The Frolic of the Beasts

by Yukio Mishima

Yūko, despite having drunk a considerable amount, fixed her pellucid eyes on Kōji’s face. She looked like somebody who suddenly had thrust before them an incomprehensible picture or a map that was impossible to trace. She extended an elegant finger into the dusky light and, like a blind woman, reached out to touch his cheek, only to stop halfway. To Yūko, Kōji’s cheek appeared to suddenly harden like stone. Her head was bent forward and a green-tinged shadow fell across her cheek, and in a terribly cold, almost possessed tone of voice she said, “Today is Tuesday.”

  * * *

  —

  What Kōji vividly remembered, more than the thirty-minute passage of time between eight thirty and nine o’clock that evening, was the stillness of the scene—almost as if it were a painting formed of living people.

  It took place in an ordinary apartment. Ippei was sitting up on the bed at the back of the room, dressed in a silvery gray silk gown. At his feet sat Machiko, wearing an identical gown, her hands thrust in the pockets. They were both naked underneath. A stand-type electric fan generously waved its drooping neck above their heads. Since the apartment had been hastily arranged, the color and design of the curtains and furniture did not match. Unfinished drinks stood on the bed table together with an ashtray. A three-sided mirror with its wings spread out appeared as if it was about to swallow up the room. With his pallid, tired face, Ippei looked sick.

  A little while after they had knocked, Machiko appeared at the door, having adjusted the collar of her gown. Yūko slipped sideways into the room, followed by Kōji. Machiko drew back and sat on the bed, and Ippei quickly pulled his gown around him and propped himself up.

  There was no great outcry or quarrel, events so far had run as fluidly as water—and then stopped; the four of them observed one another as if looking through a transparent glass wall, a glass wall that had suddenly been erected before their eyes, and that was extremely difficult to negotiate.

  There was a marvelously surreal aspect to this truly wretched, mundane portrayal of reality. It was almost hallucinatory in its crystal clarity. Kōji recalled how the thoroughly creased sheet, which had appeared from beneath the displaced feather quilt, looked very much like a collection of lines drawn by an abstractionist depicting a diagram of movements.

  There was something in the way Ippei hurriedly donned his gown and sat upright that brought to mind the behavior of a comic strip character and was the only flaw in the sequence of actions; even Ippei seemed to be aware that in that instant Kōji considered it so. For in thrusting his arm into the sleeve of the gown, while he hadn’t actually committed the blunder of missing the opening completely, the action was certainly performed with a little too much haste.

  Having entered that silk labyrinth, Ippei’s emaciated, white, forty-year-old arm had thrashed about inside two or three times and, after struggling each time against the irresolute, unkind silk resistance of the lining cloth, had, at length, succeeded in grasping the awaiting air on its way out. There were certainly elements at work within this behavior that, had it continued even a fraction longer, would have upset the completion of this tableau vivant, but Ippei, when all was said and done, managed to exercise a modicum of subtle restraint.

  The foursome, motionless, stared at one another. The act of looking seemingly transformed the person being looked at into some kind of monster. Like the chairman of a meeting, Ippei probably felt obliged to be the first to break the silence, and he spoke to Kōji. As far as Ippei was concerned, it was very fortunate that Kōji was there.

  “Ah, I see you have come along as well. You’ve well and truly searched us out, haven’t you? Madam is no doubt grateful to you.”

  Kōji sensed that this indirect form of address “Madam” had hurt Yūko terribly.

  But, more than that, he felt bitterly disappointed and even betrayed. For at the moment Yūko appeared, Ippei failed to express intense delight or anything remotely resembling it. He thought about what had happened. Wasn’t it just such an expression of delight I had truly wanted to see? If it were not so, how have I endured six months of so much self-renunciation and humiliation?

  Had not Kōji desired to witness the very instant when the truth of perverse human nature begins to shine? The moment when a fake jewel emits the luster of the genuine article? Sheer delight itself? The manifestation of an irrational dream? The very moment when the ridiculous becomes the sublime? Kōji had loved Yūko out of such expectations; he had hoped to shatter the reality of her protected world, and he had even been prepared to accept that the consequences might ultimately lead to Ippei’s happiness.

