The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

after each player had received eleven cards, and a
single card was left face up beside them. It was the
three of diamonds, a sort of lunatic freshness in its
red. Honda caught his breath. He saw three moles,
stained in blood.
The special sounds of a card game: laughter as of
a table fountain, sighs, little cries of astonishment. It
was a zone where there need be no inhibitions in
such matters as chuckling, uncertainty and unease,
the craftiness of old age. It was like night in a zoo of
emotions. Cries and laughter came from all the pens
and all the cages.
“It’s your turn.”
“No, it’s yours.”
“Doesn’t anyone have a canasta yet?”
“But I’ll be scolded if I play out of turn.”
“She’s a very good dancer. Go-go too.”
“I’ve never been to a go-go hall.”
“I have. Just once. Like an insane asylum. Have a
look at an African dance some time. It’s the same
thing.”
“I like to tango.”
“I like the old dances.”
“The waltz and the tango.”
“The old dances are so graceful. These new ones
are like spooks. The men and the women all dressed