Runaway Horses

  When he walked into the dining hall carrying the platter of sashimi, the students greeted Isao with loud cheers. The usual faces around the table suddenly seemed quite alien to him. He was the only one there who was set upon action. But this crew went on as before, doing nothing but composing their poems about loyal devotion, about noble resolves, about Restoration, about seething passions. And Sawa’s face, too, had its place among them, Sawa who was smiling like an indolent Zen monk. Sawa had taken no action even up to now, and it seemed clear that the decision not to admit him to their group had been a wise one.

  Isao felt keenly that he must develop the knack of masking his feelings in dealing with others. He had now become a man quite out of the ordinary. Even if nothing in his bearing showed this, the least carelessness might let people get wind of it. They might detect that within him was the odor of a burning fuse.

  “We hear that Master Kaido severely chastises his favorite students, the ones he loves the most, and that you had the experience yourself,” said one of the students, making it plain to Isao that they all knew about the incident.

  “What did you do with that pheasant?”

  “We all ate it for dinner.”

  “I’ll bet it tasted good. But, Isao, we had no idea you were such a good shot.”

  “Oh, I didn’t do the shooting,” Isao answered cheerfully. “Just as Master Kaido said, it was the ‘harsh god’ in me that shot, and so there was no question of missing.”

  “One of these days I hope some pretty young thing will bring out the ‘mild god’ in Isao.”

  Everyone went on eating and talking, except for Sawa. His smile persisted, and he said not a word. During the cheerful exchanges, Isao found himself unable to keep his eyes from straying in this man’s direction. Then, suddenly, Sawa broke in to check the flow of chatter.

  “I would like to recite a poem in celebration of Isao’s having completed his training camp and become an even stronger man,” he said.

  As he chanted the poem, Sawa’s voice reverberated loudly in the hushed dining hall. It was pitched somewhat high, his lungs straining from the force of his passion, like a horse neighing as it senses an approaching storm:

  “Purging away the evils of the West,

  Let us be faithful to our land.

  Stalwart, giving no ear to traitor’s pleas,

  We shall hand down our great cause

  Without the least fear of death.”

  Isao immediately recognized the poem as one written by Inokichi Miura, but these last words of the young company commander involved in the Sakai Incident were not at all suited to a festive occasion.

  As soon as he had acknowledged the applause, Sawa went on: “Now just one more. This is something that would rejoice the heart of Master Kaido.”

  After this introduction, he recited a poem of Kohei Tomobayashi:

  “We who were a people

  Of a land pure and holy

  Foolishly became Buddha’s lackeys

  And preached that we were all one.

  Now we shall throw out Buddha,

  (Grieve not too much, Buddha!)

  We who were a people

  of a land pure and holy.”

  At the words “Foolishly became Buddha’s lackeys” everyone laughed, the image of Master Kaido’s face before them. And the admonition “Grieve not too much, Buddha!” also provoked laughter.

  Though he laughed with the others, in his heart Isao was still responding to the emotion latent in Sawa’s first poem beneath its clarity and openness, which was that of a young man’s angry death. This Sawa, who had vowed to die, showed not the least sign of shame at being still alive, but seemed instead to be trying to implant in Isao the fervor of a youth who had brought his life to a furious conclusion at the dawn of the Meiji era. Isao felt the keen thrust of shame. Rather than Sawa himself suffering from a shame that was rightly his, that shame pierced Isao.

  It was a shame that came from the conviction that Sawa, and Sawa alone, had seen in him both the pleasure and the arrogant pride of a young man luxuriating in the sweet feeling of having made up his mind to die. Sawa, in a sense, had purchased Isao’s shame with his money.

  27

  ON NOVEMBER SEVENTH Lieutenant Hori sent word that Isao was to come at once to his billet. Isao went there. The Lieutenant was sitting down, still in uniform. Something was different about him. As soon as he entered the room, Isao had a premonition of trouble.

  “How about having supper with me? I told them downstairs that you would.” As he spoke, the Lieutenant stood up and turned on the lamp.

