Read Online Death in Midsummer & Other Stories by Yukio Mishima - Free Book Online
Authors: Yukio Mishima
Tags: Fiction, Literary, Japan, Short Stories (Single Author), Mishima; Yukio, Short Stories; Japanese, Japan - Social Life and Customs
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its place,' she said softly.
Kenzd took the biscuit, wadded the cellophane wrapper, and threw it to the ground. It crackled sharply on the silent, deserted street. Too large for one hand, he took the biscuit in both hands and tried to break it. It was damp and soggy, and the sweet surface stuck to his hands. The more it bent the more it resisted.
He was in the end unable to break it.
Translated by Edward G. Seidensticker Thermos Flasks
Kawase, who had been in Los Angeles for six months on company business, could have gone directly back to Japan, but was staying in San Francisco for a few days. Looking over the San Francisco Chronicle in his hotel, he suddenly wanted to read something in Japanese and took out a letter that had come to Los Angeles from his wife.
'Shigeru seems to remember his father from time to time. For no reason at all, he will get a worried expression and say:
"Where's papa?" The thermos flask still works very well when he is bad. Your sister from Setagaya was here the other day and said that she had never heard of a child who was afraid of thermos flasks. Maybe because it's old, the thermos flask leaks air round the cork, even when you put it down very gently, and makes noises like some old man complaining to himself. Shigeru always decides to behave when he hears it. I'm sure he is more afraid of the thermos flask than of his indulgent father.'
When he had finished rereading the letter, by now almost memorized, Kawase had nothing else to do. It was a bright October day, but all the lights were on in the lobby, which was most depressing. Old people, dressed in their best despite the earliness of the hour, made limp motions like waving seaweed.
The monocle of one old man caught the light as he read his newspaper in a deep armchair.
Weaving through the many-colourecl luggage of what appeared to be a party of tourists, Kawase left his key at the desk
- it was busy as always - and pushed open the heavy glass door.
He crossed Geary Street in the blinding autumn sunlight and turned down Powell Street, with its coffee shops and gift shops and cheap night clubs, and a sea-food restaurant that had the 52
prow of a clipper at the door. From far away he picked out a figure coming towards him.
Despite the distance, he knew immediately that it was a Japanese woman, not second or third generation, but native Japanese. It was not that she wore Japanese dress. Carefully imitating the conservative dress of the city, she had on a hat, a pearl necklace, and a good silver-mink coat. Yet her powdered face was a trifle too white, and though there were no obvious flaws in her dress, her determined walk had something unnatural about it. As a result the child whose hand she held was half-dangling in the air. _
'Well!' The exclamation was so loud that people turned to look, and the pointed toes of the high-heeled shoes darted at him in tiny steps. 'I recognized you right away. You can always tell a Japanese, even from the distance. You walk as if you ought to have a pair of swords in your belt.'
'And what do you think you look like?' Kawase too forgot the greetings one exchanges with an acquaintance not seen for a very long time. It was as if the distance between past and present, usually so precise, had shrunk a few inches.
He blamed the shrinkage on the foreign country. The Japanese system of measuring had gone askew. There were times when a sudden encounter abroad produced effusions that were cause for later regret, for the distance could not be forced back to normal afterwards. The difficulty was not limited to relations between men and women. Kawase had had the experience with other men, and men who were not particularly close friends.
It was more than evident that the woman had undergone rigorous training this last year or two in how to wear Western clothes and Western cosmetics. The results were considerable, but the uneasiness of the new arrival showed in the way she applied face powder. Western women think
Kenzd took the biscuit, wadded the cellophane wrapper, and threw it to the ground. It crackled sharply on the silent, deserted street. Too large for one hand, he took the biscuit in both hands and tried to break it. It was damp and soggy, and the sweet surface stuck to his hands. The more it bent the more it resisted.
He was in the end unable to break it.
Translated by Edward G. Seidensticker Thermos Flasks
Kawase, who had been in Los Angeles for six months on company business, could have gone directly back to Japan, but was staying in San Francisco for a few days. Looking over the San Francisco Chronicle in his hotel, he suddenly wanted to read something in Japanese and took out a letter that had come to Los Angeles from his wife.
'Shigeru seems to remember his father from time to time. For no reason at all, he will get a worried expression and say:
"Where's papa?" The thermos flask still works very well when he is bad. Your sister from Setagaya was here the other day and said that she had never heard of a child who was afraid of thermos flasks. Maybe because it's old, the thermos flask leaks air round the cork, even when you put it down very gently, and makes noises like some old man complaining to himself. Shigeru always decides to behave when he hears it. I'm sure he is more afraid of the thermos flask than of his indulgent father.'
When he had finished rereading the letter, by now almost memorized, Kawase had nothing else to do. It was a bright October day, but all the lights were on in the lobby, which was most depressing. Old people, dressed in their best despite the earliness of the hour, made limp motions like waving seaweed.
The monocle of one old man caught the light as he read his newspaper in a deep armchair.
Weaving through the many-colourecl luggage of what appeared to be a party of tourists, Kawase left his key at the desk
- it was busy as always - and pushed open the heavy glass door.
He crossed Geary Street in the blinding autumn sunlight and turned down Powell Street, with its coffee shops and gift shops and cheap night clubs, and a sea-food restaurant that had the 52
prow of a clipper at the door. From far away he picked out a figure coming towards him.
Despite the distance, he knew immediately that it was a Japanese woman, not second or third generation, but native Japanese. It was not that she wore Japanese dress. Carefully imitating the conservative dress of the city, she had on a hat, a pearl necklace, and a good silver-mink coat. Yet her powdered face was a trifle too white, and though there were no obvious flaws in her dress, her determined walk had something unnatural about it. As a result the child whose hand she held was half-dangling in the air. _
'Well!' The exclamation was so loud that people turned to look, and the pointed toes of the high-heeled shoes darted at him in tiny steps. 'I recognized you right away. You can always tell a Japanese, even from the distance. You walk as if you ought to have a pair of swords in your belt.'
'And what do you think you look like?' Kawase too forgot the greetings one exchanges with an acquaintance not seen for a very long time. It was as if the distance between past and present, usually so precise, had shrunk a few inches.
He blamed the shrinkage on the foreign country. The Japanese system of measuring had gone askew. There were times when a sudden encounter abroad produced effusions that were cause for later regret, for the distance could not be forced back to normal afterwards. The difficulty was not limited to relations between men and women. Kawase had had the experience with other men, and men who were not particularly close friends.
It was more than evident that the woman had undergone rigorous training this last year or two in how to wear Western clothes and Western cosmetics. The results were considerable, but the uneasiness of the new arrival showed in the way she applied face powder. Western women think
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