The trolley had arrived at the transfer point for center-bound cars. The man in the jacket parted from his companion and stood at the door. Yuichi followed him and got out. He was moved more by a sense of duty to himself than by curiosity.
The intersection was fairly busy. He waited for the next car, as far away as possible from the man in the jacket. In a fruit store in front of him the autumn fruits were piled in abundance under the overbright lamps. Here were grapes; purple under their darkish bloom, they mingled sunny autumn brilliance with the Fuyu persimmons nearby. Pears also, along with early green mandarin oranges. There were apples. The heaps of fruit, however, were as cold as corpses.
The man in the jacket looked toward Yuichi. Their eyes met; Yuichi looked away unconcernedly. The man’s gaze, intolerably persistent, did not falter. Will it be my fate to sleep with this man? Perhaps I don’t have any choice. Yuichi shuddered at the thought. Mingled with the shudder was an unclean, putrescent sweetness.
The trolley arrived, and Yuichi swiftly boarded it. Perhaps during their earlier conversation they had not seen his face. It wouldn’t do for them to think him one of their sort. In the eyes of the man in the gray jacket, however, desire burned. Standing on tiptoe, he stared intently, searching Yuichi’s face. Complete face; intrepid, young wolf’s face; ideal face ...
Yuichi, however, turned the broad back of his navy-blue trench coat and looked at the placard painted in fall colors: “Go to N—— Hot Spring in the Fall.” The advertisements were all like that. Hot springs; hotels; rooms by day or week; you can rest here; see our Romance Room; best facilities, lowest prices ... In one poster there was the silhouette of a naked woman on the wall and an ash tray with a cigarette wafting smoke. “For a souvenir of one night this fall, stay at this hotel,” the caption read.
These advertisements pained Yuichi. He was coming to the inescapable conclusion that society is governed by the rule of heterosexuality, that endlessly tiresome principle of majority rule.
The car soon came to the center of town and ran under the light from windows of buildings already closed or about to close. There were few pedestrians; the trees along the street were dark. The park’s shrubbery, fading into blackness, came in sight.
There was a car stop in front of the park. Yuichi got off first. Fortunately there were many others getting off with him. The other man was behind them all. Yuichi crossed the street with the others and went into a little corner store across from the park. Picking up a magazine as if to read it he studied the park. The man was standing restlessly in front of the public rest room just off the sidewalk. Clearly, he was searching for Yuichi.
The man went into the rest room; Yuichi left the store and, cutting through a tide of flowing traffic, swiftly crossed the street. The rest room was dark under the trees. There was, however, a suggestion of a multitude walking softly, a stealthy bustling, a certain unseen assemblage. It was, for instance, as if at a public banquet, when all the doors and windows were tight shut and the faint sound of music, the clatter of dishes, the plop of corks being pulled, all issued indistinctly—this was how it seemed. Actually, it was a toilet, under a cloud of evil odors. As far as Yuichi could observe, no one was in sight.
He entered the dim, clammy lamplight of the rest room, and saw what is called an “office” among the fellowship. (There are four or five such important places in Tokyo.) It was an office where the tacit office procedure is based on winks instead of documents, tiny gestures instead of print, code communication in place of a telephone. This was the dimly lighted, silent office whose activities here greeted Yuichi’s eyes. He saw nothing definite, though, beyond a group of at least ten men—many for this hour—exchanging furtive glances.
All at once, they saw Yuichi’s face. Then many eyes glistened, many eyes stared in envy. Under their glances the beautiful young man felt himself torn eight ways by fear. Then he wavered. There was, however, a kind of order in the movements of the men. It was as if they were held by a restraining power so that the pace of all their movements was carefully regulated. They moved like a clump of seaweed untangling slowly in the water.
Yuichi fled from the doorway of the toilet to the shelter of the eight-finger shrubs in the park. As he did so, he saw the glow of cigarettes here and there on the paths ahead of him. Lovers who strolled arm in arm along the narrow paths at the rear of the park, in daylight or before sundown, surely never dreamed that a few hours later they would be put to a completely different use. One might say that the park had changed faces. Another side of the face than that which appeared during the daytime now manifested itself.