  “I’d rather hear what you have to say.”

  “Don’t be in such a rush.”

  Devoid of furnishings as it was, the austere eight-mat room had taken on the aspect of a brightly lit empty box. It was cold inside, but there was no trace of fire in the hibachi. From the hallway outside the closed door came the sound of a consciously military tread. The footsteps passed, turned back again, and then, apparently from the head of the staircase, there was a shout: “Hey, old fellow! Hurry up and bring my supper.” The footsteps passed again and retreated down the corridor.

  “That Lieutenant’s in the room at the end of the hall on the other side. He can’t hear what you say, so don’t worry. The man next door is gone today. He’s duty officer this week.”

  These words sounded somehow evasive in Isao’s ears. He had not come here to say anything himself but to listen to the Lieutenant.

  Lieutenant Hori lit a cigarette. A piece of tobacco clung to his lip, and as he dislodged it with the tip of one of his large fingernails, he crushed the now empty Golden Bat cigarette pack with his other hand. For the briefest of moments, the openings between the Lieutenant’s fingers revealed bat wings, golden against a green background, being crushed ruthlessly within his fist. He had some time or other mentioned to Isao that his monthly salary was eighty-five yen. And now this memory, together with the cold of the room, together with the loneliness of billet life, rose up from the noise of the paper being crumpled.

  “Has something happened?” asked Isao, taking the initiative.

  The Lieutenant only grunted.

  Finally Isao gave voice to his worst fear: “I see. It’s gotten out.”

  “No, that’s not it. Rest easy on that point. The fact is, I’m suddenly being sent off to Manchuria. An order came down from headquarters. I’m the only one going from the Third Regiment. It’s very hush-hush. I haven’t told anyone else, but I’m assigned to an independent Manchurian security force.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “November fifteenth.”

  “But . . . that’s only a week away.”

  “That’s right.”

  Isao felt as if the sliding doors before his eyes were about to come falling in upon him. The Lieutenant’s leadership was now lost to them. They had been by no means intending to leave everything up to him, but the expert guidance of a military man would be of inestimable help in the assault upon the Bank of Japan. Furthermore, they had been looking forward to the Lieutenant’s detailed tactical and organizational instructions during this final month. Isao had the spirit but he lacked the technique.

  “Is there no way for you to stay longer?” asked Isao, unable to keep the regret out of his voice.

  “It’s an order. You can’t change a thing like that.”

  After this final word, both of them remained silent for some time. Image after image passed through Isao’s mind as he kept trying to settle upon the role that now would best suit the Lieutenant. As he gave himself over to such wishful thinking, throwing aside common sense, he felt as though the Lieutenant were about to change himself into an ideal figure. There was the example of Harukata Kaya, who made his heroic decision just before the rising. The image that held Isao’s mind was that of the Lieutenant abruptly resigning his commission and becoming just another man from the provinces, sacrificing himself to lead Isao and his comrades in the rising. Isao felt, on that summer afternoon when t
hey practiced the kendo forms in the drill hall amid the cries of cicadas, that this was the very spirit that had flashed from the Lieutenant’s eyes.

  But perhaps the Lieutenant had already made this decision, and, after letting Isao be sufficiently distressed, would declare his intention.

  “In that case, the Lieutenant will not be participating?”

  “I didn’t say that . . .”

  Isao’s eyes flashed as he heard the Lieutenant’s prompt denial.

  “You will take part then?”

  “In the Army, an order is an order. But if you move the date up before the fifteenth of November, I’ll be happy to take part.”

  As soon as he heard this, Isao was struck by the absurdity of the Lieutenant’s words, and realized at once that he had no intention of taking part. The Lieutenant was well aware that it was impossible to have the rising within a week, and so his offer had been meaningless. Isao was even more bitterly disappointed at the Lieutenant’s sophistry than at his failure to join in the rising.