  He would have at least rendered his services for the sake of somebody.

  Whereas, what he had actually witnessed was nothing other than things he had grown utterly tired of seeing: the mediocre concealment of human shame, the irony of keeping up appearances. He had unexpectedly witnessed the ungraceful collapse of the drama he had believed in. The wind having been taken out of his sails, Kōji thought to himself, If that’s how it is, then it can’t be helped. If nobody can change it, then by this hand I…

  But he didn’t know how to change it, and he steadily felt himself losing his composure.

  Yūko spoke with an enervated, hoarse voice. “Why don’t you return home quietly, dear?”

  Those words sounded awfully deflated, and Kōji wondered whether she hadn’t lost her mind. Ippei extricated his legs from where he had thrust them under the quilt. He moved them as though he were swimming, fishing around on the floor for his slippers with those hirsute, white, spindly limbs, and having located them, he arranged his gown and sat upright on the bed. He began to talk in a tone of soft persuasion, but the import was quite the opposite.

  “Come now, displaying that kind of attitude and telling me to go home will produce nothing but the opposite effect, don’t you think? It’s a foolish thing to say and doesn’t become you at all. And as for myself, I shall return home when I consider it fit to do so and not when instructed to do so by my wife. Bringing matters to a conclusion at the eleventh hour is not a good idea. Now, darling, you run along first with Kōji here, and I will join you later. I trust there are no objections? I must also consider the position of this lady.”

  Just then, Kōji noticed Machiko quivering all over like a dog that, having returned home through the rain, suddenly vigorously shook off all the raindrops. And yet for all that, her pale made-up face remained completely expressionless.

  But then Yūko dropped her parasol to the floor, and Kōji was startled as she covered her face with her hands and began to cry. It was a bitter, coarse, primitive cry, and one that he had no reason to have heard from her before. She slumped to her knees, still crying, and gave vent to a ceaseless torrent of indistinct utterances. How Ippei had hurt her despite her love, how she had persevered against these hardships, and how she had been waiting in the hope that his heart would return to her. This indulgent whining carried around the room in every direction as it left Yūko’s body—which now lay crumpled on the carpet. It were as if dirty water was splashing through the air from a broken vase that had been dropped on the floor, and listening to this torrent Kōji wanted to cover up his ears—in the end, he screamed out in his mind: Hurry up and die! Please let this woman die quickly!

  He may have hated Yūko, but, losing his presence of mind, his heart felt overwhelmed with sadness.

  He became confused, so that he wasn’t sure whom he hated. He felt miserable, as though he were being ignored—like a slender pencil barely managing to stand on end.

  The three stood idly by for what seemed like quite some time, gazing at Yūko’s crouching figure. Machiko stood up and made as if to help Yūko to her feet, and as she did so, Kōji saw how she was pulled up short by a look in Ippei’s eye. That momentary failed action appeared meaningless and transparent, as if watching sand crumble and fall to pieces as it rises up from the seabed. Kōji wondered why it was that human beings occasi
onally make such strange gestures. It was the same type of behavior a bird exhibits when, perched on top of an unstable branch, it suddenly stretches up tall and then retracts its neck.

  In any case, it wasn’t of any great significance. Yūko continued crying and jabbering. Despite the rotating electric fan, the room, with its closed curtains, was grossly hot. At length, she stood up, the hem of her skirt in disarray, and rushed toward Ippei, appearing to leap on top of his knees, screaming as she went, “Go home! Go home right away!”

  That she appeared to have leapt onto her husband’s knees may have been due to the exaggerated impression they made at that moment, and maybe Yūko had only placed her tear-soaked, slack hand on the knees of Ippei’s gown. Nevertheless, the upper half of Ippei’s body collapsed backward on the bed; then, having gained momentum, it bounced back, pushing Yūko’s bent body aside. More so than Machiko, it was possible that the presence of Kōji had been responsible for the strange vanity evident in that instant in Ippei’s unnecessarily violent behavior. Perhaps, having brushed her aside, in that moment, Ippei had grabbed hold of his wife around the chest in an attempt to impart a life lesson to Kōji and in the hope of seeing society’s distant approbation reflected in the younger man’s eyes. Gripping her so, he struck his wife heavily across the cheek. Having been hit, Yūko was quiet, but Machiko uttered a slight shriek.

