Forbidden Colors

by Yukio Mishima

  The rhythmic Boston English of the older man, the fluent Japanese of the secretary, and the short answers of Yuichi all made their way to Shunsuke’s ears.

  First the old foreigner poured Yuichi a beer; then he praised his beauty and his youth over and over. These flowery words and phrases made for a rare translation. Shunsuke listened attentively. The gist of the conversation was becoming clear.

  The old foreigner was a trader. He was looking for a young, beautiful Japanese youth as a companion. It was the secretary’s job to select that person. The secretary had recommended many young men to his employer, but they had not appealed to him. He had, in fact, come here several times. This evening for the first time, however, he had discovered the ideal youth. If Yuichi wished, a purely platonic association would be satisfactory. for the time being, but, the request went, would he enter into some kind of arrangement?

  Shunsuke noticed that there was a strange gap between the original statement and the interpretation. Subjects and objects were being intentionally muddied. At no time could it be called unfaithful, but the tone of the interpretation struck Shunsuke as being a sweet, flirtatious circumlocution. The young secretary had a fierce, Germanic profile. From thin lips he pronounced his sharp, dry, clear-as-a-whistle Japanese. Shunsuke glanced under the table and started. Both the secretary’s feet were locked tightly about Yuichi’s ankle. The old foreigner seemed quite unaware of this barefaced coquetry.

  At last the old man began to understand what was going on. There was no duplicity in the letter of the interpretation, but the secretary was doing his best to get one foot ahead of his employer in Yuichi’s esteem.

  By what name can the unspeakably painful emotion be called that now overcame Shunsuke? Shunsuke glanced at the shadow thrown by Yuichi’s eyelashes on his down-turned cheek. These long eyelashes, creating conjectures of how beautiful they must be in bed, suddenly fluttered. The youth’s smiling glance flashed in the direction of Shunsuke. The old author shivered. Then a deeper, twofold, unfathomable despair gripped him.

  You must be jealous, he said to himself, judging by this pain in your breast.

  He was reminded of each detail of the feeling that tortured him when long ago he was shown the prurience of his wanton wife in the kitchen door in the dawn. There was the same pain in his breast, an emotion that had no outlet. In this feeling, the only thing that was worth all the emotions of the world, the only prize, was his ugliness.

  That was jealousy. In shame and anger this dead man’s face flushed. In a piercing voice, he called: “Check!” He stood up.

  “Well, that old man is singeing in jealousy’s flame,” whispered Kimichan to Shigechan. “What does Yuchan see in him? How many years, I wonder, has Yuichi been hooked up with that old guy?”

  “He even followed Yuichi here, didn’t he?” said Shigechan, his voice ringing with hostility. “He’s really a shameless old man.”

  “He looks like a profitable client.”

  “What does he do? He looks as if he’s got a penny or two.”

  “Maybe he’s an alderman or something.”

  At the door, Shunsuke realized that Yuichi had arisen and was coming quietly after him. On the street Shunsuke stretched himself, then pounded himself over and over on the shoulders, alternating hands.

  “Are your shoulders stiff?”

  Yuichi spoke in a gentle, reassuring tone, giving the old man the feeling that his inner depths were open to view.

  “The same thing will happen to you someday. The shame gradually gets inside you. When young people are embarrassed, their skin turns red. We feel embarrassment in the flesh, particularly the bones. My bones hurt because I was taken for one of the fraternity.”

  The two strolled about for a time, side by side through the crowds.

  “You don’t like youth, do you?” Yuichi came out with this suddenly. They were words Shunsuke had not anticipated.

  “What do you mean?” he said, affronted. “If I don’t like youth, how did I ever beat my old bones into coming down here?”

  “Just the same, you don’t like youth.” Yuichi said it again with finality.

  “Youth that is not beautiful. ‘Beautiful youth’ is an annoying twist of phrase. My youth was ugly. That’s something you can’t imagine. I spent my youth wishing to be born again.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You mustn’t say that. When you say that, you violate a taboo, or something. It is your fate never to be able to say that. By the way, I hope J didn’t get you into trouble with that foreigner by walking out so suddenly just now.”

