An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (17 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Hakone, Japan
•
1957

It was like a game of cat and mouse. Except he didn’t know if he was the cat or the mouse. He would be eating his breakfast and suddenly, there she was, just beyond the dining room window,
carrying
a basket of linen across the stepping stones of the pond. He couldn’t remember if she had always performed this task at this time of day and he had never noticed, or whether this was a
completely
new occurrence. He would go out to his workplace by the waterwheel and a tray with tea and biscuits would be waiting. He would return to his room after dinner and the bed would be turned down, a lamp conveniently left on and the scent of her green tea perfume still lingering. Each swish of kimono or pad of footsteps in the corridor had him turning his head or rushing to the corner for a glimpse of her. But she evaded his capture. Until one evening he decided to stay in his room rather than go down to the dining room. He sat by the window in an armchair, the curtains cracked open to reveal the shadowy outlines of the furniture. As he waited, he realised how excited he was at the prospect she might turn up. It reminded him of the times he used to wait for Macy. Heart racing, mind restless, limbs restless, until the thrill of anticipation peaked
and he was left with the disappointment of her non-appearance. But there was a sweetness in Sumiko’s toying with him while with Macy there had been a vindictive edge to the way she drew him in then pushed him away.

A light tapping on the door. His body tensed. He regretted not having a glass of Scotch by his side, a cigarette between his fingers. Lock turning, door opening slowly. A glow from the hallway. A petite female figure entering. The light snapped on. Sumiko. A large ring of keys in her hand. He leapt out of the armchair. That had not been his intention. Rather he had depicted himself
casually
delivering some Japanese bon mot from his chair. But a baser instinct had prevailed, propelling him from his seat. He grabbed her. And she screamed. Another instinct forced his hand over her mouth. She was shaking so much he thought she might collapse to the floor. Keys jangling. He pulled his hand away from her mouth. A speechless, choking sound in her throat. Her eyes bulging. What was he doing? Why had he not thought this through?

‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered. ‘God. I’m so sorry.’

She shook her head from side to side. Like an hysterical puppy. With one hand, he reached out for the door, pulled it wide open. She spun out of his grasp, ran out of the room.

He slept fitfully, the episode with Sumiko making him feel no
better
a person than her GI pursuer he had tripped in the corridor, reminding him of how he had behaved in Brighton with Macy. He twisted and turned so much during the night that at one point he fell out of bed. The tight wind of the blankets had saved him so that he burst awake to find himself dangling in mid-air with his
shoulder
swinging just above the floor. His subconscious had betrayed his body. It had ignored the usual boundaries and taken a leap into the void. He hauled himself back into bed. The incident had scared him, making him suspicious of his own nature. If it happened again, he would have to sleep on a futon.

At breakfast, he remained tense to her possible appearance in the garden outside the dining room window. He ate too quickly, spilled tea over his newspaper. He could now add indigestion to
lack of sleep as part of his condition for the day. He wondered how she felt, what she thought he had been trying to do to her. What had he been trying to do to her?

‘Mind if I join you?’

Jerome Fisk. In his cream suit, the American looking more colonial servant than academic. Without waiting for a response, Fisk pulled out a chair, sat down. A waiter swiftly moved into attendance, laying out a second place.

‘The American breakfast,’ Fisk said, ignoring the menu. ‘You look like shit, pal. Are you ill or something?’

‘Slept badly.’

Fisk peered over at his tray. ‘Could be all that Jap food making you restless. Miso soup,
natto
, grilled fish. At this time of day. You gotta be kidding.’

‘An acquired taste,’ Edward said, looking down at the fish
skeleton
left over from his own breakfast. ‘Just like kippers really.’ He picked up his knife and fork, scraped a last remnant of flesh off the bones, popped it into his mouth as if to prove his point. ‘How’s the wonderful world of academia?’ he asked.

‘For you writers, it’s a case of publish and be damned. For me it’s publish or be damned,’ Fisk said, laughing too loud at his own joke, causing a Japanese couple at the next table to visibly stiffen.

‘What’s your research about?’

‘Really interested, Eddie? Or just being a polite Brit?’

‘Bit of both.’

Fisk cleared his throat. ‘A linguistic theory I’m putting forward about the Japanese. The way they put the verb at the end of the sentence.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The Japanese want to know all the details first before they take action. Same with the Germans and their verb.’

‘And we English-speakers?’

‘Oh, that’s easy. We’re all about “I” with a big capital letter. Even in the middle of a sentence. Only culture to do that. But usually it’s “I” right at the beginning followed by the verb. We put our big selves first, then we do the action, then we worry about the
details later. I, I, I, I. That’s what we English-speakers are all about. But does our grammar create our culture of egoism? Or our culture create our grammar?’

‘Well? Which is it?’

‘Haven’t decided yet. What do you reckon?’

‘I’d need time to think about it. But it’s an interesting thesis.’

‘Thanks. I believe it explains the obsessive deliberation of the Japanese before they decide to do anything. They want to know the who, where, how and why of everything before they move their asses. We Yanks and you Brits. We just jump on in, work out the details later.’

‘Seems accurate.’

‘You think so?’

He was about to answer when Fisk suddenly placed a hand on his arm.

‘Hey, look at that little doll.’