  Bull’s-eye! thought Kōji, looking on. Ippei had done her over pretty well. But far from deriving a cold sense of satisfaction, Kōji felt his whole body seething with excitement. Ippei struck Yūko once again. Her white face appeared docile like that of a doll, and with his arm no longer in place to support her, she collapsed obliquely onto the floor. Kōji reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He later recalled the natural smoothness of his actions at that time. Without any hint of emotion, objective, or motive, he took part in a flowing series of spontaneous movements and, with no impediments, freely crossed the boundary of no return. Ippei turned his head. Kōji pounced and struck frenzied blows with the wrench he had clasped in his hand. The wrench buried itself terribly deeply, and Ippei’s head moved in accordance with its impact.

  Chapter 3

  Meeting Ippei for the first time in two years, Kōji found himself gazing at the head he had once struck with the wrench. The area had since been covered over with a thick growth of hair and was hidden from sight. Despite being exposed to the relentless glare of the sun, Ippei’s hair did not shine.

  As he was gazing intently, many impulsive recollections and ambivalent thoughts crowded Kōji’s mind and blocked his vision, almost as if in the midst of the sunlight a drifting column of mosquitoes had suddenly and importunately obstructed his view.

  At the time, I could no longer endure that putrid world; a world bereft of logic. It was necessary that I impart some logic into that world of pigs’ entrails. And so you see, I imparted the cold, hard, black logic of iron. Namely, the logic of the wrench.

  And again, Yūko said herself in the bar that night, “Seeing his impassive face, well, it would simply be the end.” Thanks to that attack, I’ve saved them both from that end.

  Then, aghast at such thoughts, I have repented, I…

  The mosquito-like cloud of thoughts disappeared from before his eyes in an instant.

  Kōji had already been informed during the course of the investigation:

  The wrench blows, delivered to the left side of the head, had caused a collapsed fracture of the cranium and cerebral contusion. Even after Ippei had regained consciousness, the right side of his body was paralyzed, and aphasia was diagnosed.

  Ah! And not forgetting the wrench. What a lot of troublesome, repetitive inquiry.

  Machiko testified that it hadn’t been in the room. The wrench bore the stamp of an electrical company, and its owner was traced. He had been to T Hospital by car, and while the wrench definitely belonged to his company, he claimed he had no recollection of dropping it. Furthermore, his car had not broken down once in the preceding month. In any case, whether it was stolen from some other place, or had been picked up from the ground, the wrench proved indelibly the premeditated nature of Kōji’s crime. He was sentenced to seventeen months’ imprisonment for bodily injury.

  * * *

  —

  Ippei smiled from the shadow of the climbing roses as he laboriously guided them through the gate; the large white all-season blooming flowers around the trellised archway basked fully in the summer sun.

  Kōji found it difficult to accept that anybody could change so much in such a short time. There no longer existed the dandy clothed in a finely tailored new suit, Italian silk shirt and tie, and sporting amethyst cuff links that sparkled somberly at his sleeves, who, the more he busily conducted himself in his daily affairs, created a more languorous atmosphere around himself. Kōji was horrified to think that all these changes had been brought about by a single attack.

  In looking at Ippei and the result of the crime he had committed, Kōji felt as he imagined one would at seeing an illegitimate child several years after he had brought it into the world by way of a casual relationship. Of seeing the shadow of his own self seeping from the child. Ippei, as he was, was dead and gone, and in his place stood a deep shadow of Kōji’s existence (of course, Ippei’s face bore no resemblance whatsoever to Kōji’s). It was a human form that, rather than being a likeness of Kōji, resembled the form of the crime he had committed. If Kōji could sketch a self-portrait of his inner self, then Ippei would surely be the exact form it would take. Even the troubled look that cloaked Ippei’s helplessly smiling countenance was, in truth, something that belonged to Kōji.

