An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (15 page)

‘Thank you,’ he said, not knowing what else to say in these circumstances. ‘It is very sad,’ he added.

‘Yes. Very sad.’ Then her face brightened as the coach cranked down noisily into a lower gear and began to climb the steep road up the hillside. ‘Soon we can see Fuji-san,’ she said, then dipped her gaze. ‘But Fuji-san never lets herself be shown to tourist. Only
person
who stays in Japan long time will see Fuji-san with no clouds. Perfectly.’

‘Then I am sure Fuji-san will show herself to me,’ he replied. ‘Perfectly.’

She smiled at his remark and he had an instinct to touch her then, just briefly, on the back of her hand. To connect physically to the comfort of another human being. It had been so long. But he turned his attention back to the window where the scene was set for a cat-and-mouse journey as he strained to catch a glimpse of the famous mountain through every break in the treeline. So many different kinds of trees. Maple, elm, cherry, dogwood, magnolia, others he couldn’t name. The steamy, earthy smell of the leafy forest floor caught in the draft through the open coach windows. He greedily sucked in the pine tang as the bus continued its crawl above and away from the suburbs of Tokyo and Yokohama. Up into the undulating greenery that appeared to shrink back from the
encroaching urban sprawl below. So unlike the wild, craggy and domineering landscape of Scotland.

He thought of the photograph his Aunt Cathy had sent him, the picnic with his parents somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. He had absolutely no recollection of the holiday at all. Now that his parents were dead, even their corroboration of the event had disappeared. Only the photograph remained as the solitary evidence he had ever been present. Without the photograph, there was no memory, no past, no childhood. He wondered what happened in the eras before photography. Did people lose their past to the erosion of time or did they concentrate more clearly on remembering the present? This picnic he knew must have taken place in the Highlands due to the intrusion of a long-haired cow into the corner of the photograph. Quite comical really. He must have been about eight years old, the three of them sitting together on a blanket, so ignorant of their bovine observer. Being a family. The Strathairns. Staring at the lens of some unknown photographer. A family friend or relative? An obliging stranger. His father leaning away slightly from the group, supporting himself on his good arm. He wore a suit while his son sat beside him in his school uniform even though they were on holiday. Only his mother seemed relaxed and casual in cardigan, blouse and skirt. He wondered what the colours of these garments were. His uniform would be dark blue, he knew that, of course. But what was the colour of his mother’s blouse? Or her cardigan? Or her eyes? For God’s sake, what was the colour of his mother’s eyes? And suddenly through a clearing in the hillside woods there was Mount Fuji. Free of cloud cover. Totally naked. That sacred, snow-capped volcano. Too symmetrical to be carved out by the randomness of nature but rather by a benevolent God with an eye for geometry. He felt blessed by the sight of it. As did the rest of the coach party who gasped collectively at this glimpse of their mountain god. A tap on his shoulder. Mie. Indicating Kobayashi, who had leaned over from his seat on the other side of the aisle.

‘Many woods make Hakone craftwork,’ Kobayashi said, smiling at Mie as he spoke. She drew away as politely as she could from the stale breath of the translator.

‘I am sorry but I don’t understand,’ Edward said.

‘Many woods make Hakone craftwork,’ Kobayashi repeated.
‘Yoseki-zaiku zougan.’

‘I still don’t understand.’

‘I will show you later,’ he said. ‘I will show you
yoseki-zaiku zougan.’

Along with his co-workers, Edward visited Owakudani for a scenic view of Mount Fuji, now covered by cloud. He trudged through a volcanic valley where the grey mud still bubbled and sucked in rock pools. He bought black-shell eggs boiled by crafty locals in the water leaked out from crater cracks. Their whole party hired a boat to sail out on to Lake Ashi, visited the Hakone Shrine,
wandered
among the ruins of the toll-road checkpoint, then walked the avenue of ancient cedars into Hakone itself. There on the shores of the lake, Edward came across the craft Kobayashi had been
talking
about.
Yoseki-zaiku
zougan
. Marquetry. Hakone it seemed was famous for it. Intricate wooden inlays fashioned from the many timbers Edward had witnessed on the surrounding hillsides to produce boxes, trays, small chests and picture mosaics. Even wooden eggs, in sets of twelve, ever decreasing in size so one fitted inside the other like Russian dolls. Although Mie insisted it was the
Japanese
who gave the idea to the Russians rather than the other way around. It was the must-have souvenir of the region and Edward bought a set to take home.

