The Frolic of the Beasts

Epilogue

I have always been interested in the traditional performing arts of celebration—so much so, in fact, that, having been encouraged in this direction at university by Professor Matsuyama, I decided on the “Study of Celebration and Reciters” as the title of my thesis.

After graduating, I took a job teaching in a high school, and during my vacation I visited my alma mater and sought the advice of Professor Matsuyama in connection with my research aims. For me, going on a research field trip was the greatest pleasure. It is fair to say that for a scholar of ethnology, the real delight is not in carrying out one’s studies in the research office, but rather, in having opportunities to spend time in the field.

I spent one summer in the 1960s traveling the length and breadth of the Izu Peninsula on just this sort of fact-finding trip.

By its very nature, a peninsula is a repository for all manner of folklore material, into which flow a great many customs. These customs take root and are handed down orally with the result that unexpected folklore discoveries are made in some surprising places. Everywhere one goes in Izu, belief in the traveler’s guardian deity Dōsojin is widespread. Deities such as these, which are known as “Sai no Kami,” are protectors from harm and usually manifest themselves in the form of three-dimensional stone statues—designed to ward off incursions into the area by intruders from other regions. There is even a curious custom whereby, when the catch has been poor, the local children hurl the stone statue into the sea as a means of teasing and taking out their revenge on the gods.

Interestingly, there are many “Sanbasō” pieces from celebratory Noh dramas remaining in the Izu Peninsula, and this makes it a suitable location for surveying the extent to which songs of blessing and celebration are alive among the coastal-dwelling village people.

Being interested in the custom practiced in Kuri Village, West Izu, whereby, during a boat-launching ceremony, the young wife and daughter of the boat owner are thrown from the newly constructed vessel into the water (according to one theory—the vestiges of the tradition of human sacrifice), and concerned also with the boat-launching songs that are recited on such occasions, I went first to Kuri Village, following an introduction by a certain person. Timing my visit to coincide with the boat-launching ceremony, I stayed several days there and witnessed this unusual custom with my own eyes and also listened to the songs that were recited to me by the village elders. But the boat launching song had become somewhat popularized, and since it no longer resembled the original from ancient times, I was not at all satisfied with its performance.

From Kuri I took the bus and traveled due north along the coast road and arrived in the next small fishing village, called Iro. Unable to rely on the good offices of an introducer, I explained the objective of my field trip to the proprietor of the hotel I was staying at and asked whether there was an elder who passed on the oral tradition of reciting old folk songs. The proprietor said that, while he himself did not know, he was on friendly terms with the chief priest of the local Taisenji temple—Kakujin—and that, since the priest himself was interested in matters such as this, it would be more expedient to meet with him.

As I was tired, I spent that evening in the hotel putting in order the materials I had collated.

The following day was a hot midsummer’s day, and after breakfast, I slipped on a pair of the hotel’s geta and tottered along the prefectural highway. Turning right, I went past the post office before turning left again and passing through the old main gate of the Rinzai sect Taisenji temple.

A lot of children were playing in the temple precincts, and while the temple itself looked as though it had been remodeled a number of times, it still retained the majesty of the old architecture, built in the Oei era. Asking to be shown the way, I met the priest Kakujin for the first time.

During my stay in Iro Village, I was deeply impressed by the priest’s character, and even during that short period, there developed between us a particularly intimate friendship; as for the priest, he no doubt welcomed me as an appreciative acquaintance at the very time he was lamenting the fact that with each passing day the young people of the village were increasingly turning their backs on the customs and traditions of the past.

Soon after our first meeting, the priest complained to me about how the boatman’s song, which had been preserved by the village shrine, was on the verge of dying out, and sending for the last reciter, he arranged for him to recite the song especially for my benefit. I was truly delighted at this.

The old fisherman who soon turned up, however, was a simple soul indeed; he made the introductory remark that lately he had been suffering from ill health, the tone of his voice was disappointing, and that this would, in any case, likely be his last recital.

While the boat event itself had since died out, up until several decades ago a festival was held annually on November 3. The shrine boat Shinkosen Myojin-maru was splendidly decorated; the young villagers would take up its twelve pairs of oars and row around the interior of the bay all day long.

In the middle of the boat was a room of approximately fifty square feet. Inside it, five singers would recite sacred songs, and when the recital came to an end, dancers dressed in red kimonos performed a monkey dance. This was likely as not a variation of the Noh Sanbasō performance. It seems to be similar to the Sanba Sarugaku performance that still exists throughout northern Japan.

Twelve songs—beginning with the “Sacred Boat Song”—have been handed down, and it took two days to finish reciting them aboard ship. However, the only one I was able to listen to was the “Sacred Boat Song,” also known as the “Song of the Gods.”

Before the reciter began his recital, I had an opportunity to copy some of the verses, which were written on an old sheet of calligraphy paper.

