The Frolic of the Beasts Read online

  I was afraid that Yūko’s actual photograph would fall short of my expectations. Fortunately, my fears proved groundless.

  Besides its being slightly overexposed, the three figures in the picture wore white clothing, accentuating the brightness of the photograph all the more. Despite this, the picture was distinct and above all else the friendly intimacy created a strange impression. Yūko was in the middle of the frame, wearing a white dress and smiling, holding a folded parasol in her hand. If anything, her generously proportioned, gay face gave off a hint of unrefined but graceful sorrow, and while thin, her lips were also beautiful. Delighted that my illusion had not been shattered, at the same time I knew full well that the priest’s storytelling contained no exaggeration.

  The photograph had been nonchalantly given to the priest the day before the incident, when Kōji made his customary delivery of flowers to the temple. With the benefit of hindsight, no doubt everyone would agree that this was a suggestive gift indeed. More will be said about this later. The most pronounced impression was left by the priest’s description of Kōji and Yūko the morning after the murder. Being an early riser, the priest was in the habit of going down into the back garden of the temple before daybreak and puttering around.

  The sky was beginning to lighten. Just then he became aware of footsteps coming down the slope that led back up to the Kusakado greenhouse and looked up from what he was doing. Usually, no one came down from the house this early in the morning. When he looked again, he realized it was Yūko and Kōji, holding hands as they came toward him. Just at that moment, a flash of light from the eastern mountains illuminated the slope, signaling the arrival of dawn, and the couple appeared brilliantly lit in the first light of day.

  Their faces brimming with happiness, and with a youthful spring in their step, they appeared more beautiful than ever before. Descending the dew-wet path, surrounded by the lingering cries of the morning insects, Yūko and Kōji truly looked like bride and groom…

  The priest could be forgiven for thinking that they were the bearers of extraordinarily glad tidings. In fact, however, they had come to ask him to accompany them to the police station, where they intended to turn themselves in. They confessed to strangling Ippei to death late the previous night using a thin length of cord. Moreover, Kōji claimed that he had carried out the murder at Ippei’s request. The priest testified that around noon on the previous day, Kōji had given him the photograph when he came to deliver the flowers. It seems that this was Kōji’s attempt to allude to the fact that it wasn’t an impulsive crime, but rather one committed at the victim’s behest.

  However, since there was no circumstantial evidence, let alone any direct evidence, supporting his explanation, Kōji’s plea was rejected. Instead, the strange gift of the photograph was seen as proof of the premeditated nature of the crime. Kōji and Yūko were regarded as complicit. Kōji had a previous conviction for bodily harm against the victim, and accordingly there was no chance to plead extenuating circumstances. He was given the death penalty, and Yūko was sentenced to life imprisonment.

  Subsequently, Kōji and Yūko both sent letters to the priest from prison, imploring him to somehow arrange for their graves to be erected side by side. While this appeared a strange request, the priest discerned that behind it lay the specter of some mournful hope. Perhaps herein lay the real motive for delivering the photograph the day before the crime was committed.

  However, setting aside the question of Ippei’s grave, the issue of placing the other two graves side by side encountered intense resistance from certain influential villagers, and so the priest was forced to wait and bide his time.

  Last autumn, Kōji was finally executed.

  In the early spring of this year, as the three had wished, the priest arranged for Yūko’s commemorative headstone to be built to the left of Ippei’s grave—which already stood there—and to the left of that, for Kōji’s tombstone to be erected.

  * * *

  —

  Guided by the priest, I paid a visit to the three mysterious graves, and having obtained permission, I took a photograph. As if he had perceived my thoughts, as I did so the priest casually approached me with the following request. He explained that the reason he had not yet sent a photograph of the graves to Yūko was that, if possible, he had wanted to visit her and deliver it in person, but since it had been rather difficult to find an opportunity to do so, he asked if I might go in his place. I readily agreed.

  As a result of this, my summer field trip came to an end having yielded an unexpectedly poor harvest. My thoughts continually ran ahead to the meeting with Yūko, and since learning of this story from the priest, I lost interest in devoting myself to my research.

  Following my return to Tokyo, with just a few days left before the end of the summer vacation, I decided that at last today would be the day I would pay a visit to Tochigi prison.

  At Asakusa I boarded a train on the Tobu line bound for Nikko Kinugawa, alighting onto the platform of Tochigi station at 1:59 p.m.

  The lingering summer heat was relentless. Several swallows—which showed no sign of leaving soon—busily flew in and out of the old eaves above the station entrance. The sun was dazzling, and the sweeping shadows of the swallows skimmed past my eyes like a handful of small stones that had been hurled in the air before plummeting onto the deserted white square in front of the station.

