The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

greeted him from the sun-blackened face. Honda was
frightened.
Where was the crape myrtle, he asked in surprise
as he went out into the garden on the morning of the
third. The old crape myrtle by the garden cottage had
been cut at the roots.
Kinué, who had been in the main house, had
moved to the cottage early in July. It had been from
fear of Tōru after the poker incident that Honda had
first taken her in.
Tōru came out. He had the poker in his left hand.
His room was a remodeled parlor. It had the only
fireplace in the house. Even in summer there was a
poker on the nail beside it.
Tōru of course knew that the mere sight of it would
make Honda cower like a whipped dog.
“What are you doing with that thing? This time I’ll
call the police. Last time I kept quiet because I didn’t
want publicity, but it won’t be so easy for you this
time.” Honda’s shoulders were quivering, and it had
taken all his courage to speak.
“You have a stick, don’t you? Defend yourself with
that.”
Honda had been looking forward to the crape
myrtle in bloom, its blossoms shining against a trunk
smooth like the white skin of a leper. But there was