Юкио Мисима - The Frolic of the Beasts

As I drew near the prison ahead, I saw that the leaves of the green door set between large stone gateposts were shut, and the gables of the old entrance—reminiscent of Meiji period architecture—stood imposingly before me. Dark treetops of Japanese cypress were conspicuous from the gates. Entering through a side door on the right, I stated the purpose of my visit to the gatekeeper. I had to submit my application for a visit at the general affairs section window at the rear of the main entrance hall.

Upon going inside the gloomy interior, having walked past the entrance pillars, with their large copper decorative nail head covers, I saw a showcase containing items manufactured by the inmates, such as sash fasteners, handbags, gloves, ties, socks, sweaters, and blouses.

I took a visiting request form from the general affairs section window, and while writing in the columns such details as the inmate’s name, the nature of the visit, and the visitor’s relationship with the inmate, I suddenly noticed a magnificent Confederate rose in a vase for a single flower on one corner of a shelf.

I was surprised to find a flower as graceful as this in a prison, and in looking at it, I felt acutely aware of the fact that only female inmates were interned here and that it was a dwelling place for those with worldly desires, and also that somewhere at the back of this gloomy building was Yūko.

I handed in my written application at the window, having attached to it a letter from the priest (who was now Yūko’s guardian) written in courteous terms and explaining that I was his representative—making the visit for the purposes of enlightening the prisoner by delivering a photograph of the graves. I was told to go to the waiting room.

Once more I went out into the dazzling outdoors and entered a small waiting room just inside the gates. There was no one there either. Some infused barley tea had been prepared, and so, wiping the perspiration from my brow, I drank down a cup with relish.

I waited, wondering if I was ever going to be summoned. Everywhere was still in the late-summer sunlight; it was difficult to imagine there were crowds of women in the building beyond.

I beguiled my time by gazing at a notice on the wall, which read:

If you have been waiting more than 30 minutes please inquire with the desk clerk.

Persons other than family members and guardians, as well as persons below the age of 14, are not permitted to visit.

Please refrain from speaking in a foreign language or discussing matters not listed on the interview application form.

I was afraid that perhaps my interview might not be allowed. After all, I was a stranger to the prisoner—nothing more than the representative of another, and handing over items during the visit was no doubt prohibited. Then again, the priest had already met once or twice with the prison governor and subsequently corresponded frequently by letter also; there ought to have been, therefore, a considerable degree of trust between the two.

I waited in the suffocating heat. Cicadas sang. A number of illusory images merged, and my head swam.

At last, my name was called out. A female warden, dressed in semiformal uniform—a white short-sleeved summer top and trousers—called over to me from the green door of a booth several yards to the front.

As I approached, she spoke quickly and in a low voice. “The various conditions attached to your visit are quite exacting, but permission has been expressly granted. First of all, would you please show me the photograph of the graves?”

I showed the warden the photograph that I had taken myself.

She simply said, “Please—you should give it to her yourself,” before inviting me through to the visiting room. The interior of the room was a little over sixty square feet. There was a table in the middle, positioned flush against the wall, and the gap between the table legs was securely boarded up to prevent anyone surreptitiously passing articles underneath. The table was covered with a white vinyl cover, and next to the wall was an arrangement of four-o’clocks with small white flowers. A calendar and a crude framed picture of roses, among other things, hung on the wall. The windows, which had been left open, were adjacent to the wall of the old building and so didn’t allow the draft to come through from outside.

There were two chairs on either side of the table, and I sat down on the one nearest the edge of the table and farthest from the wall. The warden stood by the window. There was a door at the back of the room. Beyond the plain glass, it was dark and of no help whatsoever—all I could see was my own reflection.

Before long, I heard the creak of a door being opened, and a dull light shone through the glass. It seemed there was a farther door after this one that led through to the room beyond. A pale face appeared through the glass, and the door opened widely and roughly toward me.

Accompanied by another female warden, Yūko appeared, wearing casual summer clothes—a blue, short-sleeved dress, gathered at the hem and with the collar adjusted like that of a kimono.

Then, looking at me, she greeted me politely in a manner appropriate for a first meeting and sat down opposite me with the warden to her side. The other warden remained standing beside the window.

I took a furtive look at Yūko’s face as she hung her head. It was quite unremarkable. She had round, generously proportioned features: fleshy, as if swollen, and while her skin was well cared for and pale and tender, her thin lips—devoid of lipstick—described a hard line across the lower half of her face, giving her a coarse appearance. Her eyebrows were fine, although spread out and indistinct to the point that they emphasized her deeply sunken eyes. Her hair done up in a Western style, without so much as a strand out of place, made her fleshy face look all the more severe. Her body, too, had run to loose fat, and her bare arms had an extremely heavy look about them.

My first impression was that this woman was without question no longer young. I took out the photograph and, having passed on a message from the priest, explained the circumstances by which I had come to deliver it on his behalf.

Even while listening to my story, Yūko remained with her eyes cast down and thanked me repeatedly. Her voice was not how I imagined it would be either.

At length, she reached out her hand and took the photograph from the tabletop. Holding it by the edges, her body bent forward, she stared intently at it. She spent such a long time looking at it that I was afraid the warden would intervene. When she had finished looking at it she placed it back on the table and gazed at it wistfully as if reluctant to part with it.

“Thank you very much,” she said. “Now I can serve my time in peace. Please convey my best wishes to the priest.” Yūko’s words broke off, and taking a handkerchief from her pocket, she busily dabbed at her eyes. “I can put my mind at rest, now that you have done this for me. We truly were close friends, you know. The closest there can be. You can understand that, I’m sure. Only the priest knew about it. You understand, don’t you?”

Before long, the warden announced that visiting time was up. In tears, Yūko nodded repeatedly, placed the card-size photograph in her pocket, and picked up her handkerchief without returning it to her pocket to prevent the photograph getting wet. From somewhere nearby, the high-pitched chirr of a cicada sounded irritatingly in my ear.

Yūko stood up, bowed deeply to me, and went through the door the warden had opened. Through the glass I could still see her blue casual clothes and the white nape of her neck. For an instant, it drifted distinctly by on the other side of the vibrating glass. But the door at the back had been opened, and when it closed again, Yūko’s form had gone from my sight.