Spring Snow

  A few more days passed. The matter of the torn-up letter began to weigh on Kiyoaki and his reaction took the form of anger. This was more than mere irritation that a supposedly trivial letter should have such power to unsettle him. What was agonizing was the realization, impossible to ignore, that he now regretted the decision not to open it. At first he had been able to regard the letter’s destruction as proof of his strength of will, but in retrospect he was now beset by the feeling that on the contrary he had acted out of sheer cowardice.

  When he had torn up that thick, plain white envelope, his fingers had encountered stiff resistance, as though the letter had perhaps been written on paper reinforced with tough linen fiber. But it was not the paper’s composition that mattered. He now realized that had it not been for his burst of willpower, it would have been impossible for him to tear it up. Why should he have been afraid? He had no desire to become painfully involved with Satoko again. He hated the very thought of being re-enveloped in that fragrant haze of anxiety that she could conjure at will, especially now that he had finally achieved command over himself again. But despite all this, when he had been ripping up that thick letter, he had had the feeling that he was tearing a gash in Satoko’s skin with its soft white glow.

  On his way back from school one torrid Saturday afternoon during an unseasonal break in the wet weather, he noticed a hum of activity at the entrance of the main house. The grooms had prepared one of the carriages and were now loading it with a bulky package whose purple silk wrapping immediately identified it as a present. The horses were twitching their ears, and bright streams of saliva dropped from their mouth as they gaped to reveal yellowed teeth. In the hot sunlight their dark coats glistened as if smeared with grease, and their throbbing veins stood out on their necks beneath the fine, thick coats.

  Just as he was about to go up the steps into the house, his mother appeared dressed in bulky ceremonial robes marked with the family crest.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Oh, welcome home. I’m just on my way to the Ayakuras to extend our congratulations.”

  “Congratulations for what?”

  Since his mother disliked discussing important matters in front of the servants, she did not answer at once but drew Kiyoaki over to a dark corner of the wide entrance next to an umbrella stand before beginning to speak in a low voice.

  “This morning the imperial sanction was graciously granted at last. Would you like to go with me?”

  Before her son replied, the Marquise noticed that her words had caused a flash of grim pleasure in his eyes. Naturally she did not have time to reflect what it meant. Furthermore, her next words there by the doorway were eloquent proof of how little she had derived from that moment.

  “After all, a joyful event is a joyful event,” she said, her mask of classic melancholy on her face. “So no matter how badly you are at odds with her, the only correct thing to do on such an occasion is to be polite and offer your congratulations.”

  “Please send my regards. I’m not going to go.”

  He stood at the entrance and watched his mother leave. The horses’ hooves scattered the gravel with a noise like a sudden squall, and the gold crest of the Matsugaes on the carriage seemed to quiver in the air as it flashed through the pines that stood in front of the house as the vehicle disappeared. Their mistress had gone, and Kiyoaki could sense the consequent relaxation of the servants. The tension in their muscles dissolved with a fall like a noiseless snowslide.

  He turned back toward the house, so empty without either master or mistress. The servants, their eyes cast down, stood waiting for him to enter. At that moment, he was certain that he was holding the seeds of a problem immense enough to fill the vast emptiness of the building. Without bothering to glance at the servants, he went inside and hurried down the corridor, anxious not to waste a single moment reaching his room where he could seal himself off from the rest of the world.

  His heart was beating with a strange excitement, and he was feverishly hot. The solemn words “imperial sanction” seemed suspended before his eyes. The imperial sanction had been graciously granted. Tadeshina’s repeated phone calls, the bulky letter—they must have represented a last, desperate flurry before it came. Their object had clearly been to obtain his forgiveness, to be relieved of a feeling of guilt.

  All that day, he let his imagination run loose. He was oblivious of the outside world. The clear, calm mirror of his soul had now been shattered. There was a turmoil in his heart that churned with the force of a tropical storm. He was now shaken by a violent passion that bore no trace of the melancholy that had been such a part of its feeble precursors. But what emotion now had him in its grip? It must be called delight. But it was a delight so irrational, so passionate, that it was almost unearthly.

