The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima (2 page)

But sometime, sometime during such a peaceful life [Mishima had spoken of his married life]—we got the two children—still the old memory comes to my mind.

It is the memory of during the war, and I remember one scene which happened during the war, when I was working at the airplane factory.

One motion picture was shown there for the entertainment of the working students, which was based on the novel of Mr. Yokomitsu. And it was maybe Maytime of 1945, the very last of the war, and all students—I was twenties—couldn't believe that we could be survived after the war. And I remember one scene of the film. There was a street, a street scene of Ginza, before the war, a lot of neon signs, beautiful neon signs; it was glittering and we believed we couldn't see all in my life, we can never see it all in my life. But, as you know, we
see
it actually right now, in the Ginza street, there are more and more neon signs on it. But sometimes, when the memory during the war comes back to my mind, some confusion happens in my mind. That neon sign on the screen during the war, and the
actual
neon sign on the Ginza street, I cannot distinguish which is illusion.

It might be our . . . my basic subject and my basic romantic idea of literature. It is death memory . . . and the problem of illusion.

Mishima spoke slowly, enunciating his words. His pronunciation was idiosyncratic; he said “urtist” instead of “artist.” That he made mistakes in English, both in grammar and in pronunciation, did not seem to bother him one bit. He was remarkably un-Japanese in that respect—he seemed wholly unself-conscious.

After he sat down, there were questions. I wanted to know how Mishima, having spoken so freely about the war, accounted for Japan's entry into World War II, clearly a lunatic decision, I
thought. Mishima's explanation proved to be extraordinarily roundabout. He went back to 1936—to that most celebrated of botched coup d'états, the February 26 incident—and traced the influence of that failed putsch up to the attack on Pearl Harbor. I found his line of thinking difficult to follow: he had thought hard about the subject, one sensed, but couldn't quite get out a conclusion, talking to foreigners. A colleague of mine, Sam Jameson of the
Chicago Tribune
, then asked Mishima another question. He wanted to know the origins of the Japanese rite of seppuku—known as hara-kiri in the West—a subject on which Mishima gave another unique kind of answer (I have polished his English a little here):

Once I was asked that question by the English cineast, Mr. Basil Wright, and I replied to him in a letter: “I cannot believe in Western sincerity because it is invisible, but in feudal times we believed that sincerity resided in our entrails, and if we needed to show our sincerity, we had to cut our bellies and take out our
visible
sincerity. And it was also the symbol of the will of the soldier, the samurai; everybody knew that this was the most painful way to die. And the reason they preferred to die in the most excruciating manner was that it proved the courage of the samurai. This method of suicide was a Japanese invention and foreigners could not copy it!”

As Mishima spoke, his words were punctuated by loud guffaws from the audience. He joined in the laughter with a peculiar, raucous, dry laugh. Huh-huh-huh. It was a throaty, nervous sound that made one itchy in turn. The first impression was of a curious guy—a little disconcerting, a little uneasy-making. In the years that followed, up to the time of his death in 1970, I kept track of him, and made it my business to get to know him—as a reporter for
The Times
of London. He was, far and away, the most famous Japanese of his day, thanks in part to the all-round characteristics Roderick had mentioned that night, and partly to something else, his power of speech. Even twenty-five years after his death, his is the voice from Japan, the voice that carries, as if he were still alive, giving interviews to the press. He had a unique vision of his country, and he expressed himself in pungent images that no other
Japanese of modern times has ever matched. There is a saying here: “The nail that sticks out shall be hammered down.” Japanese people don't like to stand up and shout, for fear of being hammered. The paradox is that Mishima, when the moment came, hammered himself down.

I leave the reader to discover the rest. Nothing has been changed in this book, with the exception of the last part, now called Epilogue (1995).

Tokyo, February 1995

ONE

The Last Day

1

Off to the Parade

Yukio Mishima rose early on the morning of November 25, 1970. He shaved slowly and carefully.

This was to be his death face. There must be no unsightly blemishes.

