place and got into that woman’s bed, and when that drunken woman, with her eyes still closed, called me Yuchan, I really felt a sense of rejuvenation moving within me. It was just a short time, but I took on the guise of your youth. That’s all. When Kyoko woke up, she never let out another peep until morning. Since then I haven’t heard anything from her. As far as I can see, that woman is apt to go downhill after this affair. In a way, I feel sorry for her. She’s not a woman who needed something like that done to her.”

  Yuichi felt no twinge of conscience whatsoever. It was an action without object, without impulse from which regret could come. In his memory his action was pristinely pure. That action, governed by neither desire nor grudge; that action, possessed of not a scintilla of malice—it ruled over a fixed period of time which would not come again. It went from one pure point to another pure point.

  Perhaps at no other time was there a time that Yuichi fulfilled so completely his role as a product of Shunsuke’s art, freed of all moral considerations. Kyoko was thus not really taken in by him. The aged man lying beside her when she awakened was the same character as the beautiful young presence that had been at her side since the daylight hours.

  For the visions, the fascinations, provoked by the work he had himself created, the author naturally had no responsibility. Yuichi represented the exterior of the work— the body, the dreaminess, the unfeeling coldness of intoxicating wine. Shunsuke represented the interior of the work —the moody planning, the formless desire, the fulfilled lust of the action called creation. That combined character, however, participating in the same work, was reflected in the eyes of the woman as nothing less than two different men.

  There aren’t many memories so completely miraculous as that one, thought the youth, as he turned his eyes to gaze at the scene outside the window, wrapped in fine rain. Though I was infinitely removed from the meaning of the action, I was close to the superlatively pure form of the action. I did not move, yet I cornered the prey. I did not covet the object, yet the object turned into the form that I coveted. I did not shoot, yet the rare prize was wounded by my missile and felled.

  Thus at that time, from day to dark, pristinely pure, without flaw, I was spared the moral duties imposed by events of the past that nagged at me. If that evening I wished to devote myself to the pure desire of carrying a woman to bed, that was fine.

  That memory, however, is unpleasant to me, thought Shunsuke. Even in that moment I could not believe that my interior beauty was consonant with Yuichi’s exterior beauty. Socrates’ prayer to the various gods of the place on that summer morning when he lay under the plane tree on the bank of the Ilissus River, chatting with the beautiful boy Phaedrus until the day cooled, seems to me the highest teaching on earth: “Pan, first, and all the gods that dwell in this place, grant that I may become fair within, and that such outward things as I have may be at peace with the spirit within me.”

  The Greeks had the rare power to look at internal beauty as if it were hewn from marble. Spirit was badly corrupted in later times, exalted through the action of lustless love, and smirched through the action of lustless loathing. Beautiful young Alcibiades, drawn by the internal, love-lust wisdom of Socrates, was so aroused by the prospect of being passionately loved by that man as ugly as Silenus that he crept in with him and slept under the same mantle. When I read the beautiful words of Alcibiades in “The Drinking Party” dialog
ue, they almost bowled me over: “It would be embarrassing to tell men of intelligence that I did not give my body to someone like you—even more embarrassing than to admit to the uncultured multitude that I had surrendered to you. Much more!”

  He lifted his eyes. Yuichi was not looking his way. The young man was immersed in something very small and inconsequential. In the rain-soaked backyard of a lone little house by the tracks, a housewife was squatting, assiduously starting a fire in a charcoal burner. The busy motion of her white fan and the tiny red draft vent were visible. What is life? Perhaps it is a riddle that does not have to be solved, Yuichi thought.

  “Does Mrs. Kaburagi write you?” Shunsuke said, abruptly again.

  “Once a week, great long ones,” said Yuichi, smiling faintly. “The letters of husband and wife always come in the same envelope. The husband writes one page, at most two. They’re both astonishingly free, telling me they love me and things like that. In the wife’s letter the other day, there was this masterpiece of a line: The memory of you makes us happy with each other.’ ”

  “An odd couple, aren’t they?”

  “Married couples are all odd,” Yuichi said, childishly. “Mr. Kaburagi seems to be bearing his job in the Forestry Bureau, eh?”

  “His wife just started as an automobile broker. That way they’ll get along somehow.”

  “Is that right? That girl will do it very well, too. And by the way, Yasuko is due this month, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to be a father. That’s funny.”

  Yuichi did not smile. He was looking at the tightly shut warehouses of a shipping agency along the canal. He saw the rain-soaked jetty and the new wood color of two or three boats tied to it. The name of the company in white letters on a rusty warehouse door imparted a vague feeling of expectation to this unmoving waterfront. Was that something coming out of the distant seascape in this direction, disturbing the sad reflection of the warehouses in the stagnant water?

  “Are you scared?” The bantering tone intruded upon the youth’s proud complacency.