The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

of Asia to the tenth parallel on the coast of
Vietnam . . . from Santos . . . the east coast of Africa
to the west coast of Madagascar . . . the Suez
Canal . . . the Red Sea, Aden, the Persian Gulf.
An invisible line was drawn from continent to
continent and ocean to ocean and what was within
was named “tropical,” and so, suddenly, a “tropical”
made its appearance, with its coconuts, its reefs, its
cobalt seas, its storm clouds, its squalls, the screams
of its multicolored parrots.
Trunks of lauan, splashed with the scarlet and gold
and green labels of the tropics. Heaped-up logs of
lauan: they had been wet by tropical rains and they
had reflected warm starlit skies, they had been
attacked by waves and eaten by the shining bugs of
the deep; and they could not dream that they were
headed at the end of the journey for the boredom of
everyday life.
Seven.
The Daichū-maru passed the second pylon. The
lights of the harbor were aglow.
Since it had come in at an odd hour, quarantine
and unloading would have to wait until the next
morning. Even so, Tōru made the usual calls: the pilot,
the police, the harbor superintendent, the agent, the
provisioners, the laundry.