The lyrics begin with “How joyous and happy a celebration. Yes, this is a celebration…” and is a typical celebratory song, devoid of any particularly notable characteristics, found throughout the various regions.

The song continues in a similar vein with descriptions of the four seasons, which immediately reminded me of the piece in the Collection of Sacred Celebration Songs called “On the Beach.” It includes the following words: “How pleasant are the valleys!”

The celebratory song “On the Beach” can also be found in the repertoire of the Kowaka School of Dance. Of course this piece is derived from one in the Collection of Sacred Celebration Songs; however, the version in the Collection of Sacred Celebration Songs clearly praises the city of Kamakura.

“Now that I have taken my revenge on my enemy and have made a name for myself, I can lay down my swords, bows, and arrows.”

These words from the “Sacred Boat Song” reminded me of the piece called “The Celebration of a Long Life and Vengeance” in Kumiodori dance. However, the warmongering samurai vengeance theme quickly dissolves into a peaceful chant that celebrates longevity.

The reciter once again excused his poor voice and started reciting the first line of the “Sacred Boat Song” in a relaxed manner. His voice was unexpectedly beautiful. Although it was somehow melancholy, still it retained the sparkling brightness of a calm sea.

I was thrilled with the materials I had collected relating to the “Sacred Boat Song,” and so I felt like staying on awhile in this village and unearthing more buried folklore materials at my leisure. Chatting with the priest during my frequent visits to Taisenji, I searched for clues in everything he said, clues that might lead to still further discoveries.

It was my fifth night since I came to the village. Having been treated to some sake at the temple and while talking with the priest about this and that, my attention was drawn in an unexpected direction by an anecdote he shared. Straying from my scholarly interests, I was seized with a burning curiosity about an incident that happened in this village two years ago. It involved a young man who, together with a married woman, strangled the woman’s husband. The husband had been suffering from aphasia—the illness caused in the first place two years earlier as a result of an injury inflicted by the young man. Pressing the priest, I persuaded him to tell me everything he knew about it. Strangely, the priest shared his sympathy equally with each of these three characters, and in particular, my interest was considerably piqued by the woman called Yūko.

Even with the benefit of the priest’s detailed explanation, both Yūko’s appearance and her character remained enveloped in a veil of obscurity and the only image I could conjure of her was her thin lips, adorned—as they always were—with heavy lipstick.

This vague image, which was so difficult to grasp, was for me just like an old and beautiful, and yet mysterious, piece of folklore that had been buried, and what a valuable scholarly discovery it would be, if only I could capture it now, when it was on the point of being lost—having been passed down in the utmost secrecy.

Then at last, the priest suggested he show me a photograph that was in his possession. As he stood up to open the box where it was kept, I felt overwhelmed with feelings of both hope and unease. Researchers like me often experience disappointment on field trips when, leaving aside the collation of data relating to the oral transmission of language and thought, we are dismayed to find that a particular ancient manuscript that has been described to us in glowing terms actually turns out to be nothing remarkable.

I was afraid that Yūko’s actual photograph would fall short of my expectations. Fortunately, my fears proved groundless.

Besides its being slightly overexposed, the three figures in the picture wore white clothing, accentuating the brightness of the photograph all the more. Despite this, the picture was distinct and above all else the friendly intimacy created a strange impression. Yūko was in the middle of the frame, wearing a white dress and smiling, holding a folded parasol in her hand. If anything, her generously proportioned, gay face gave off a hint of unrefined but graceful sorrow, and while thin, her lips were also beautiful. Delighted that my illusion had not been shattered, at the same time I knew full well that the priest’s storytelling contained no exaggeration.

The photograph had been nonchalantly given to the priest the day before the incident, when Kōji made his customary delivery of flowers to the temple. With the benefit of hindsight, no doubt everyone would agree that this was a suggestive gift indeed. More will be said about this later. The most pronounced impression was left by the priest’s description of Kōji and Yūko the morning after the murder. Being an early riser, the priest was in the habit of going down into the back garden of the temple before daybreak and puttering around.

The sky was beginning to lighten. Just then he became aware of footsteps coming down the slope that led back up to the Kusakado greenhouse and looked up from what he was doing. Usually, no one came down from the house this early in the morning. When he looked again, he realized it was Yūko and Kōji, holding hands as they came toward him. Just at that moment, a flash of light from the eastern mountains illuminated the slope, signaling the arrival of dawn, and the couple appeared brilliantly lit in the first light of day.

