One night, after Yuko and Koji walk in on Ippei and a lover, Koji ends up assaulting Ippei, bashing his head with a wrench.

That’s the relatively normal part.

When Koji is released from jail, Yuko takes him back under her wing. She is “censured for her rashness by the prison governor, who said he had never before heard of a case where a member of the victim’s family had become the criminal’s guarantor.” She brings him back into the orbit of her husband, who now has trouble communicating because of his injuries from the attack.

“After two years of anguish, each of them had, perhaps, finally found happiness,” Mishima writes. “Yuko had Ippei exactly as she wanted him, Koji had his freedom, and, as for Ippei, he had something very peculiar.” What exactly does Ippei have? For the villagers (and for the readers) “there was pleasure in guessing how their immoral behavior would turn out.”

The novel’s plot isn’t really enough to sustain even its relatively brief length, and there’s a slackness to certain scenes that’s missing in Mishima’s other work.

But two primary things make this book worthwhile. First, it may be a minor work, but Mishima is a giant, and even the minor works of giants are inherently interesting. Second, the uniquely askew relationships at the center of the story mean that its most riveting scenes are well and truly riveting; unforgettable, even. There is a macabre fascination, tinged with pitch-black humor, in Koji’s meeting Ippei again after he is released from prison. And in a shocking moment when Yuko kisses Koji in front of her bewildered husband, there is the unveiling of a profound cruelty.