  A recollection came suddenly to mind: Kōji remembered how he had once seen Ippei at the shop change into his dinner jacket, insert a white rose in the buttonhole of his collar, and leave for a gamblers’ party. It had been an elegant white rose that hung from his lapel. The same rose as those flowers that now threw shadows across Ippei’s cheek. To make matters worse, the Ippei before him was slovenly dressed; the hemline of his gown did not meet, with the back of the garment askew and the dappled sash having slipped down loosely about the hips. The roses looked like ridiculous large white ornamental hairpins as Ippei wound his way in and out of a festival procession.

  * * *

  —

  “It’s Kōji, you remember, don’t you? Kōji.”

  Yūko slowly and clearly pronounced his name, and Ippei, still smiling that twisted smile, said, “Kooo…ri.”

  “Not Kooo…ri, Kōji.”

  Ippei continued. “Kooo…ri,” and then, quite clearly, “how do you do?”

  “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way he can say ‘how do you do’ without a hitch. It’s not Kooo…ri. It’s Kōji…”

  Kōji became irritable and cut in. “It’s all right. ‘Kooo…ri’ is okay. In fact, it suits me better. It’s fine.”

  With greetings thus exchanged, their “first” meeting came to an end.

  Kōji’s irritation was complex; there was some impediment, and he was nettled by his inability to feel any regret. His whole being ought to have been a receptacle filled with remorse. Even before he saw Ippei’s completely changed form, he ought to have dropped to his knees in tears and apologized. Instead, something had intervened, clogging the machinery and stopping this course of events. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was; perhaps it was that unsettling smile that hung about Ippei’s mouth like a spiderweb.

  From a nearby branch, a summer bush warbler sang out, the sound blending with the chirring of cicadas. They went on through the rose gate, crossed the uneven flagstones, and passed alongside the greenhouses. Seeing Ippei’s limping form, Kōji proffered a helping hand, but his action was cut short by Yūko’s large, dark, expressionless eyes. Kōji didn’t know why she had checked him. Perhaps she was trying to encourage Ippei to be more independent. In any case, he felt his deliberate gesture had been perceived, a
nd he was hurt by her intervention.

  “I’ll show you around the greenhouses first. I’ve done it all myself. The research, the planning. I’ve built the place up and I run it. It’s developed into quite a business. For old acquaintance’s sake, Tokyo Horticulture provides good trade with me. You wouldn’t have imagined me capable of this in the past, would you? A woman, you see, has after all a considerable number of hidden talents. I’m quite impressed with it, if I do say so myself.”

  It wasn’t clear how much of this rapid conversation Ippei was able to follow, although there was certainly a sense that part of what Yūko was saying to Kōji was for Ippei’s benefit. That had been the case particularly since they passed through the rose-festooned archway. In fact, it had been that way even when Ippei was not close by—for example, even while they were on their way up from the harbor earlier—and, thinking about it, that was even the way it had been two years ago, before the incident.

  A water pipe stood at the entrance to the greenhouse. Kōji abruptly turned on the tap and cocked his head obliquely to one side, drinking deeply of the gushing liquid. The force of the water as it spurted onto his cheek was pleasant. His face was exposed for a moment to this glistening collision and his pallid Adam’s apple, which hadn’t seen the sun for some time, moved feverishly as he drank.

  “He certainly looks like he’s enjoying that water.”

  “Wa…ter,” said Ippei, echoing Yūko. Pleased that he had been able to say it so well, he repeated it. “Wa…ter.”

  Kōji looked up. In the entrance to the greenhouse stood a muscular old man wearing shorts and a running shirt. It was Teijirō, the gardener. He used to be a fisherman, and as Yūko had explained, he had a daughter who worked at the Imperial Instruments factory in Hamamatsu. Kōji was momentarily uneasy—maybe Teijirō knew where he had come from. But his anxiety was dispelled by Teijirō’s firm, sun-weathered features—which resembled an ancient suit of armor—that looked out at him from under a closely cropped head of salt-white hair.