  “No, not at all,” said the youth unconcernedly. It was close to seven o’clock. The throng was at its height on the street at this time, which had been the hour of early closing during the war. It was a very misty evening, and the outline of the distant shops was like a copper-plate lithograph. The smell of the twilit street busily teased the nostrils. It was the best time of the year for subtle olfactory excitement. The smells of fruits, flannels, newly printed books, evening papers, kitchens, coffee, shoe polish, gasoline, and pickles mingled and created a translucent picture of the business of the street. The noise of the elevated train battered at their conversation.

  “There’s a shoe store,” Shunsuke said, pointing to a brightly decorated window. “It’s a high-priced shop, called Kiriya. Tonight that store is going to have the dancing shoes ready that Kyoko ordered. Kyoko is coming for them at seven. At that time I want you to be going in and out, looking at men’s shoes. Kyoko is a fairly punctual woman. When she comes, act surprised and say, ‘Oh!* Then invite her for tea. She’ll take care of the rest.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll be at the little restaurant over there, having tea,” the old man said.

  Yuichi was perplexed by the strangely narrow and twisted view this old man had of youth. He supposed it came from the poverty of his own youth. Yuichi imagined the tiny bit of youthful ugliness that might have come back into Shunsuke’s cheek while he walked about checking the time of Kyoko’s appointment at the shoe store. He could not, however, think of it any longer as alien to himself. At the same time, thanks to his abnormally close contact with the self in his mirror, he was already slave to the habit of taking his own beauty into account on every occasion.

  Chapter 10 THE FALSE ACCIDENT AND THE TRUE

  FOR THE PAST twenty-four hours, Kyoko Hodaka had thought of nothing but her chartreuse dancing slippers. Nothing else in the world mattered to her. Whoever looked at Kyoko would think fate had surely touched her lightly. Like a person who had thrown himself into a salt lake and then found himself buoyed up and rescued in spite of himself, Kyoko never ever under any circumstances got to the bottom of her emotions. For that reason, although her sunny disposition was instinctive, it seemed to be something imposed upon her by conscious policy.

  There were times when Kyoko was feverish; people were always seeing the calm hand of her husband in the background, fanning this false passion. In truth, she was like a well-trained dog, an intelligence built up from nothing more than force of habit. Those impressions gave to her own natural beauty the beautiful aspect of a plant made painstakingly by hand.

  Kyoko’s husband was tired of her complete lack of sincerity. In order to increase the heat of his wife’s passion he resorted to every technique of lovemaking. In order to make her serious, he played philanderer, very much against his inclinations. Kyoko wept often. Her tears, however, were only showers. Start a serious story, and Kyoko would giggle as if tickled. Just the same, she lacked the superabundance of wit and humor that could have redeemed her womanliness.

  In her bed in the morning, if ten great ideas occurred to Kyoko, by nightfall it would be surprising if she remembered one or two. Her plan to change the picture in her living room might thus be put off for ten days. The few things that did happen to remain in her mind had to wait until they became nagging nuisances before they got done.

  The fold of her rather Caucasian eyelids would sometimes show an ext
ra fold. Her husband hated to see this, for it became shockingly evident at those moments that there was not a thing on her mind.

  That day Kyoko had gone to the nearby stores shopping with a former servant. In the afternoon she entertained two of her husband’s female cousins. The cousins played the piano and Kyoko merely sat, not listening. When it was over she clapped and meted out effusive compliments. Then they talked about some shop in the Ginza where Western pastries were cheap and delicious, or how a watch that one of them bought with dollars was selling at three times the price in a store in the Ginza. Then they talked about the fabrics they were getting ready for winter, and after that they came to the best-selling novel. Then the fair argument was advanced that the reason novels were cheaper than Western fabrics was, naturally, that they couldn’t be worn about. All Kyoko was thinking about then was her dancing slippers, but the cousins, who noticed her absent-mindedness, thought she must be in love. It was doubtful, however, that Kyoko was capable of loving anything more than dancing slippers.

