The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

oom. He followed the great hull of the ship leaving the
harbor.
It was the Yamataka-maru of the Y.S. Line, 9,183
tons, bound for Yokohama.
“A Yamashita ship has just left, bound in your
direction. Yamataka, Yamataka. It’s now seventeen
twenty.”
Having telephoned his message to the main office
in Yokohama, he returned to the binoculars and once
more followed the Yamataka-maru, its masts now
disappearing into the mist.
The mark was a single black line near the top of a
persimmon-colored ground. Y.S. LINE in large black
letters on the hull. White bridge, red cranes. The ship
was in desperate flight from the circle in the
telescope. Sending white lines from its prow, it moved
out to sea.
It was gone.
There were bonfires in what had been strawberry
patches below the window.
The plastic shelters which had until about the end of
the summer rains covered the whole expanse had all
been taken away. The strawberry season was past.
Cuttings for forced cultivation were off at the fifth
station of Fuji welcoming a man-made winter. They