An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (13 page)

‘It’s strange that I’ve known you all this time, Aldous, and I don’t know if your parents are alive or dead.’

Aldous grunted, continued painting.

‘I just wondered. You’ve never mentioned them.’

‘Alive and kicking in Devon,’ Aldous conceded. ‘Kicking each other, no doubt. It’s what’s kept them in this world so long.’

Silence again. But this time an easier quietness. Aldous’ cat M acavity entering the room, a purring slink and slide against his master’s calf before leaping on to the window sill, stretching out in the sunlight. Aldous reaching over, stroking the obscenely
proffered
belly.

‘I’ve written something for
The Londinium
.’

‘Ah, finally, some creativity arises out of the misery. What is it called?’

‘Don’t you want to know what it’s about first?’

‘Personally, I do. But my readers these days like a good title to pull them in. Publishing is becoming so crass, so commercial these days.’

‘It’s tentatively called
Against The Odds
.’

‘Hmmm. So-so. What is it about?’

‘A man in the twilight of his life. Frustrated, disappointed, full of regrets.’

‘Sounds predictable.’

‘A man who has lived his life according to what has been expected of him. Played by the rules of his parents, his class, his religion, his workplace. Until he realises he has not lived at all.’

‘Bo-ring.’

‘He bets all his life savings on a horse.’

‘Ah. Now it gets interesting. So what happens next?’

‘You’ll have to read it to find out.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Aldous pecked away with his brush. ‘It is the visit home that has inspired. Not the rejection by the beast.’

‘Macy may have been many things. But she was not a beast.’

‘All women are becoming beasts. It was the war that changed them. All those jobs giving them financial independence. They used to be such pleasant creatures before that.’

‘What about men?’

‘Men have no excuse. They have always been beasts.’

The advertisement was tucked away at the corner of the notice board. Normally, Edward wouldn’t have paid it or even the board much attention. But he was looking for an offer of decent rented accommodation among the tacked up scraps of papers
announcing
the meetings of clubs and societies to which he was not a member. The School of Oriental and African Studies was full of these activities for happy, energetic, well-balanced, sociable human beings who liked to discuss matters relating to Colonialism and the Commonwealth, who were eager to hike in multi-ethnic packs the pathways of the South Downs, who played cricket, football and tennis, who wanted to swap lessons in Swahili for
conversation
in Hindi. But there was never any bright chit by one
aspiring
writer craving the companionship of another. Edward was an outsider. And he wondered if he was an outsider first and a writer second. Or whether wanting to write drove him naturally to being an outsider. An observer. Spotting the advertisement which read as follows:

‘I’m not a young graduate,’ Edward told Digby over the telephone.

Digby laughed. ‘What does that mean? You’re not young or you’re not a graduate?’

‘The latter.’

‘I wish people wouldn’t use that former and latter stuff. It means I have to go back over what they said, which I’ve forgotten anyway, and then try to figure it all out.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m not a graduate. I’ve only just completed my first year in Japanese studies.’ ‘That actually suits us better. You see this job is not about translation.

That’s what I have discovered most graduates want. Spiritless
translation
work. No, we don’t need a translator. They’ve got a Jap chap doing that over there already.’

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘Tokyo Autos. That’s the company we’re licensing our
engineering
technology to. We just need someone to put his formal translations into normal English. So I can understand what it all means.’

‘What kind of translations?’

‘Company stuff. Brochures, reports. Maybe some legal and technical papers. There’s a big motor show coming up in Japan next year. I’d like to see material in both Japanese and
comprehensible
English for that. Then there would be correspondence to edit. Annual reports. And to be honest with you, I wouldn’t mind having one of my chaps over there on the ground so to speak, just to keep an eye out, keeping Argos Motors’ best interests at heart, if you know what I mean? Does it suit?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Think about it. Then come over and we can talk conditions.’

Peter Digby turned out to be exactly as he sounded on the telephone. A no-nonsense man in tweed sports jacket who was really an engineering genius specialising in the field of crankshafts and gearboxes but had ended up administering his own successful automobile company.

