The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

11
TŌRU WAS FEELING irritable and restless.
He had idle visitors frequently enough. The building
seemed to arouse curiosity. Most of them had
children and came in at the children’s urging. Tōru
would lift them up to the telescope, and that would be
that. This pair had been different. They had come as if
trying to pry into something, and left as if they had
stolen something. Something that Tōru himself had
not been aware of.
It was five in the afternoon. Rain was threatening,
and darkness came early.
The long line of indigo across the sea was like a
great badge of mourning. It gave an air of repose. A
single cargo ship was visible, far to the right.
There was a telephone call from Yokohama
informing him of a sailing. There were no other calls.
It was time for dinner, but he was not hungry. He
turned on the desk light and leafed through pages of
ship funnels. They were good for driving away
boredom.
He had his favorites among them, and reveries
about them. He liked the mark of the Swedish East