  If one were to ask what was its cause, the only possible answer would be that it sprang from an impossibility, a sheer impossibility. Just as the string of a koto cut by a sharp blade yields with an abrupt, poignant note, so the tie that bound him to Satoko had been cut by the shining blade of the imperial sanction. In the midst of his wavering inconsistency, this was something that he had dreamed of and hoped for in secret ever since he had begun to grow out of boyhood.

  To be more precise, the dream had begun to form in the moment when he had looked up from Princess Kasuga’s train and had been dazzled by the nape of her white neck with its peerless beauty, forever unattainable. That instant certainly foreshadowed today’s fulfillment of his hopes. Absolute impossibility—Kiyoaki himself had helped to bring it about by single-mindedly shaping events to the pattern of his every caprice, his every twist of feeling.

  But what kind of joy was it? Something in it obsessed him; there was something sinister, ominously threatening about it. Long ago he had resolved to recognize his emotions as his only guiding truth and to live his life accordingly, even if this meant a deliberate aimlessness. That principle had now brought him to his present sinister feelings of joy, which seemed to be the brink of a racing, plunging whirlpool. There seemed to be nothing left but to throw himself into it.

  He thought back once again to himself and Satoko all those years before, copying verses from the Hundred Poets during their writing exercises. He bent over the scroll trying to inhale a trace of Satoko’s fragrance that might have remained from that day fourteen years earlier. As he did so, he caught a scent of incense that was not far removed from mildew, something faint and so distant that still evoked such a powerful nostalgia that he felt he had laid bare the very source of all his emotion, so aimless and at the same time so impetuous.

  Each piece of the Empress’s confection, the prize for winning at sugoroku, had been molded in the form of the imperial crest. Whenever his small teeth had bitten into a crimson chrysanthemum, the color of its petals had intensified before melting away, and at the touch of his tongue, the delicately etched lines of a cool white chrysanthemum had blurred and dissolved into a sweet liquid. Everything came back to him—the dark rooms of the Ayakura mansion, the court screens brought from Kyoto with their pattern of autumn flowers, the solemn stillness of the nights, Satoko’s mouth opening in a slight yawn half-hidden behind her sweep of black hair—everything came back just as he had experienced it then, in all its lonely elegance. But he realized that he was now slowly admitting one idea that he had never dared entertain before.

  25

  SOMETHING SOUNDED within Kiyoaki like a trumpet call: I love Satoko. And no matter how he viewed this feeling he was unable to fault its validity, even though he had never experienced anything like it before.

  Then a further revelation released the flood of desire he had pent up for so long: elegance disregards prohibitions, even the most severe. His sexual impulses, so diffident until now, had been lacking just such a powerful impulse. It had taken so much time and effort to find his role in life.

  “Now at last, I’m sure that I do love Satoko,” he told himself. And the impossibility of fulfilling that love was proof enough that he
was right in his conviction.

  He could not stay still. He rose from his chair and then sat down again. His thoughts had always been preponderantly melancholy and anxious, but now he was swept by a surge of youthful energy. He felt that everything previous had been mere delusion. He had allowed his sensitivity and melancholy to dominate, smother him.

  Opening the window, he took a deep breath as he stood looking out at the pond, whose surface glinted in the bright sunshine. He smelled the strong fresh odor of the zelkovas. In the midst of the clouds that were massed to one side of the maple hill, he noticed a hint of brightness that told him summer had come at last. His cheeks were hot and his eyes bright. He had become a new person. Whatever this might hold in store, he was at least nineteen years old.

  26

  HE GAVE HIMSELF over to passionate daydreams while he waited impatiently for his mother to return from the Ayakuras. Her presence there did not fit in with his plans at all. Finally he could wait no longer, and took off his school uniform, dressing in a Satsuma splashed-pattern kimono and hakama. Then he called one of the servants and told him to have a rickshaw waiting for him.

  Following his plan, he left the rickshaw at Aoyama, 6-chome, which was the terminus for the streetcar that went to Roppongi. He boarded it and rode to the end of the line. Around the corner from Roppongi, at the turn to Toriizaka, were three huge zelkova trees, the remainder of the six that had given the Roppongi or Six Trees district its name. Beneath them, just as in old times before there were streetcars in Tokyo, a big placard with “Rickshaw Stand” scrawled on it was fastened to a post, and rickshaw men in conical wicker hats, short jackets, and blue trousers were gathered waiting for customers.