‘This licensing deal is easy money for Argos,’ Digby told Edward over his second pint at a pub near to his office. ‘Let the Japs pay us so they can tinker with their tiny little cars away over there on the other side of the world. Argos is not interested in the Asian market so we’re only too happy to help them out with our technology. Do you know how many cars they made last year? Not even five
thousand
. And we’re too entrenched here for them to ever challenge us with their Isuzus and Nissans, no matter how much they up their production and exports. Mark my words, fifty years from now, and you’ll still be driving around in an Argos. This deal is money for old rope. Money for old rope is what I say.’

The conditions were good. A company-paid flat in Tokyo. Monthly subsistence allowance in yen, balance paid in sterling direct to his bank account. Annual bonus. Two years minimum commitment.

‘Anything less than that and no sooner you’d be out there, than you’d have to hop on the ship back. It takes nearly a month to sail there. What do you think?’

‘I’ll take it.’

Digby held out his hand. ‘Sealed in flesh. Now before I buy you another drink. Tell me something. Adventure? Or escape?’

Edward thought about this for a few moments. ‘The latter,’ he said.

There had been a narrow street with high walls. The ground was
littered
with crushed petals, cut-off flower stalks. The odour of a market packed up and gone home, lingering like the perfume of a departed loved-one. Then a large thoroughfare with traffic. How Edward had managed to catch a bus from there he did not know. More of a
miracle
that he had caught the right one. He couldn’t remember if he had voluntarily disembarked at Tottenham Court Road or whether the conductor had assisted him on prior instruction, but he did
remember
vomiting into a flower bed in Russell Square. Then standing there, bent over, dry retching for what seemed like an hour. He had felt better after that. His eyes watery and aching, his head throbbing but clear from the effect of God knows how many pints he had downed with Digby at the Bricklayers Arms. Up the narrow stairs to Aldous’ flat, fumbling with the key but Aldous opening the door anyway. So wonderful to see his friend standing there in his pyjamas.

‘So, if I hear you right,’ Aldous said, his blue eyes bearing down on him as twin lamps of interrogation. ‘If I hear you right, you went out to find a flat, which I have to commend you for actually managing to do, but this flat it turns out is in Tokyo rather than Tottenham.’

‘I have a contract sealed in flesh.’

‘So nothing has been signed?’

‘My handshake is my bond.’ Edward held out his hand to Aldous. It was shaking. ‘This is my first job, Aldous. Can’t you be pleased for me? After all, I’m now a man from Argos Motors.’

‘You look more like a man who’s been run over by an Argos Motor. It is not as though I am not pleased. I am just slightly
surprised
at this sudden career change.’

‘It doesn’t feel sudden. It feels as though little events have been gradually pushing me in this direction. It was the easiest decision I’ve ever had to make.’

‘East or west, Tokyo is the furthest place away from a certain young lady in New York.’

‘This has nothing to do with her.’

‘And what will your dear parents say?’

‘I shall not tell them until I am on my way. On my way. Onwards and upwards.’

Aldous was the only person to see him off at Southampton on a grey, blustery, hold-on-to-your-hat afternoon. The kind that summed up Edward’s current feeling about the life he was leaving. Aldous came up the gangplank with him, pressed an envelope into his hand when they reached the top.

‘What is it?’

‘Payment for
Against The Odds.’

Aldous then grabbed him by the upper arms, shook him
affectionately
, his eyes teared from the wind or from emotion or both, then turned quickly and grappled his way back down the
gangplank
, his long coat flapping madly in the breeze. About halfway down, he turned back round, waved and shouted:

‘Don’t forget to write, Eddie. Don’t forget to write.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tokyo, Japan
•
2003

Edward went out on to the terrace for some cool air and to admire the ambassador’s lawn, all lit-up into an unnatural AstroTurf-green by the bathe of arc lamps. Surrounded by those high hedges. It might be the only lawn of such a size in Tokyo. Such a large tract of empty space spared from the clutches of a high-density
population
. It was probably a pre-requisite for the purchase of the embassy site. Enough room for a good-sized lawn. “We British must have at least a half-acre for our garden parties. You never know when Her Majesty might turn up for a game of croquet.”