  Now Isao began to suspect that the Lieutenant had had a good reason for remaining in uniform. When he made his announcement, he had to be clothed with unassailable dignity. Indeed, as he sat opposite Isao across the rough table, he kept himself in a stiffly formal position, his shoulders squared in his military tunic. His insignia glittered on the broad shoulders that inspired such confidence, and he held his firm and powerful chin rigid above the red infantry badge at his collar with the golden “3” affixed to it. He was deliberately showing off his strength, to announce that he could not lend it to their cause.

  “That’s out of the question,” answered Isao, but with no hint of defeat. By so answering he felt that, quite unexpectedly, he had moved into a broader and freer position.

  The Lieutenant, apparently not noticing the sudden change in him, began lecturing Isao as if he had been crushed: “If you think it’s out of the question, give it up. All right? From the very beginning I had certain doubts—about deficiencies in planning, the inadequate number of men involved and therefore the absurdity of trying to bring about martial law, the project’s premature timing. . . . I believe it has become quite hopeless. Now neither heaven nor the times seem to be with us. Your resolve is a splendid one. I was aware of that, and that’s why I helped you, but to act now would be utterly in vain. You see? Wait for the right time. This business here of my sudden transfer—that’s the voice of heaven speaking, telling you ‘Stop!’ I won’t be in Manchuria long. Wait till I come back. And then I’ll be glad to take part. So the thing to do until then is to go over your strategy and tighten up the loose ends, and do more research. Even in Manchuria, I’ll be thinking of you young men and the pleasant times we had together. . . . Well, how about it? Will you take my advice and tell me straight out that you’re not going through with it? Don’t you think that the real man is the one who can be decisive, and check his forward rush?”

  Isao was silent. He was surprised to find himself not at all surprised by the Lieutenant’s words. And he was well aware that the longer his silence, the more uneasy the Lieutenant would become.

  Somehow Isao had grown accustomed to the idea that when one reality crumbles, another crystallizes and a new order comes into existence. The Lieutenant had already been cast out by the new order. And so his gallant uniformed figure spun aimlessly about the edges of this impenetrable mass of pellucid crystal. Isao had made his way to a higher degree of purity, to a nobler level of tragedy.

  Perhaps the Lieutenant had imagined that this young man would be thrown into a panic and would cling to his knees and plead tearfully. Isao, however, sat stiffly upright, saying nothing, his features even colder and more composed than before. When he spoke, his words were so far removed from his customary sincerity that there was danger that the Lieutenant might perceive that he was being mocked.

  “But would you at least be so kind as to put us in touch with Lieutenant Shiga? I do want to beg his assistance in distributing the leaflets.”

  As he spoke, Isao was determined that the Lieutenant’s eyes would never look upon the draft for the leaflet that lay within his briefcase. Lieutenant Hori, however, still failing to notice any change in him, gave a candid answer.

  “No. That won’t do. Give it up, I told you. You haven’t even answered me yet. Do you think I enjoy saying this? The project just won’t work, that’s all, so I have to swallow my own feelings and warn you against going on. It’s not the result of any spur-of-the-moment decision. And now that I’ve told you to give it up, I’ll tell you also that I don’t want you to count on any assistance whatsoever from the Army. I shouldn’t have to mention that I didn’t decide without consulting Lieutenant Shiga. You can understand that much, can’t you?” The Lieutenant paused for a moment. “Of course if you yourselves want to carry it through on your own, that’s up to you. But insofar as I was once your advisor, I warn you against it from the bottom of my heart. I can’t bear to see you throw away your young lives. Don’t you understand? Give it up!” the Lieutenant shouted as though issuing a command on the drill field, his eyes fixed on Isao’s face.

  What he might do, Isao thought, was simply to promise then and there to abandon his plans. That was it! For if the Lieutenant were left with a vague answer, he might become anxious and use the week remaining before his departure to devise a means to frustrate the project. But would not this sort of deception violate his own purity?

  What the Lieutenant said next worked a sudden change in Isao’s mood.