  Kiyoaki called one of them, immediately handed him an exorbitant tip and told him to take him at once to the Ayakura mansion, which was no more than a few minutes away on foot. The old-fashioned Ayakura gate would not admit the Matsugaes’ English carriage, and so if it were still waiting outside with the gate open, he would know that his mother was still there. However, if it were gone and the gate closed, he could safely assume that she had already fulfilled her ceremonial obligations and left.

  When the rickshaw passed the gate, he saw that it was shut and in the road in front he recognized the marks left by a carriage.

  He instructed the rickshaw man to take him back to the top of Toriizaka. Once there he sent him back on foot for Tadeshina while he himself remained behind, making use of the cover provided by the rickshaw.

  As it turned out, he had a long wait. Through an opening in the side of the rickshaw, he watched the setting rays of summer sun flood the new leaves clustered at the tips of the branches. It seemed to be slowly submerging them in liquid brilliance. A giant horse chestnut towered above the red brick wall that ran along the edge of the slope of Toriizaka. Its very topmost leaves made him think of a white bird’s nest decorated with a loosely woven crown of white flowers tipped with pink. Then all at once he was thinking of that snowy morning in February, and for no obvious reason he was shaken by a violent wave of excitement. But nevertheless, his intention was not to force an immediate meeting with Satoko, for since passion had now found a definite course, he was no longer vulnerable to each new onrush of emotion.

  Tadeshina came out of a side entrance, followed by the rickshaw man. When she reached the rickshaw, Kiyoaki pushed back its top to reveal his face and so startled her that she could only stand there gaping up at him. He reached down, seized her hand and jerked her up into the rickshaw.

  “I’ve something to tell you. Let’s go somewhere we can talk safely.”

  “But, master . . . this is such a shock! The Marquise your mother took her leave just a few minutes ago. Then tonight we’re preparing for an informal celebration . . . I’m really so busy.”

  “Never mind. Hurry up and tell the boy where to go.”

  Since Kiyoaki kept a firm grip on her hand, she had no choice but to comply.

  “Go toward Kasumicho,” she told the rickshaw man. “Near Number Three there’s a road going downhill that turns toward the main gate of the Third Regiment barracks. Please take us just to the bottom of the slope.”

  The rickshaw lurched forward and Tadeshina stared straight ahead with desperate concentration, nervously smoothing back a stray hair. This was the first time he had been so close to this old woman with her thick mask of white powder, and the experience was far from pleasant. Yet he could not help but notice that she was even tinier than he had imagined, hardly more than a dwarf in fact. Buffeted by the shaking rickshaw, she kept up a mumbled stream of protest that he could only barely understand.

  “It’s too late, too late . . . no matter what, it’s just too late.” And then: “If only you’d sent one word of answer . . . before this happened. Oh why . . . ?”

  Kiyoaki said nothing and so she finally said something about their destination just before they got there: “A distant relative of mine runs an inn for soldiers near here. It’s not a very presentable place but an annex is always available, and it will permit me to hear whatever the young master wishes to say in confidence.”

  Tomorrow was Sunday, when Roppongi would be transformed suddenly into a bustling garrison district, its streets full of khaki-uniformed soldiers, many out strolling with their visiting families. But it was still Saturday afternoon, and this transformation was yet to take place. As the rickshaw carried him along through the streets toward Tadeshina’s destination, he had the feeling that on that snowy morning too, he and Satoko had passed first this spot, then another. Just as he became convinced that he remembered the slope they were following, Tadeshina told the man to stop.

  They were in front of an inn at the foot of the slope. Its main wing was two stories high, and although it had neither gate nor entranceway, it was surrounded by a good-sized garden enclosed by a broad fence.

  Standing outside this fence, Tadeshina glanced up at the second floor of the rough wooden structure. It showed no sign of life. The six glass doors facing the front were shut, and none of the interior was visible. The low-quality panes in the latticed doors mirrored the evening sky in their own warped fashion, even catching the reflection of a carpenter working on an adjacent roof and distorting his image as though it were lying across water. The sky itself bore a watery image as seen there, tinged with the melancholy of a lake at evening time.