He sipped on his malt whisky. He felt quite perked up by the alcohol. He had been so tired earlier on. Such a long day in such a long life. The nap in Jerome’s study had helped, yet he was all ready to take the Shinkansen back to Hakone when Jerome mentioned these invitations. An early evening reception to celebrate the 500th anniversary of Scotch whisky, hosted by the Scottish Malt Whisky Distillers’ Association at the British Embassy. What self-respecting Scotsman could resist? A pure marketing ploy, of course. Who could possibly have known when the first malt whisky was distilled? Was there a plaque somewhere? One of those blue heritage circles
nailed into the wall of a tiny Highland croft? “The first whisky was distilled here by Angus MacPherson in 1503”. Perhaps there was a dated recipe written down by a monk, crouched by his still in a freezing Lowland monastery. Or a pot excavated from the spot where a moonshiner had fixed his first brew. Another sip. An
excellent
idea to come to this little reception. On one condition though.

‘I’ll only go if I can do this incognito,’ he had told Jerome. ‘I absolutely insist on it.’

‘OK, I won’t tell anyone who you are,’ Jerome had conceded.

‘You can introduce me as Aldous. Professor Aldous. A former colleague.’

‘But surely people will recognise you anyway?’

‘Of course they won’t. I’m a writer.’

One or two had stood out in the past. Ernest, of course. But that was because of his other antics. And the suicide. Kingsley, in certain circles. Graham, because he was so tall. But who would have
recognised
Camus, Boll, Pasternak, Steinbeck, Sholokhov walking along a Tokyo street? The Japanese might even have had trouble with their very own Kawabata. Nobel laureates all. Nowadays it was different. Photographs on the inside cover. Book tours. Interviews. Festivals. He had seen Kingsley’s son a few times on television. And then there was that Rushdie chap. Ten years or whatever it was in hiding, yet the most recognised writer on the planet.

‘Hey, Eddie.’ Jerome calling to him from the patio doors. ‘Come and see this.’

It was quite a sight. A parade through the entrance hall headed by a piper, then the ambassador and his wife, the chairman of the Association holding a plate of steaming haggis aloft, followed by a troupe of Japanese men and women in full Highland dress. In his malt-fuelled mood, Edward found the whole bizarre scene quite entertaining. He even joined the guests in their rhythmic clapping and whooping as together they crushed into a large chandeliered reception room. A butler announced the ambassador would make a toast, which he did, flushed in the cheeks no doubt from his own libations. Then the British national anthem sung boisterously by the guests, irrespective of their nationality.

‘The Queen,’ the ambassador said on its conclusion.

Edward raised his own glass in salute as the kilted band of
Japanese
took up position in two lines spread out across the parquet floor. The piper pumped up his bag. There was going to be a
Highland
reel. And then he felt it. A powerful, jagged, jarring thud. Just like the Shinkansen hitting a tunnel. The whole world jolted a
fraction
then back again. A sudden silence, except for the dying drone of the pipes. An audible gasp from one of the uninitiated. The grasp for a table top. Whisky lapping at the insides of bottles. The
swaying
of the chandelier. The smash of a glass. Edward had forgotten what this could be like. The waiting to see if this was the big one. That awful moment when the solid ground underfoot could no longer be relied upon. When there was no place to run. When the jaws of the earth threatened to open up and swallow its
tormentors
in one horrifying act of divine retribution. Another tremor. Longer but not so intense. He looked around. The terrified faces of the Scottish distillers and their staff. The ambassador calm and still, head cocked in readiness for another ripple. Edward could hear the sound of his own heart. A lesser tremor. Fading away. Another minute of held-breath stillness. And the experienced knew it was over. The ambassador with his glass in the air.

‘Music, maestro, please,’ the Queen’s representative shouted. ‘Let there be music.’ And everyone clapped, happy to slap away their fear.

Edward found himself an armchair in one of the smaller
reception
rooms, glad to sit down, legs wobbly on his cane from the whisky and the quake. Jerome came in too, ruddy-faced and
sweating
, parked himself on a hard-backed chair beside him, glass gripped in one hand, bottle in another.

‘Never got used to them,’ Jerome said. He looked really old and tired now, the flesh on his face hanging loose like burnt skin.

‘I thought the buildings were better designed these days.’

‘Until the big one comes along.’ Jerome knocked back the
contents
of his glass, poured himself another, hand trembling. ‘Damn good stuff this. So, tell me, why did you come back? A little
adventure
while you still can? Or escape?’