  For this reason, Shunsuke’s expectations notwithstanding, Kyoko had cleanly forgotten about the beautiful youth who had made such a fuss about her at the last ball. When Kyoko came face to face with Yuichi on her way into the shoe store, her mind was full of the idea that she would soon see her shoes. She was not particularly surprised at running into him, and she greeted him perfunctorily.

  Yuichi suddenly realized the meanness of the part he was playing. He decided to leave, but anger held him back for the time being. He hated that woman. He had even forgotten his hatred of Shunsuke, evidence that the passion of Shunsuke now possessed him. He whistled unconcernedly as he passed inside and looked at the window displays from that vantage point. His whistle reverberated with his disappointment. Occasionally his eyes flicked back to the woman behind him trying on her shoes, and as he did so a dark competitive spirit developed in him.

  “All right! I’ll really make that woman unhappy.”

  The style of the dancing slippers was exactly what Kyoko wanted. She had the clerk wrap them up. Her fever slowly subsided.

  She turned and smiled. Then she became really aware of the lone, beautiful youth for the first time.

  This evening her good fortune was like a faultless bill of fare. Though it was not her way to extend an invitation to a man she did not know well she went up to Yuichi and ever so gently said: “Would you like to go somewhere for a cup of tea?”

  Yuichi nodded in silence.

  It was past seven, and a great number of shops had already closed. The tea shop in which Shunsuke was sitting was still brightly lighted. As they passed it, Kyoko started to enter, but Yuichi headed her off. After that they passed two places with drawn curtains; then at last they came to one that looked as if it might be open.

  They sat down at a table in the comer, and Kyoko casually pulled off her lace gloves. Her eyes were glowing. She looked at Yuichi steadily and inquired: “Is your wife well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all alone today?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. You’re going to meet your wife here, and it’ll be nice if I keep you company until she comes.”

  “I’m really alone. I just came over here on a little business at a friend’s office.”

  “Is that so?” The note of caution vanished from her voice. “I haven’t seen you since that time.”

  It came back to Kyoko slowly: the way that youth’s body, like an animal, filled with majesty, had pressed her body into the comer; the way his fierce eyes begging her pardon seemed more intent on some design of their own; his rather long sideburns forming a point under the temples; his passionate cheeks; his simple child’s lips, pouting as if caught in the midst of a complaint.

  Then another definite recollection insisted on returning. She decided to test it with a trick. She pulled the ash tray toward her. Now when the youth wanted to tap off his ashes he had to bend his head before her, like that of a young bull. She inhaled the aroma of his hair cream. It was a scent throbbing with youth. That was the scent!

  That scent she had caught again and again, even in her dreams, since the evening of the ball. One morning this scent of her dreams enveloped her tenaciously even after she had awakened. She had some shopping to do in the city, and about an hour after her husband went to his job at the Foreign Office, she boarded a bus jammed with people who started work later than most. There she got a strong whiff of that same, pomade. Her breast was in tumult. When she got a look at the profile of the youth wearing it, however, she was disappointed to realize that though the pomade had the same scent as in her dream the face bore no relation to it. She didn’t know the name of the pomade, but from time to time in crowded trolleys or stores, the aroma was wafted to her from she knew not where, overpowering her, she knew not why.

  That’s it! That’s the scent! Kyoko looked at Yuichi unwaveringly with new eyes. She had discovered in this youth the dangerous power he was plotting to wield over her, a dazzling power.

  Yet here was a truly frivolous woman, and she found amusing the power that every man worthy of the name exerted. Be they ugly or handsome, men all had in common this master-slave absurdity they call desire. For instance, the man does not exist who from the time he ceases being a boy is not ruled by the theme of those stories—the trite theme that goes: “Woman is never intoxicated by her own happiness at any time so much as when she sees desire in a man’s eyes.”

  How ordinary is this young man’s youthfulness, thought Kyoko, still full of self-reliance in her own youthfulness. It’s a youthfulness you find everywhere. It’s a youthfulness aware that it is at the age most prone to confuse sincerity with desire.

