Authors: Yukio Mishima
Temple Of Dawn (5 page)
Honda recalled the Japanese shrine, and in the heat the very thought made him feel drops of clear cool water on his forehead. To the visitor climbing the stone steps, the torii, that seems merely a well-defined frame for the main shrine building, on his exit seems to change into a frame of clear blue sky. Strange that one frame should contain a lofty shrine from one side and empty blue sky from the other. The form of the torii seemed like that of Isao’s soul.
For Isao had lived a well-defined life that resembled a torii, lofty, beautiful, simple. And inevitably it was ultimately filled with clear blue sky.
No matter how far the dying Isao’s mind had drifted from Buddhism, this very paradox seemed to point up to Honda the relationship between the Japanese and Buddhism. It was as though the muddy waters of the Menam were to be filtered through a sieve of white silk.
Late the same night that he had heard the story of the Princess from Hishikawa, Honda rummaged through his suitcase in the hotel room and brought out Kiyoaki’s Dream Diary wrapped in purple silk.
The diary had been read and reread and the binding had begun to fall apart; Honda had clumsily but carefully mended it himself. Kiyoaki’s hasty, youthful writing was still vibrant, but the color of the ink had faded during the thirty years since it had been written.
Yes, just as Honda remembered, Kiyoaki had had a vivid dream of Siam which he had entered in the diary shortly after the Siamese princes had visited his home.
Kiyoaki was seated in a fine chair in a palace with a ruined garden. He wore “a high, pointed, gold crown inlaid with jewel clusters.” In the dream he was a member of Siamese royalty.
Many peacocks were perched on the beams, letting fall their white droppings, and Kiyoaki wore Prince Pattanadid’s emerald ring on his finger. “The lovely face of a small girl” was mirrored in the stone. This must have been the face of the little mad Princess he had not yet seen, and the reflection in the emerald with its downcast eyes was presumably Kiyoaki’s own. It seemed beyond question now to Honda that the Princess was indeed the reincarnation of Kiyoaki by way of Isao.
It was not unexpected that he should have had such a dream after receiving the Siamese princes in his house and listening to the fascinating tales of their country. But after several experiences, Honda was forced to accept the fact that Kiyoaki’s dream was another manifestation of his transmigration.
It was now self-explanatory. Once he had surmounted the problem of faulty logic, everything fitted together. Isao had never told Honda, nor had Honda ever discovered, whether Isao had had any other omens; Isao too might well have dreamed during his prison nights about the girl in the tropics.
Hishikawa diligently looked after Honda’s needs during the latter’s stay in Bangkok. And the lawsuit was going well, thanks to Honda’s efforts. He had uncovered an oversight on the part of the buyers.
According to article 473 of the Thai Civil Code, which was founded on Anglo-American law, sellers need not assume responsibility for flaws in their merchandise in one or more of the following instances:
1. If the buyer was aware of the flaw at the time of purchase, or could have been had he been ordinarily observant.
2. If the flaw was evident at the time of the delivery of the merchandise, or if the buyer accepted the merchandise without reservation.
3. If the merchandise was sold at public auction.
As Honda investigated further, it became clear to him that the buyers could have been guilty according to either the first or second instance. If he could follow this up and get sufficient proof, they might well drop the charges.
Needless to say, Itsui Products were grateful, and Honda himself was quite relieved. He felt inclined to ask Hishikawa to get on with arranging an audience with the Princess. But he was such a bore.
Honda had never had any desire to make friends with artists, and indeed, he had never had a friend who could be called one. Nor had he ever expected to be introduced to an arty dropout in such a remote place as this.
It was all the more exasperating then that Hishikawa should be so helpful as a guide for the unaccustomed traveler, never the slightest reluctant to do whatever Honda asked. Furthermore, he possessed all sorts of back-door entrées in this country where any entrance through the front was strictly impossible. He was indeed a priceless guide, and he himself knew it.
But Hishikawa had retained the disagreeable affectations of an artist, whatever the work was he had produced in the past. He depended on guiding travelers to earn his living, and yet in his heart he was contemptuous of the Philistines whom he squired about. As this was transparently clear to Honda, he amused himself by being the very image of the Philistine Hishikawa thought him to be. He talked intentionally about his wife and mother in Japan, about his unhappiness in having no children. He enjoyed observing as Hishikawa unsuspectingly acted out the role of being sympathetic.
In fact, artists who were not only immature, but who made it a practice to flaunt immaturity as a dishonest alibi to fend off criticism of their works were hideous beyond measure when compared to the guileless immaturity which Kiyoaki or Isao had displayed. Artists dragged this immaturity throughout their lives . . . into their eighties. It was as if they made the swaddling clothes they hauled along into merchandise.
If there was anything worse it was the pseudo-artists; their indescribable arrogance together with their particular brand of obsequiousness gave off an odor peculiar to lazy men. Hishikawa was simply a sloth living by hanging onto others, but he pretended to be the elegant, listless aristocrat living in the tropics. Honda was irritated by his habit of saying at restaurants, wine list in hand: “Since Itsui Products are footing the bill anyway . . . ,” and of then proceeding to order the more expensive wines. Honda was not all that fond of wine.
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.
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