After supper at a lakeside restaurant, the Tokyo Autos coach party was in a buoyant mood for the return journey. Amid this collective corporate spirit and bonhomie Edward realised he was quite enjoying himself. As was Mr Tanaka who during the meal had managed to drink copious amounts of sake poured with great diligence by Mie. The red-faced general manager now stood at the front of the bus directing a sing-song.

‘I have something for you,’ Kobayashi said, moving in to sit beside Edward in place of Mie who had been commandeered into singing a solo by her boss. The translator was also flushed from drink, his eyes bloodshot, his little moustache glistening with
sweat. ‘A gift from Hakone.’ Kobayashi handed him an elaborately wrapped square package.

‘May I open it?’ Edward asked.

‘Of course, of course. Please. Go ahead, as Americans say.’

Edward restrained his instinct to tear off the wrapping paper as quickly as he could, instead peeling off the layers carefully to reveal one of Hakone’s famous marquetry boxes with a wooden mosaic picture of Mount Fuji on the lid.

‘Himitsu-bako,’
Kobayashi said, looking very pleased with
himself
.

Edward made the translation in his head. Secret box. ‘Why secret?’

‘It is like safe. You need to move panels in special order to open. This is seven-move box. Seven moves to open. It is a puzzle box. In old times, people pass along road through Hakone to Edo will buy puzzle box to keep them busy in journey. I do the same for you.’ Kobayashi took the box, slid open a secret panel, and handed it back. ‘Only six more,’ he said. ‘I have instruction paper if you need.’

Edward pressed his hand over the shiny smooth surfaces,
trying
to find the slots that slipped open like pins in a lock. This was going to be a long process but he wanted to show Kobayashi he was genuinely appreciative of the gift. The gesture had quite moved him. He had always assumed Kobayashi resented him for having to see his hard-worked translations constantly revised, the daily editing that must have sent a message back to the translator saying – what you do is not good enough. Yet here was a completely spontaneous gift. And an expensive one too. He searched for Kobayashi’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘
Arigato
. Thank you.’

‘Not to mention it.’ Kobayashi stood up. ‘Please excuse me. I feel a little unwell.’

Edward sat back in his seat, closed his eyes, let the dappled light flash across his face as the coach moved in and out of the evening sunlight on its tortuous ride down the hillside. He heard Kobayashi retch into a paper bag on the other side of the aisle, Mie’s thin voice piping out some Japanese folk song from the front of the bus,
he smelled the viscous stench of petrol fumes from underneath the floor boards. He opened his eyes. The coach had just rounded a corner swinging his window round into a direct confrontational view with the building wedged magnificently into the rock face. The sensation of familiarity was immediately apparent even though he had never been down this road in his life before. It was as if the hotel had always been there waiting for him. Just as he had
imagined
. The curved grey roofs flowed naturally down the contours of the hillside, like an architectural waterfall, moving effortlessly from level to level. Red balconies traversed the facade along each floor, moths flitted around lamps already lit to welcome the dusk. White-gloved bellboys stood at attention on either side of the main entrance while one storey above, guests in evening wear lingered on the terrace in the shade of an enormous white pine. Edward had seen this building before. He knew it was impossible but he was convinced he had. In a Japanese story book. In a dream. In a
previous
life. The feeling of
déjà
vu
was very strong. Mie had returned to sit beside him and answered his question before he had time to ask it.

‘It is the first hotel Japanese build for foreign guest,’ she said. ‘You must stay there some time. I believe it is very
comfortable
inside. Both Japanese and foreign style. Very high class. Very beautiful.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘It is very beautiful.’

Once he had received confirmation from the lawyer Wilson Guthrie that his parents’ estate had been wound up, Edward telegrammed his notice of termination to Digby at Argos Motors in London. The next day, at the office of Tokyo Autos, and with Kobayashi in attendance, Edward executed a series of low bows before general manager Tanaka.

‘I regret to inform you, Tanaka-san,’ he said directly in Japanese, ‘but I have decided to leave the company.’

‘I see,’ Tanaka responded in English, with a smug nod to
Kobayashi
. ‘You are returning to London?’

