The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

“Hello. The Tenrō-maru is in three-G. Sixteen
fifteen.”
“Hello. The Tenrō-maru came in five minutes ago.”
Ships not from abroad but from Nagoya or
Yokohama were more frequent at the end of the
month than at the beginning. Yokohama was one
hundred fifteen nautical miles away, nine and a half
hours at twelve knots. Tōru had no duties except to be
on watch for an hour or so before a projected arrival.
There were no other arrivals today save the Nitchōmaru
at nine in the evening, from Keelung.
Tōru always felt a little dejected when he had
finished a round of calls. The harbor would be
suddenly alive. He would light a cigarette as he
watched the stir from remote isolation.
Actually he should not be smoking. The
superintendent had had a sharp word or two when he
had first noticed a boy of sixteen with a cigarette in
his mouth. Afterward he had said nothing. No doubt
he had concluded that inattention was the more
profitable policy.
Tōru’s pale, finely carved face was like ice. It
conveyed no emotion, no affection or tears.
But he knew the happiness of watching. Nature had
told him of it. No eye could be clearer or brighter than