He took a shower, and put on a fresh, white cotton
fundoshi
, a loincloth. Then he dressed in his Tatenokai uniform.

His wife, Yōko, had gone out with the children, taking them to school. He had the house—a large, Western-style home in the southwest suburbs of Tokyo—to himself.

Mishima checked the items he was taking with him that day. He had a brown attaché case containing daggers, papers, and other things; he also had a long samurai sword and scabbard.

On a table in the hall he placed a fat envelope. It contained the final installment of his long novel,
The Sea of Fertility
, on which he had spent six years. The envelope was addressed to his publishers, Shinchōsha, who would send someone for it later that morning.

At ten o'clock he made a couple of short phone calls. He spoke to reporter friends whom he wanted to be on hand to witness the events of the day. But he did not explain exactly what was to happen.

Shortly after ten he saw a Tatenokai student walk up the path through the garden from the front gate. This was Chibi-Koga, a
short youth with a pointed nose. Mishima went out of the house to greet him.

He gave three envelopes to the student. They were addressed to Chibi-Koga, to Furu-Koga, a second student in their small group, and to Ogawa, the tall, pallid boy who was the standard-bearer of the Tatenokai.

“Take these out to the car,” Mishima said to Chibi-Koga. “I will be out in a moment. Read the letters now!”

The student went back down the path.

Mishima gathered his belongings—the attaché case and the sword. He fixed the sword to his belt on the left side. Then he left the house.

An elderly man with silver hair—Azusa Hiraoka, Mishima's father—looked out of his house, next door to that of his son.

“Ah! So he's off to another Tatenokai parade,” thought the father disapprovingly.

Mishima went down the steps into the quiet suburban street.

The Tatenokai party had come in a white Toyota Corona, a medium-size car. It was parked down the street.

Mishima climbed into the front seat, next to the driver, Chibi-Koga. He turned to face the others—Furu-Koga and Ogawa. With them was a third student, a stolid, thickset youth with heavy jowls—Masakatsu Morita, the leader of the Tatenokai under Mishima, and a close friend.

“Have you read the letters?” Mishima asked. “You follow?
You
are not to kill yourselves. That's clear? Just take care of the general. See that he doesn't commit suicide. That's all.”

Mishima and Morita were to commit hara-kiri. The three younger members of the party were to stay alive. At their trial, according to Mishima's letters, they were to expound the principles of the Tatenokai; they were to follow the slogan
Hōkoku Nippon
(“The Imperial Reconstruction of Japan”), a wartime, imperialist slogan.

Mishima had put into each of the envelopes a sum of about $120, three 10,000-yen notes for each of the students, to cover initial expenses.

“All right, let's go,” said Mishima. “Start up!”

2

The Fight in the General's Office

The car with Mishima and his four students arrived at the Ichigaya base of the Jieitai, in the heart of Tokyo, just before 11 a.m.

The guards at the gate saw Mishima in the front and waved Chibi-Koga through. They telephoned the HQ of the Eastern Army at Ichigaya to let the staff know that Mishima and his group had arrived.

Chibi-Koga drove up the steep road leading from the front gate to the top of the little hill on which the HQ stood. He parked at the edge of a big parade ground in front of Eastern Army HQ.

The men got out of the car. Mishima led the way toward the building, carrying his attaché case. His sword swung at his side.

The army HQ building was yellow-gray in color and three stories high. In the center of the boxlike building was the main entrance, which had a large, squat portico. Atop the portico was a spacious balcony; it faced the parade ground across which Mishima and his men walked.

An aide-de-camp to General Kanetoshi Mashita, the commander of the Eastern Army, came out of the main entrance. He was a major, dressed in the blue-gray uniform of the Jieitai.

“Do come in,” he said to Mishima. “General Mashita is waiting for you.”

The officer, Major Sawamoto, led the way. The Tatenokai party followed him into the dark entrance hall. They went up a circular flight of stairs to the first floor.

