The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea by Yukio Mishima Page B

his thighs. When he was satisfied, he stepped into his shoes gingerly so as not to dislodge the sand and minced back to Ryuji. “Look,” he said, indicating the sand on his sweating thigh, “it stuck in the shape of a draftsman’s curve.”
    “Where are you headed now?”
    “Home. Why don’t you come too, Mr. Tsukazaki? There’s an air conditioner in the living room and it’s really cool.”
    They turned on the air conditioner and Ryuji slumped into a rattan chair. Noboru, after returning from an artfully reluctant trip to the bathroom under orders from the housekeeper to wash his feet, sprawled on the rattan couch near the closed window.
    The housekeeper came in with cool drinks and began to scold again: “I’m going to tell your mother just how bad you behave in front of company—flopping all over the place like that.”
    Noboru’s eyes sought help from Ryuji.
    “It doesn’t bother me a bit. And swimming all day does seem to have tired him out.”
    “I suppose so—but he should know better. . . .”
    Obviously the housekeeper resented Ryuji and she appeared to be venting her disgruntlement on Noboru. Heaving from side to side buttocks heavy with discontent, she lumbered out of the room.
    Ryuji’s defense had united them in a tacit pact. Noboru swilled his drink, dribbling yellow fruit juice on his throat. Then he turned to look at the sailor, and, for the first time, his eyes were smiling. “I know just about everything when it comes to ships.”
    “You’d probably put an old pro like me to shame.”
    “I don’t like to be flattered.” Noboru raised his head from a cushion his mother had embroidered; for an instant, there was fury in his eyes.
    “What time do you stand watch, Mr. Tsukazaki?”
    “From noon to four and from midnight to four. That’s why they call it ‘thieves’ watch.’”
    “Thieves’ watch! Boy, that sounds great!” This time Noboru laughed outright and arched his back into a bow.
    “How many men stand watch together?”
    “A duty officer and two helmsmen.”
    “Mr. Tsukazaki, how much does a ship list in a squall?”
    “Thirty to forty degrees when it gets really bad. Try walking up a forty-degree grade sometimes. It’s like scaling a damn wall—fantastic. There are times when . . .”
    Groping for words, Ryuji stared into space. Noboru saw in his eyes the billows of a storm-riled sea and felt mildly seasick. He was ecstatic.
    “The Rakuyo is a tramp steamer, isn’t she, Mr. Tsukazaki?”
    “Yes, that’s right,” Ryuji admitted halfheartedly: his pride was hurt a little.
    “I guess most of your routes are between Japan and China and then India, right?”
    “You do know what you’re talking about, don’t you? Sometimes we ship wheat from Australia to England too.”
    Noboru’s questions were precipitate, his interest leaped from one subject to another. “What was the Philippines’ chief product again?”
    “Lauan wood, I guess.”
    “How about Malaya?”
    “That’d be iron ore. Here’s one for you: what’s Cuba’s chief product?”
    “Sugar. What else? Anybody knows that. Say, have you ever been to the West Indies?”
    “Yes. Just once, though.”
    “Did you get to Haiti?”
    “Yes.”
    “Boy! How about the trees there?”
    “Trees?”
    “You know, like shade trees or—”
    “Oh, that—palms mostly. And then the mountains are full of what they call flamboyants. And silk trees. I can’t remember whether the flamboyant looks like the silk tree or not. Anyway, when they blossom, they look like they’re on fire. And when the sky gets pitch black just before an evening storm they turn fantastic colors. I’ve never seen blossoms like that again anywhere.”
    Ryuji wanted to talk about his mysterious attachment to a grove of wine palms. But he didn’t know how to tell that kind of story to a child, and as he sat and wondered, the doomsday glow of sunset in the Persian Gulf roused in his mind, and the sea wind caressing his cheek as he