As a human banquet at midnight might become in the final act of a Shakespearean play a banquet for ghosts, the bench where lovers from the office casually sit and chat and enjoy the view becomes at night something that can be termed a “First-class Stage.” The dark stone stairway which grade-school children on a hike find too steep and must run up so as not to fall behind has its name changed to “Runaway for Men.” The long road in back of the park has its name changed to “First Sight Road.” All are night names.
The police knew these names well as part of their jurisdiction which they neglected, since there were no laws by which they might crack down. In London and in Paris, of course, parks serve this purpose as a practical necessity, but it is a sign of some ironic charity that a public place like this, symbol of the principle of majority rule, should benefit such a small number of people. H- Park has been used as a gathering place for men of this sort since the time of the last emperor, when a part of its area was a military drill field.
At any rate, Yuichi, without realizing it, was standing at the edge of “First Sight Road.” He went up the road the wrong way. The men stood in the shadows of the trees or walked along the sidewalk.
This company—this choosing, craving, pursuing, joyfully seeking, sighing, dreaming, loitering company—this company with sentiments whetted by the narcotic of custom— this company whose desire had been changed to something ugly by an incurable esthetic disease exchanged fixedly sad stares as its members roved under the dim light of the street lamps. In the night many, many, wide-open, thirsty glances met and melted into each other. At the bend of the path, hand in hand, shoulder against shoulder, eyes over shoulders* while the night breeze softly rustled the branches; now coming, now going again, the appraising looks sharply cast crossed in the same place . . . insects sang under the bushes where either the moon or the street lamps formed patches of light and shadow under the trees. The sound of the insects and the light from the cigarettes blinking on and off here and there in the darkness deepened the silence so heavy with feeling. At times the headlights of automobiles zipping by beyond or within the park set the shadows of the trees shivering and momentarily launched into view the shapes of hitherto unseen men standing there.
They are all my comrades, Yuichi thought as he walked. Rank, occupation, age, beauty notwithstanding, they are a fellowship welded by the same emotion—by their private parts, let us say. What a bond! These men do not have to sleep together. From the day we were born we have slept together. In hatred, in jealousy, in scorn, coming together for a short moment of love just to keep warm.
What is there about the walk of that man over there? His body is all affectation—his shoulders narrowed, his wide hips swaying, his neck at a posturing angle. His walk reminds one of the peristaltic glide of a snake. Closer than parent or child, more than wife, brother, or sister, they are my comrades . . . hopelessness is a kind of repose.
Yuichi’s despair had lightened a little. It was partly because, even in so large a group of his own kind, none displayed a beauty that surpassed his. Still, he thought, I wonder what happened to that fellow in the jacket. I don’t know whether he was still in the toilet. I got so scared, I took off without seeing him. Is that him I see standing around under the tree?
The superstitious fear came back, the frightening conviction that, having encountered that man, he must end up sleeping with him. To settle his a
gitation, he lit a cigarette. At that moment a youth approached with an unlighted, perhaps deliberately pinched out cigarette, saying, “Excuse me. Can you give me a light?’*
He was dressed in a well-tailored gray double-breasted suit, a fine felt hat, necktie in the best of taste . . . Silently, Yuichi handed him his cigarette. The youth turned his oval face. Seeing that face more distinctly Yuichi shuddered. The veins in the man’s hand, the deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, were those of a person well past forty. The eyebrows were meticulously blackened; the aging skin lay masked beneath the theatrical makeup. His unnaturally long eyelashes, too, could not possibly be genuine.
The aged youth lifted his round eyes as if about to say something. Yuichi, however, turned his back and walked away. As he did so—slowly, so as not to appear to be escaping the man, who had aroused his pity—the other men, who had seemed intent on approaching him, also turned. There were five or more. Separately, each nonchalantly changed direction. One, Yuichi perceived clearly, was the man in the jacket. Unconsciously, he walked faster. These silent admirers, however, followed closely, as if bent on gazing at that beautiful face.