  In perfect consonance with the misapprehensions Kyoko was thus arriving at, Yuichi’s eyes brimmed with the cloudiness of a somewhat dissipated passion. Those eyes had not forgotten, however, their natural blackness, and when she looked at them she felt as if a torrent was roaring through a conduit.

  “Have you been dancing anywhere since I saw you last?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Doesn’t you wife like dancing?”

  “She rather likes it.”

  How noisy it was! This restaurant was really a quiet place. Nevertheless, the low sound of records, of shoes, of plates, of laughter from the patrons at infrequent intervals, as well as the telephone, all commingled and amplified, irritating the ear. As if bearing them ill will, the sound drove a wedge into their already stilted conversation. Kyoko felt as if she and Yuichi were talking under water.

  When she tried to approach him in their conversation, he seemed to move away. Happy-go-lucky person that she was, Kyoko was just beginning to realize the great gulf that lay between her and this youth who seemed to desire her so much. I wonder if my words are getting across to him, she thought. Maybe it’s because the table is too big. Without realizing it, Kyoko was exaggerating her own emotions.

  “Now that you’ve danced with me, you don’t seem to want anything more to do with me, do you?”

  Yuichi’s expression seemed to be one of discomfort. If this sort of give and take, this unpremeditated acting in departure from the script, had become second nature with him, it was largely attributable to the power of that wordless youth in the mirror. The mirror had schooled him in the expression of the various emotions that all the angles and shades of his beauty spoke of. After a time his beauty had, by conscious effort, become independent of Yuichi himself, and thus made itself freely available to him.

  Perhaps for this reason Yuichi no longer felt the constraint as with Yasuko before they were married. In fact, he had succeeded by this time in freely reveling with almost sensual gusto in the presence of women. A vague, abstract sensuality, it was the feeling that had intrigued him once in swimming and high jumping. In possession of this freedom unfettered by the great adversary that is sexuality, he felt that his own existence was like a delicately versatile mechanism.

  For want of something better, Kyoko gossiped about people sh
e knew. She mentioned various names, but Yuichi didn’t recognize any. Kyoko thought that amazing. As far as Kyoko knew, romance was a thing that could only happen to her or her acquaintances. Even they, however, were always paired in perfectly predictable patterns. In short, the arranged romance was all they believed in.

  After a time, Kyoko did hit on a name Yuichi knew: “Did you know Reiko Kiyoura, who died three or four years ago?”

  “Yes; she was my cousin.”

  “Why, then you’re called Yuchan by your relatives, aren’t you?”

  Yuichi started; then he smiled calmly.

  “I guess I am.”

  “So you’re Yuchan.”

  Kyoko looked at him so fixedly that Yuichi felt uncomfortable. She explained why. Of her classmates, Reiko had been her closest friend. Before she died, Reiko had entrusted her diary to Kyoko. It was a diary in which she had written up till a few days before the end. The only thing this poor long-suffering woman had felt that mattered in her life was the occasional sight of her young cousin’s beautiful face.

  She loved this youth, who visited at infrequent and irregular intervals. She would ask to kiss him, but he, fearing contagion, would shudder and hold back. After all, Reiko’s husband had passed his own infection on to his wife before he died.

  Reiko tried to let the youth know how she felt, but she never succeeded. Now a fit of coughing, now reticence stood in the way of her confession. To her this young eighteen-year-old cousin was like a young tree catching the sun in the garden just outside her sickroom. She saw in him all that shone, all that stood opposed to sickness and death. His health, his bright laughter, his beautiful white teeth, his freedom from pain and misery, his naivete, the way vernal youth touched him in dazzling brightness: all she seized upon. She feared, however, that her confession of love, if it awakened sympathy in him, or if it made him begin to love her, would mark his cheek with pain and misery. She preferred to go to her grave remembering only the fierceness in his profile and his almost unconscious youthful capriciousness. Every day’s entry in her diary began with the invocation: “Yuchan.” She took an apple he had brought one day, cut his initial out of it, and kept it hidden under her pillow. She also teased him for his picture. He modestly turned her down.