‘Actually, I’m not. I’ve decided to stay on here in Japan.’

‘To do what, may I ask?’

‘I would like to try writing. Writing a novel.’

Kobayashi, who stood stooped in front of his boss, slowly raised his head, stretched his lips across his teeth in such a curious way Edward wasn’t sure if the translator was snarling or smiling at him. But the gesture had unnerved him. Edward knew his idea of a literary career was both a vain and a fatuous one and he felt
Kobayashi
could see right through to that. After all, his decision was not based on much – just two short stories published in
The Londinium.
For this he was grateful to Aldous, who unwittingly had also been responsible for this sudden career change in one other small way. It had derived from a sentence in a letter his friend had sent him not long after his parents had died. Perhaps it was a throwaway line, perhaps it was truly meant to inspire. The line read: “
All creativity comes from loss.
”

‘I did not know you were a writer, Mr Strathairn,’ Tanaka said.

‘I’m not really sure if I am. It’s just that I’d like to give it a proper try.’

Edward then bowed his head towards the general manager – a simple gesture in this minefield of gestures that he hoped conveyed his humility for even entertaining such a lofty notion.

Tanaka nodded thoughtfully. ‘We Japanese have great
appreciation
for our artists,’ he said eventually. ‘Only last year, we created these…’ He fired off some Japanese at Kobayashi.

‘Bearers of Important Intangible Cultural Properties,’ the
translator
said.

‘Do you know of them, Mr Strathairn?’ Tanaka asked. ‘These… how did you say…? These bearers of…?’ A wave of the hand left lingering in the air for a reply.

‘With respect to Kobayashi-san,’ Edward said, ‘but I believe Living National Treasures is a simpler translation of the Japanese phrase.’ He had read about these appointments in the Japanese press. They were some kind of reaction to the Occupation, the fear of losing the traditional crafts amid the deluge of American culture swamping the country. A public trust fund set up by the Japanese government to protect the country’s great artists and
master 
craftsmen, designating them as living national treasures,
providing
them with grants to support their work, to help them train apprentices to carry on their skills. Edward thought of them like knighthoods with stipends attached. Awards had already been made to a potter, a bamboo weaver and a swordmaker.

‘Do you know what it takes to be a true master, to be one of these Living National Treasures, Mr Strathairn?’

‘I’m sorry but I do not.’

‘It requires two things,’ the general manager said, holding up one finger, then another. A gold ring flashed on the second raised digit. ‘Just two. A lifetime committed to hard work. And an open heart directly to your art. Do you possess those qualities, Mr Strathairn?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose this is what I am trying to discover.’

Tanaka grunted then spoke rapidly in Japanese.

‘Tanaka-san wishes you luck in your journey of discovery,’ Kobayashi translated. ‘You are fortunate to have both the time and money to find the answer to these questions.’

He took up residency at the hotel that had so fascinated him on his trip to Hakone, the hotel that had been specially built to welcome the first foreigners to Japan, the hotel that on first glance had felt so familiar, as if it were his destiny calling out to him. He rented out on an indefinite basis the Fuji Suite, which consisted of an
enormous
bedroom with an equally large adjoining bathroom situated at the rear of the main building. The beauty of his accommodation was in its outlook – from a stout mahogany desk by the window he had a view of the hotel gardens and the wooded hillsides beyond.

His father would have liked the hotel. He would have sat
quietly
in one of the ample armchairs in the lobby, smoking his pipe among the potted palms, as he admired the craftsmanship in the wooden parquet flooring, the intricate designs carved into the teak reception desk or the cloisonné bowls on the window ledges. For his mother, it would be a different experience. With an eager staff to take care of the cooking and cleaning, she would be restless, nervously scratching for work to busy her idle hands. Perhaps she would find solace, even a blossoming talent, in some handicraft like
needlework or a flair for horticulture, helping the gardeners with the seedlings in the greenhouse nurseries. Edward sensed the spirits of his dead parents lurking in the corridors, nestling high up in the eaves of the dining room, brushing past him as he sat in the tea lounge, watching him as he sipped an evening cocktail by the giant white pine on the terrace, protecting him, guiding him on his path, not just with the blessing of their inheritance, but with a gentle hand on his shoulder, a whispered word of encouragement in his ear. ‘We are with you,’ the voices would say. ‘We are watching.’