Their faces brimming with happiness, and with a youthful spring in their step, they appeared more beautiful than ever before. Descending the dew-wet path, surrounded by the lingering cries of the morning insects, Yūko and Kōji truly looked like bride and groom…

The priest could be forgiven for thinking that they were the bearers of extraordinarily glad tidings. In fact, however, they had come to ask him to accompany them to the police station, where they intended to turn themselves in. They confessed to strangling Ippei to death late the previous night using a thin length of cord. Moreover, Kōji claimed that he had carried out the murder at Ippei’s request. The priest testified that around noon on the previous day, Kōji had given him the photograph when he came to deliver the flowers. It seems that this was Kōji’s attempt to allude to the fact that it wasn’t an impulsive crime, but rather one committed at the victim’s behest.

However, since there was no circumstantial evidence, let alone any direct evidence, supporting his explanation, Kōji’s plea was rejected. Instead, the strange gift of the photograph was seen as proof of the premeditated nature of the crime. Kōji and Yūko were regarded as complicit. Kōji had a previous conviction for bodily harm against the victim, and accordingly there was no chance to plead extenuating circumstances. He was given the death penalty, and Yūko was sentenced to life imprisonment.

Subsequently, Kōji and Yūko both sent letters to the priest from prison, imploring him to somehow arrange for their graves to be erected side by side. While this appeared a strange request, the priest discerned that behind it lay the specter of some mournful hope. Perhaps herein lay the real motive for delivering the photograph the day before the crime was committed.

However, setting aside the question of Ippei’s grave, the issue of placing the other two graves side by side encountered intense resistance from certain influential villagers, and so the priest was forced to wait and bide his time.

Last autumn, Kōji was finally executed.

In the early spring of this year, as the three had wished, the priest arranged for Yūko’s commemorative headstone to be built to the left of Ippei’s grave—which already stood there—and to the left of that, for Kōji’s tombstone to be erected.

Guided by the priest, I paid a visit to the three mysterious graves, and having obtained permission, I took a photograph. As if he had perceived my thoughts, as I did so the priest casually approached me with the following request. He explained that the reason he had not yet sent a photograph of the graves to Yūko was that, if possible, he had wanted to visit her and deliver it in person, but since it had been rather difficult to find an opportunity to do so, he asked if I might go in his place. I readily agreed.

As a result of this, my summer field trip came to an end having yielded an unexpectedly poor harvest. My thoughts continually ran ahead to the meeting with Yūko, and since learning of this story from the priest, I lost interest in devoting myself to my research.

Following my return to Tokyo, with just a few days left before the end of the summer vacation, I decided that at last today would be the day I would pay a visit to Tochigi prison.

At Asakusa I boarded a train on the Tobu line bound for Nikko Kinugawa, alighting onto the platform of Tochigi station at 1:59 p.m.

The lingering summer heat was relentless. Several swallows—which showed no sign of leaving soon—busily flew in and out of the old eaves above the station entrance. The sun was dazzling, and the sweeping shadows of the swallows skimmed past my eyes like a handful of small stones that had been hurled in the air before plummeting onto the deserted white square in front of the station.

The eaves of the houses were low. To the right could be seen the foliage of a row of shabby roadside trees along the wide sidewalk that led to the shopping district. Just like in any provincial city, here, too, were dozens of incongruously large buses lined up, displaying their grandeur. I boarded the bus for Oyama, as I had been instructed to by the priest. With just a few passengers on board, the bus made its way through the shopping district, where, it being afternoon on a Monday, the stores were mostly closed. There was a noodle bar that had a cascade of red roses trailing over a black fence. There was hardly anyone walking along the street. The monotonous sunlight shone relentlessly.

The bus, having gone briefly to the outskirts of the town—which had become disagreeably hot—and picked up some passengers, now returned the way it had come, turning left at the telephone and telegram exchange—situated midway along the shopping street—and then entered an unpaved road. The bus shook terribly.

“The next stop is the prison. Are there any passengers stopping at the prison?” announced a young female conductor, glancing at my face. I was surprised to feel a sense of embarrassment—as if I were doing something a little questionable—feelings I imagined were experienced by any visitor going to see a female relative in this women’s prison. These past few weeks, Yūko, whom I had not yet seen, occupied my thoughts almost night and day.

The bus passed by the front of several buildings—the courthouse, with its large protruding gables like a Buddhist temple, a law office, and the prison caterer—before stopping at the foot of a small stone bridge. Turning right at the approach to the bridge, a private road, ten yards in width, led straight to the front gate of the prison. Cherry trees lined the road on either side, although they were still saplings.

The official residences of officers such as the prison governor and chief warden were located in this area, and beyond, the prison was surrounded by a high wall constructed of Oyaishi stone. There was no sign of life at all here either.

When I got down from the bus, I was amazed to hear dozens of twittering birds. I couldn’t see them, but they sounded like sparrows. Starting with the garden in front of the courthouse, there were many ancient trees in this vicinity, and not only that, but the songbirds appeared to be nesting in the invisible nooks and crannies of the old houses.

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:

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.