“I won't keep you a moment,” said the major to Mishima. He disappeared into room 201, the general's office, just at the top of the stairs.

The Tatenokai group stood outside.

To left and right there were long, dark corridors with high ceilings. Senior officers of the Eastern Army, the command responsible for Tokyo and the surrounding Kanto plain, worked on this floor.

On either side of the door of room 201 were opaque glass windows. Glass alone separated the corridor from the general's office beyond.

Major Sawamoto reappeared at the door. “Do come inside,” he said. “The general is ready.”

Mishima went through the door, followed by his men.

The major pointed to four chairs lined up close to the door. “You sit here,” he said to the students. Major Sawamoto then withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.

Mishima went forward to greet General Mashita. The general was a dignified officer with gray hair. He was fifty-seven and had served through the Pacific War; he had a quiet, unpretentious manner.

“How nice to see you again,” he said to Mishima.

The office was not large, no more than twenty by twenty-five feet. It had a high ceiling and tall windows facing south over the balcony outside. Bright sun streamed through the windows.

Access to the office was from all four sides: from the entrance door, from the balcony, and from two tall doors set in the paneling on either side of the room. One door led to the chief of staff, the other to the office of his deputy, a vice chief of staff.

“Please come and sit over here,” the general said to Mishima. He gestured toward a low table around which were armchairs.

Mishima took a seat next to the general.

“Please sit down,” Mashita said to the students. At Mishima's suggestion they had brought their chairs up to the middle of the room; they sat in a row in their yellow-brown uniforms.

“I brought these Tatenokai members to meet you, General,” Mishima said. He introduced them one by one.

Mashita nodded.

“We have just finished an exercise at Mt. Fuji. During the exercise some of our men were injured. These four with me today distinguished themselves by carrying down the wounded men from the mountain.”

“Ah, is that so?”

“I wanted them to have the honor of meeting you,” Mishima continued. “That's why I asked for today's meeting. Later today
we will have a regular Tatenokai meeting at which these four will receive a commendation.”

“Mm, I follow.”

“The reason why we are in uniform today is that we are holding our monthly meeting.”

“I see.”

Mishima had taken off his sword before he sat down. The weapon was propped up against one of the chairs where Mashita could see it. An orange tassel hung from the hilt.

“Tell me,” said Mashita, who had been eyeing the weapon, “what is this sword that you have with you? Did anyone ask you about it on the way in? I am not very clear about the rules on swords, as we don't carry them any more ourselves.”

“It's all right to carry this sword,” replied Mishima. “It is a military sword. An antique. I carry an expert's authentication.” Mishima produced a piece of paper. “The sword was made by Seki no Magoroku, according to this. It's a genuine seventeenth-century blade. The Seki school.”

The general glanced across at the sword. The hilt had diamond-shaped panels with mother-of-pearl inlay. It was an exceptional piece.

“Would you like to see it?” asked Mishima.

“Yes,” replied the general. “It has
sambon sugi
, hasn't it?” He referred to the smoky, wavy pattern of the tempering of a sword of the Seki school.

“Let me get it out,” said Mishima. He stood and picked up the sword and drew the blade from the scabbard with a practiced motion. He held the glittering weapon upright.

He and Mashita studied the blade for a moment. Its surface was obscured by grease.

“Koga,” said Mishima to Chibi-Koga, “a handkerchief!”

The words were a cue for Chibi-Koga.

The student got up from his chair and came toward the two men by the table. In his hand he carried a
tenugui
, a thin, strong towel.

This was the “handkerchief.” Chibi-Koga was to use it to gag General Mashita. His instructions were to slip the
tenugui
over the general's face, from behind.

At that moment, however, the general walked away. He went to his desk to fetch some tissue to wipe the sword.

The student was in a quandary. He could not wait where he was; that was not in the plan. And he was incapable of improvisation.

Chibi-Koga handed the towel to Mishima and went back to his seat.

Mishima methodically wiped the blade. He held it up, admiring its razor-sharp edge. It was in flawless condition.