  The eaves of the houses were low. To the right could be seen the foliage of a row of shabby roadside trees along the wide sidewalk that led to the shopping district. Just like in any provincial city, here, too, were dozens of incongruously large buses lined up, displaying their grandeur. I boarded the bus for Oyama, as I had been instructed to by the priest. With just a few passengers on board, the bus made its way through the shopping district, where, it being afternoon on a Monday, the stores were mostly closed. There was a noodle bar that had a cascade of red roses trailing over a black fence. There was hardly anyone walking along the street. The monotonous sunlight shone relentlessly.

  The bus, having gone briefly to the outskirts of the town—which had become disagreeably hot—and picked up some passengers, now returned the way it had come, turning left at the telephone and telegram exchange—situated midway along the shopping street—and then entered an unpaved road. The bus shook terribly.

  “The next stop is the prison. Are there any passengers stopping at the prison?” announced a young female conductor, glancing at my face. I was surprised to feel a sense of embarrassment—as if I were doing something a little questionable—feelings I imagined were experienced by any visitor going to see a female relative in this women’s prison. These past few weeks, Yūko, whom I had not yet seen, occupied my thoughts almost night and day.

  The bus passed by the front of several buildings—the courthouse, with its large protruding gables like a Buddhist temple, a law office, and the prison caterer—before stopping at the foot of a small stone bridge. Turning right at the approach to the bridge, a private road, ten yards in width, led straight to the front gate of the prison. Cherry trees lined the road on either side, although they were still saplings.

  The official residences of officers such as the prison governor and chief warden were located in this area, and beyond, the prison was surrounded by a high wall constructed of Oyaishi stone. There was no sign of life at all here either.

  When I got down from the bus, I was amazed to hear dozens of twittering birds. I couldn’t see them, but they sounded like sparrows. Starting with the garden in front of the courthouse, there were many ancient trees in this vicinity, and not only that, but the songbirds appeared to be nesting in the invisible nooks and crannies of the old houses.

  As I drew near the prison ahead, I saw that the leaves of the green door set between large stone gateposts were shut, and the gables of the old entrance—reminiscent of Meiji period architecture—stood imposingly before me. Dark treeto
ps of Japanese cypress were conspicuous from the gates. Entering through a side door on the right, I stated the purpose of my visit to the gatekeeper. I had to submit my application for a visit at the general affairs section window at the rear of the main entrance hall.

  Upon going inside the gloomy interior, having walked past the entrance pillars, with their large copper decorative nail head covers, I saw a showcase containing items manufactured by the inmates, such as sash fasteners, handbags, gloves, ties, socks, sweaters, and blouses.

  I took a visiting request form from the general affairs section window, and while writing in the columns such details as the inmate’s name, the nature of the visit, and the visitor’s relationship with the inmate, I suddenly noticed a magnificent Confederate rose in a vase for a single flower on one corner of a shelf.

  I was surprised to find a flower as graceful as this in a prison, and in looking at it, I felt acutely aware of the fact that only female inmates were interned here and that it was a dwelling place for those with worldly desires, and also that somewhere at the back of this gloomy building was Yūko.

  I handed in my written application at the window, having attached to it a letter from the priest (who was now Yūko’s guardian) written in courteous terms and explaining that I was his representative—making the visit for the purposes of enlightening the prisoner by delivering a photograph of the graves. I was told to go to the waiting room.

  Once more I went out into the dazzling outdoors and entered a small waiting room just inside the gates. There was no one there either. Some infused barley tea had been prepared, and so, wiping the perspiration from my brow, I drank down a cup with relish.

  I waited, wondering if I was ever going to be summoned. Everywhere was still in the late-summer sunlight; it was difficult to imagine there were crowds of women in the building beyond.

  I beguiled my time by gazing at a notice on the wall, which read:

  If you have been waiting more than 30 minutes please inquire with the desk clerk.

  Persons other than family members and guardians, as well as persons below the age of 14, are not permitted to visit.

  Please refrain from speaking in a foreign language or discussing matters not listed on the interview application form.

  I was afraid that perhaps my interview might not be allowed. After all, I was a stranger to the prisoner—nothing more than the representative of another, and handing over items during the visit was no doubt prohibited. Then again, the priest had already met once or twice with the prison governor and subsequently corresponded frequently by letter also; there ought to have been, therefore, a considerable degree of trust between the two.

  I waited in the suffocating heat. Cicadas sang. A number of illusory images merged, and my head swam.

  At last, my name was called out. A female warden, dressed in semiformal uniform—a white short-sleeved summer top and trousers—called over to me from the green door of a booth several yards to the front.

  As I approached, she spoke quickly and in a low voice. “The various conditions attached to your visit are quite exacting, but permission has been expressly granted. First of all, would you please show me the photograph of the graves?”

  I showed the warden the photograph that I had taken myself.

  She simply said, “Please—you should give it to her yourself,” before inviting me through to the visiting room. The interior of the room was a little over sixty square feet. There was a table in the middle, positioned flush against the wall, and the gap between the table legs was securely boarded up to prevent anyone surreptitiously passing articles underneath. The table was covered with a white vinyl cover, and next to the wall was an arrangement of four-o’clocks with small white flowers. A calendar and a crude framed picture of roses, among other things, hung on the wall. The windows, which had been left open, were adjacent to the wall of the old building and so didn’t allow the draft to come through from outside.