‘The first time I came to Japan, someone asked me that too. The manager of Argos Motors. Good man. Can’t even remember his name.’

‘So what’s the answer?’

‘If you must know. Escape.’

‘What do you need to escape from? Your knightship must have a glittering life back there in good old England.’

‘It’s too complicated.’

‘Go on. Spill the beans to your old buddy.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Just tell me, for fuck’s sake.’

‘This is what I’ll tell you. I think you should ease up on the drinking.’

‘You know what, Eddie? You and my doctor agree on that one. But you know what I say? I say – what do you think it’s gonna do? Fucking kill me? Cut a few years off my life? I’m already past the average age of life expectancy. I’m living on rented time, don’t you know.’

‘We all are.’

‘All right. I’ll ask you something else then. What do you think of the new Japan?’

‘Are we going to argue?’

‘We always used to.’

‘And now?’

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘If you’ve changed.’

‘The truth doesn’t change, Jerome.’

‘Don’t be so self-righteous. Just tell me what you think.’

‘No comment. I’ve only seen some crass commercialism from the back of a taxi.’

‘You gotta have some opinions.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ He knew where this
conversation
was headed, didn’t want to go there, but the whisky would take them both there anyway. ‘That modern Japan is just one big American success story?’

‘You could at least give us some credit.’

‘I give absolutely no credit to a nation that wiped out a quarter of a million civilians with firebombs and atomic weapons. I didn’t do so then, and will not do so now.’

He could hear the sound of the bagpipes filtering through from the other room. More clapping. The irreverent stamping of feet. As if to show this fragile earth who was really boss. He just wanted to close his eyes, sink back into the comfort of this armchair and fall asleep. But Jerome was close in, shouting above the music.

‘Those atomic bombs saved a million lives.’

Even in his weariness, Edward had to rise to the bait. ‘Look, Jerome, why don’t you forget about that tired old argument. Do you know what really bothers me now? It’s that you Yanks refuse to take a good look at what happened here. Even the Germans went back and took stock of what they did during the Holocaust. But the Americans… the Americans never batted an eyelid over Nagasaki. That is what I’ve never forgiven. Until they confront the tragedy of Nagasaki, we will never see any enlightened foreign policy coming out of your country.’

He saw that Jerome had stiffened quite dramatically. Patterns of behaviour. So hard to break. Jerome ending up apoplectic and defensive over Nagasaki. It was a blind spot. His American friend was an intelligent man, there was no doubt about that. But when it came to Nagasaki, he just seemed to shut down his brain, turn off his compassion.

‘Can’t believe you said that,’ Jerome spluttered.

‘I stood up for the victims. Now you know why
The Waterwheel
didn’t sell well in America.’

‘Don’t be flippant. How can you compare us with the Nazis?’

‘That’s not what I said. I just said it would help if America did some public soul-searching over Nagasaki, the way the Germans did over the Holocaust.’

‘And you think the Japanese have done any soul-searching over what they did? I don’t hear a lot of apologies being made from this corner of the globe for all the atrocities that occurred. You might think you’re some kind of hero over here. Christ, you’ve even got
the dean fawning all over you. But a helluva lot of Japanese used you and your stupid novel as propaganda to cover up their own misdeeds.’

‘All right, Jerome, that’s enough,’ he said, struggling up from his chair. ‘There’s nothing more to be gained from this.’

Jerome pulled at his sleeve. ‘Sorry, Eddie, no offence meant. Come on, sit down, stay for another. One for the road.’

‘No, I’m leaving. Please thank the dean again for his gift.
Wherever
it is.’

‘You left it in the cloakroom.’

He waited for Jerome to stand too, but he didn’t move from his chair. ‘Come on. We can’t part like this.’

Jerome stretched out a limp hand in a half-hearted wave. ‘
Nothing’s
changed, Eddie.’

Edward turned his back, felt his entire body taut with rage as he strode off to the cloakroom. His blood pressure must have been right off the scale. There were some tablets if he could only
remember
where he had put them. An elderly Japanese couple approached as he fumbled at the desk for his ticket.

‘We’re very sorry to trouble you. But my wife believes you are the writer Edward…’

‘Leave me alone, will you? Just leave me alone.’