  “It would of course be awkward if the soldiers were back—but only officers take rooms here,” Tadeshina said as she pushed open a close-worked lattice door beside which there hung a plaque of the Goddess of Children. She then called out to announce their presence.

  A tall, white-haired man who was on the verge of old age appeared.

  “Ah, Miss Tadeshina! Please come in,” he said in a somewhat squeaky voice.

  “Is the annex available?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  The three of them went down the back hallway to the rear of the inn and entered a small room perhaps ten feet square, the kind often used for assignations.

  “I can’t stay very long, though,” said Tadeshina. “Besides, being alone like this with such a handsome young man, I don’t know what people would say.” Suddenly she was speaking casually and coquettishly, addressing herself to both Kiyoaki and the old innkeeper.

  The room was suspiciously tidy. A small scroll suitable for a tea ceremony room hung in a little alcove, and there was even a sliding Genji screen. The atmosphere was quite different from what one would have expected from the exterior, that of a cheap inn frequented by the army.

  “What then do you so kindly wish to communicate to me?” Tadeshina asked as soon as the innkeeper withdrew. When Kiyoaki did not answer, she repeated her question, making no further effort to hide her irritation.

  “What is this all about? And why choose today of all days . . . ?”

  “Because it’s so appropriate. I want you to arrange a meeting between me and Satoko.”

  “What do you mean, young master? It’s too late. After what’s ha
ppened, how can you ask such a thing? From now on, there’s nothing more to be done. Everything must be subordinated to the Emperor’s pleasure. And now this—after all those phone calls and the letters I sent! You didn’t see fit to give us any reply whatever. And today you make a request like this! It’s not a joking matter.”

  “Just remember this: everything that happened was your fault,” said Kiyoaki with as much dignity as he could muster, staring at the veins that throbbed under the white powder caking Tadeshina’s forehead. Angrily he accused her of having allowed Satoko to read his letter and then to lie about it brazenly, and also of having spread malicious gossip that had lost him his faithful retainer Iinuma. Tadeshina finally contrived to burst into tears, and apologized abjectly on her knees.

  She then pulled some tissue paper from the sleeve of her kimono and began to wipe her eyes, rubbing away the white powder around them to reveal the pink web of wrinkles over her cheekbones, unmistakable proof of mortality. There was hardly any difference in texture between that wrinkled skin and the crumpled, rouge-smeared piece of tissue. Finally, staring into thin air, she began to talk.

  “It’s true. It’s all my fault. I know that no amount of apology can make up for what I have done. But I should apologize more to my mistress than to you. Tadeshina’s grievous failure was not communicating to the young master exactly how Miss Satoko felt. Everything that I had planned so carefully, thinking it for the best, has failed terribly. Please be kind enough to bear with me for a moment, young master. Imagine Miss Satoko’s distress when she read your letter. And think what effort of courage it cost her not to show any sign of it when she met you. And then, after she had decided to take my advice and put a direct question to His Excellency your father, imagine how profoundly relieved she was to learn the truth from him at the family New Year’s party. And after that, morning, noon, and night, she thought of nothing but the young master, until finally she went so far as to issue that invitation to ride through the snow that morning, whatever embarrassment it cost her as a woman. For some time after that, she was happy every day and even whispered your name at night in her sleep. But then she realized that through the kindness of His Excellency the Marquis, she was going to receive a proposal from the Imperial Family itself, and though she was counting on your courageous decision and had staked all her hopes on it, you didn’t say a word, young master, and just let things go on. Miss Satoko’s anxiety and suffering became unspeakable. Finally, when the granting of the imperial sanction was becoming imminent, she said that as a last hope, she wanted to tell the young master how she felt. Despite all my pleas, she decided to write a letter under my name. But now that hope too is dead. Miss Satoko was just coming to consider it all as a thing of the past. And so your demand today is a piece of cruelty. As you know, my mistress was brought up since childhood to revere the wishes of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor. We cannot expect her to go back on her word now. It’s too late . . . simply too late. If your anger is unappeased, hit Tadeshina, kick her—do whatever is necessary to quiet your heart. But there’s no other solution—it’s just too late.”