When he reached the stone staircase, Yuichi estimated the distance and counted on finding an escape route at the top. He did not know its nighttime name. The moonlit night glittered at the head of the stairway. As he climbed, he saw someone coming toward him, whistling carelessly as he descended. It was a boy in a tight white sweater. Yuichi looked at his face. It was the same boy he had seen in the restaurant.
“Oh. Big brother!” the boy said, extending his hand as he ‘moved impulsively toward Yuichi. The uneven surface of the stones caused him to sway momentarily. Yuichi grasped his slim, firm waist. This physical encounter had a strange effect upon him.
“Do you remember me?” the boy asked.
“Yes, I remember you,” Yuichi replied.
He held back the memory of the pain that had troubled him at seeing the boy on his wedding day. Their hands were still clasped in greeting. Yuichi could feel the rough setting of the ring on the boy’s little finger. It recalled the sensation of coarse fibers of the towel thrown against his shoulder by a schoolmate back in high school.
Hand in hand, the two hurried out of the park. Yuichi’s breast heaved. He drew the boy, with whom he had somehow locked arms, along with him. There on that quiet night path, where lovers often strolled, they ran.
“Why are you hurrying so?” the boy said, gasping for breath.
Yuichi flushed and stopped short.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re just not used to it, big brother, are you?” the boy said.
The three hours they spent soon afterward in a hotel of doubtful reputation was to Yuichi like a bath in a hot waterfall. He divested himself of every human restraint; his soul was stripped naked in those three drunken hours. How delicious is it to strip the body to nakedness! In that moment when his soul doffed and discarded its robe and stood naked, Yuichi’s ecstasy was lifted by a fierceness so intense that it seemed almost as if there was no room left for his body.
It must, however, be set straight immediately that it was not Yuichi who bought the boy so much as it was the boy who bought Yuichi. In other words, a skillful seller bought a clumsy buyer. The boy’s skill made Yuichi tremble violently with pleasure. The reflection of the neon signs against the window curtains was like a fire. Amid those reflecting flames a pair of shields—Yuichi’s beautiful manly breast—floated. Somehow in the night a strange chill affected his allergy-sensitive constitution, and in several places on his breast hives appeared in red lumps. With a sigh, the boy kissed the spots one by one.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, drawing on his trousers, the boy pleaded, “When will I see you again?”
Yuichi was to see Shunsuke the following day.
“The day after tomorrow is all right. Not in the park, though.”
“You’re right. We don’t have to do that. Ever since I was a child I have yearned for the man whom I met for the first time tonight. I have never seen a man so lovely as you, big brother. Surely, God sent you, didn’t He? Didn’t He? Please, don’t ever get tired of me.”
The boy rubbed the nape of his slim neck against Yuichi’s shoulder. Yuichi rubbed the boy’s neck with his fingertips and closed his eyes. At this time he took pleasure in the anticipation that he might someday discard his first lover.
“Day after tomorrow, as soon as the restaurant closes, I’ll come. Near here there is a coffeehouse where only the fellows come around. It looks like a club, though, and some regular people who know no better come in for coffee. So it’s all right if you go there. Now let me draw you a map.
“All right. You’ll find it right away, I think. Oh, from now on my name is Eichan. What’s yours?”
“Yuchan.”
“That’s a nice name.”
Yuichi was slightly irritated by the compliment. He was shocked that the boy was much more at ease than he.
They parted at the street comer. Yuichi caught the last trolley and went on home. Neither his mother nor Yasuko asked where he had been. Asleep beside Yasuko in his bed, Yuichi felt relaxed for the first time. He had already scored a victory. Having been thrown into curiously sinful pleasures, he compared himself to a prostitute who had come to the end of a happy holiday and was now returning to her daily employment.
There was, however, a deeper meaning in the comparison he had formed, half in fun. It was a first impression of the unexpected influence that the modest, powerless Yasuko would someday exert on her husband; in fact, it conveyed a presentiment of its eventual domination.