  There were two chairs on either side of the table, and I sat down on the one nearest the edge of the table and farthest from the wall. The warden stood by the window. There was a door at the back of the room. Beyond the plain glass, it was dark and of no help whatsoever—all I could see was my own reflection.

  Before long, I heard the creak of a door being opened, and a dull light shone through the glass. It seemed there was a farther door after this one that led through to the room beyond. A pale face appeared through the glass, and the door opened widely and roughly toward me.

  Accompanied by another female warden, Yūko appeared, wearing casual summer clothes—a blue, short-sleeved dress, gathered at the hem and with the collar adjusted like that of a kimono.

  Then, looking at me, she greeted me politely in a manner appropriate for a first meeting and sat down opposite me with the warden to her side. The other warden remained standing beside the window.

  I took a furtive look at Yūko’s face as she hung her head. It was quite unremarkable. She had round, generously proportioned features: fleshy, as if swollen, and while her skin was well cared for and pale and tender, her thin lips—devoid of lipstick—described a hard line across the lower half of her face, giving her a coarse appearance. Her eyebrows were fine, although spread out and indistinct to the point that they emphasized her deeply sunken eyes. Her hair done up in a Western style, without so much as a strand out of place, made her fleshy face look all the more severe. Her body, too, had run to loose fat, and her bare arms had an extremely heavy look about them.

  My first impression was that this woman was without question no longer young. I took out the photograph and, having passed on a message from the priest, explained the circumstances by which I had come to deliver it on his behalf.

  Even while listening to my story, Yūko remained with her eyes cast down and thanked me repeatedly. Her voice was not how I imagined it would be either.

  At length, she reached out her hand and took the photograph from the tabletop. Holding it by the edges, her body bent forward, she stared intently at it. She spent such a long time looking at it that I was afraid the warden would intervene. When she had finished looking at it she placed it back on the table and gazed at it wistfully as if reluctant to part with it.

  “Thank you very much,” she said. “Now I can serve my time in peace. Please convey my best wishes to the priest.” Yūko’s words broke off, and taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she busily dabbed at her eyes. “I can put my mind at rest, now that you have done this for me. We truly were close friends, you know. The closest there can be. You can understand that, I’m sure. Only the priest knew about it. You understand, don’t you?”

  Before long, the warden announced that visiting time was up. In tears, Yūko nodded repeatedly, placed the card-size photograph in her pocket, and picked up her handkerchief without returning it to her pocket to prevent the photograph getting wet. From somewhere nearby, the high-pitched chirr of a cicada sounded irritatingly in my ear.

  Yūko stood up, bowed deeply to me, and went through the door the warden had opened. Through the glass I could still see her blue casual clothes and the white nape of her neck. For an instant, it drifted distinctly by on the other side of the vibrating glass. But the door at the back had been opened, and when it closed again, Yūko’s form had gone from my sight.

  Translator’s Note: The Origins of The Frolic of the Beasts

  Yukio Mishima was an avowed fan of traditional Japanese Noh theater, and in fact, he wrote several Noh plays himself. The Frolic of the Beasts is considered a parody of the classical Noh play Motomezuka, written in the fourteenth century by the playwright Kiyotsugu Kan’ami.

  Motomezuka tells the story of a priest and his companions who journey from the western provinces to Kyoto but stop en route in the village of Ikuta in Settsu Province. There they encounter several village girls who relate to them the story of the maiden Unai.

  In the girls
’ telling, Unai is courted by two young men from the village, Sasada and Chinu. Loath to declare her love for one and disappoint the other, she ignores their overtures. Her parents intervene and attempt to resolve the impasse by having the suitors compete for her hand, but each contest ends in a draw. Finding herself in an impossible quandary, Unai plunges into the Ikuta River and kills herself. Brokenhearted, Sasada and Chinu follow suit, stabbing each other to death and descending to hell.

  The priest chants prayers for the repose of Unai’s soul but to no avail; she is powerless to break her attachment to the Burning House (a Buddhist metaphor for the secular world) and the Eight Great Hells, through which she must endure unending torment by her demons.

  The love triangle between Unai, Sasada, and Chinu is mirrored in the novel in the relationship between Yūko, Ippei, and Kōji, as well as in Kiyoshi’s and Matsukichi’s courtship of Kimi.

  Noh productions are characterized by their use of highly stylized masks that represent specific characters, and references to these masks can be found throughout The Frolic of the Beasts. Kōji remarks that his own face “is like a well-crafted, carved wooden mask,” and the “interminable smile” worn by Ippei recalls the fixed expression of a Noh mask. Similarly, Yūko’s defining feature, her thick, dark lipstick, is likely a direct reference to the quintessential “young woman” character found in Noh theater.

  —ANDREW CLARE,

  May 2018

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