  “You understand? And I don’t want even the smallest scrap of notepaper remaining with either my name or Shiga’s on it. I put this to you all the more strongly if you have any intentions of going against my advice to give it up. Get rid of our names as quick as you can.”

  “Yes, sir. We shall do that,” Isao answered smoothly. “I understand all that you have said. I guarantee that no trace of your names will remain. As for abandoning the plan, it would be impossible to persuade everyone, so I will delay the date indefinitely. The effect will be the same.”

  “You’ll do that? I’ve gotten across to you?” The Lieutenant’s expression suddenly turned jovial.

  “You have, sir.”

  “Good for you! There’s no need for another episode of the League of the Divine Wind. We will bring about a Restoration, at whatever cost. And, without fail, there’ll come a day when we’ll have the chance to fight side by side. What do you say to a drink?” The Lieutenant took a bottle of whiskey from the wall cabinet as he made his offer, but Isao firmly refused and got up to leave. Because he did not want to give the impression of sulking, he had to do his best to seem cheerful.

  Isao left the inn through the latticework door with the nameplate “Kitazaki” beside it. The rain was not falling as hard as it had the first afternoon that he had come there, but the pavement glistened beneath a winter shower. He was without rain gear, but, wanting to walk alone for a while to collect his thoughts, he turned in the direction of Ryudo. The high brick wall of the Third Regiment’s compound rose on the left side of the street, and its smooth red surface gleamed wetly in the feeble glow cast by the street lights. No one else was out walking. Up to this moment he had been resolved to marshal firmly all of his mental power, but just then his will was betrayed by sudden tears.

  He remembered an incident that had occurred when he was a fervent member of the kendo team and had been privileged to practice with the famous kendo master Fukuchi, who happened to visit the drill hall. Frustrated at every turn by the master’s fluid defense, Isao had attacked with reckless force, only to be thwarted once more. Just as he was instinctively pulling back, a hoarse voice spoke quietly from behind the bars of his opponent’s mask.

  “Don’t retreat. You need some work here, I think.”

  28

  ISAO’S COMRADES had gathered to wait for him at their secret headquarters, the newly rented house in Yotsuya Samon. Since Lieutenant Hori had asked to see Isao alone, everyone had presumed that the Lieutenant had some r
ather important instructions for him.

  They had named their hideaway Kamikazé, divine wind, as a symbol of their link with the League. To meet in Kamikazé, therefore, meant to meet in this two-story, four-room house reached by getting off the streetcar at Samon and walking about a hundred and twenty yards. The landlord had been happy to rent it to them even though they were students, and it was only lately that they learned the reason: a suicide had been committed there last summer and no one else was willing to take it. The entire south face of the house was covered with siding held by split-bamboo verticals, with only two small windows, and the veranda faced east, another unusual feature. When the previous tenants were moving out, an old woman of the family, her heart set against leaving, fastened a rope to the railing of the stairway and hanged herself. Sagara had heard the story at the neighborhood bakery and reported it to the others. The woman at the bakery had told him that much as she stuffed a paper bag with poppyseed-covered bean jam buns, grasped the two top corners of the bag with her fingers, nimbly twirled it once to close it, and passed it across the counter to him.

  When Isao slid open the door of the entranceway and stepped in, the group on the second floor, hearing the noise, gathered at the head of the stairs, the skirts of their blue splashed-pattern kimonos rustling against one another in the dim corridor.

  “What’s the news?” asked Izutsu, his voice filled with a joy born of his own optimism. When Isao merely made his way past him on the stairway without answering, everyone felt the setback as if it were an electric shock. A locked cabinet at the end of the second-floor hallway was used to store their arms. Whenever Isao came here, he would have Sagara unlock it so that he himself could immediately check the number of swords. But today, forgetting even that, he went directly into the parlor. The shoulders of his jacket were soaked from the rain, and after he sat down, he felt a chill run through his body. His friends had been eating peanuts and shells were scattered over spread-out newspapers. Lying there in the lamplight, the shells seemed dull and pale, contorted with tension.