When I compare my body stretched out beside that boy, thought Yuichi, with my body now stretched out beside Yasuko, I feel so cheap. Yasuko does not give her body to me; I give mine to her, and I do it free. I am an unpaid prostitute.
These self-deprecating thoughts did not hurt him as before; somehow they delighted him. Tired, he slowly sank into slumber—like a lazy prostitute.
Chapter 5 THE FIRST STEPS TOWARD SALVATION
THE SMILING FACE of Yuichi, brimming with happiness, that appeared at the door the next day disconcerted Shunsuke first of all, and later the woman caller whom Shunsuke had invited Yuichi to meet. Each had anticipated that the badge of misfortune would fit this youth best. It must be said they were wrong. Yuichi’s beauty was universal. There was no badge, as it were, that did not become him. With a woman’s quick, appraising glance, Mrs. Kaburagi saw this immediately. This youth is cut out for happiness, she thought. A youth who can wear happiness as one might wear a black suit is a being that must be termed precious in our day.
Yuichi paid the lady the courtesy of thanking her for her presence at his wedding reception. The artless cheerfulness of his manners was enough to make any friendly woman affect mincing familiarities with a young man. His smiling face, she told him, was enough to set the flag of “Just Married” fluttering from his forehead. She warned him of her fear that if that flag were not removed when he left the house he would not be able to see where he was going and be hit by a trolley or car.
The old man listened to his answer with an open smile; Yuichi seemed oblivious of her banter. Shunsuke’s perplexity revealed the foolish look of a man trying to hide the fact that he had been betrayed. For the first time, Yuichi began to despise this pompous, ancient man. Not only that, he tasted the joy of the swindler in the fantasy that he had bilked him of 500,000 yen. Thus, the meal shared by the three was unexpectedly animated.
Shunsuke Hinoki had a long-standing admirer who was a skillful chef. His culinary art filled the china collected by Shunsuke’s father with delicacies that became them. Out of his constitutional lack of interest Shunsuke was fastidious about neither the style of his china nor his cookery, but when he had people over he usually sought the aid of this man, who begged to be of service.
This is what this second son of a Kyoto textile merchant, a pupil of Kitsu Issai in the Kaiseki school, prepared for this evening’s board: k la
Kaiseki, a hassun tray of hors d’oeuvres made of mushrooms with pine needles, fried lily roots, Hachiya persimmons sent by a friend in Gifu, soybeans from the Daitokuji, and calico-fried crab; followed by red miso broth combined with the flesh of small birds ground with mustard; and then, in elegant Sung dynasty red plates in a peony pattern, sliced raw flatheads prepared blowfish-style; the fried course was spawning sweetfish broiled in soy, served with hatsutake mushrooms in a blue Aoae dressing and ark shellfish in white sesame and bean-paste dressing. The boiled course was pickled bracken in bream bean curd, served with a steaming broth containing red madders. After the meal they were served Morihachi, “little rising monks,” white and pink dolls individually wrapped in tissue paper. Even these rare delicacies, however, did not serve to loosen the youthful tongue of Yuichi. It was an omelet he craved.
“This meal isn’t much to your liking, is it, Yuichi?” said Shunsuke, noting the youth’s lack of appetite. He asked him what he would prefer. Yuichi simply answered what was on the top of his mind. That single, artless word “omelet,” however, went straight to the heart of Mrs. Kaburagi.
Yuichi was deceived by his own joy. He forgot that he was incapable of loving women. The exposure of fixed ideas sometimes cures fixed ideas; but it was only the idea and not its cause that was cured. His false sense of being cured, however, left him free for the first time to revel drunkenly among hypotheses.
Assuming everything I’ve said is a lie, Yuichi thought to himself with more or less euphoric gaiety, suppose I really loved Yasuko and, strapped for cash, had cooked up a cock-and-bull story for this philanthropic old novelist; then I’d really be in a fine position now. Then my triumph, my lovely-spot-in-the-country happiness, might boast that it was built on an unquiet grave. My unborn children would hear stories of an old skeleton buried beneath the diningroom floor.
Forbidden Colors Page 7