That little doll was Sumiko. She had emerged into the garden from one of the side doors, holding a large pile of sheets in both hands. Despite her load, she walked remarkably upright. Edward could just see her face above the top sheet. Her steady forward gaze, eyes showing no sign of a sleepless night. Fisk’s presence was a fortunate distraction. He could focus on the man’s striped tie, the leery eyes, the throat purple-raw and noduled from shaving. He could feel his own skin become hot as he struggled to hold his gaze away from the window.

‘Don’t know what to make of them,’ Fisk said, shaking his head as if in a memory of some previous encounter. ‘Do you?’

‘Not really,’ Edward responded, not sure whether Fisk meant Japanese women or just women in general.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’

Ishikawa, the hotel manager, had arrived at their table along with the waiter and Fisk’s breakfast. The manager bowed, the morning sun reflecting blindingly on his thick lenses. ‘I am sorry to disturb you. But I must announce that lunch will be served in the terrace-lounge today. The Honourable Prime Minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, will be hosting a private luncheon in this room
on behalf of the Indo-Japan Friendly Society from twelve o’clock. I trust that this will not inconvenience you in any way.’

‘I’m sure we can cope, Ishikawa-san,’ Edward said. ‘I read of the Indian Prime Minister’s visit to Japan. But I didn’t realise he would be staying at this hotel.’

‘Regretfully, Mr Strathairn, that will not be the case. I believe the Honourable Prime Minister has to return to Tokyo this evening.’

Ishikawa remained by the table, rubbing his hands together in what appeared to be gleeful anticipation. ‘And if I may also inform you,’ he continued. ‘Tonight there is to be a performance by the great Chinese illusionist Hu Wei in the Magic Room. Your
attendance
would be most welcome.’

‘The staff call him
binzoko
,’ Fisk said after Ishikawa had left. ‘
Bottle
bottoms. Because of the specs. Not to his face, of course. Coffee?’

‘No, thanks.’ Edward glanced out of the window. Sumiko had already completed her passage across the pond and was gone, the door of her exit left half-open. To add to his misery, a fish bone had wedged itself between two of his back teeth. He tried to dislodge it with his tongue.

‘What about your novel?’ Fisk asked.

‘Yes, my novel. I am working on the first draft.’

‘Well, what’s it called?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s an odd thing. Not having a title.’

‘Not really.’ To his relief, the bone had wriggled free. He picked it out of his mouth, wiped it on to his napkin. ‘I believe that
anyone
who ever says he’s got a wonderful title for a book will never write it,’ he added, stealing one of Aldous’ many pronouncements on literary endeavour.

Jerome looked chastened. As if he had such a wonderful title stored up there in his brain beside all his linguistic theories.

‘So what’s it about then, Eddie? Can you at least tell me that?’

‘I took your advice. It’s about American colonialism in Japan.’

‘I suggested that?’

‘The night I caught the soldier chasing the chambermaid. Coincidentally, it was that girl we just saw in the garden.’

‘Can’t blame him then.’

‘Actually, I think it’s going to be a love story. But the underlying theme concerns the Tokyo fire-bombings, Hiroshima and
Nagasaki
. Especially Nagasaki.’

‘Why especially Nagasaki?’

Edward knew he should back off but there was something about Jerome Fisk and his American breakfasts that made him want to continue. ‘Yes, Nagasaki. A monstrous act.’

‘It brought the war to a quick end, Eddie. Saved tens of
thousands
of lives. Both American and Japanese.’

‘That’s the official narrative. But the fire-bombings had already brought Japan to its knees. They were ready to surrender even before the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. But even if I could forgive you Yanks for Hiroshima, Nagasaki was completely unnecessary. An utter disregard for civilian life.’

‘You really think so?’ Fisk chomped down on a piece of toast. There were buttery crumbs on his chin. ‘So why did we evil
Americans
do it then?’

‘To finish off the Japanese before the Russians got involved in the war in the East. And to show off your devastating weaponry, thereby proving who’d be in charge in the post-war world.’

‘That’s a dangerous thesis, Eddie. I’d keep that one to yourself. A lot of our boys who were fighting in the Pacific are still based here. They wouldn’t take too kindly to what you’re suggesting.’

‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you straight.
Bombing
Nagasaki was an act of pure evil. The Emperor was ready to surrender. Then seventy thousand civilians wiped out for no
reason
. What was that all about? It’s about time you Yanks did some soul-searching. Instead of hiding behind this “saved so many lives” story.’

‘Like I said, Eddie, there are a lot of guys who wouldn’t take too kindly to what you’re suggesting.’

‘And like I said, Fisk. It’s a love story.’

Fisk dabbed his lips with his napkin, rose to his feet. ‘Well, don’t make it a love story to the Japanese. They had their fair share of evil acts too. Just ask the residents of Nanking about that. Or any of
the survivors of the Bataan Death March. Hey, maybe I’ll see you tonight in the Magic Room.’

The Honourable Jawaharlal Nehru had returned to Tokyo but
several
members of his entourage remained. Edward had seen them loitering in the dining room, milling around in the corridors,
strolling
in the gardens. A noisy, animated bunch enveloped in clouds of pungent tobacco smoke as they got down to the serious business of politics. Divided strictly by gender and colour of garment – the men in their baggy white cotton clothes, the women in colourful swathes of silk. By the time he arrived at the Magic Room almost all the seats were taken by these distinct groups of Indian men and women.

Earlier in the day, he’d caught a glimpse of Nehru in his
trademark
frock coat and white cap, addressing the packed luncheon. He marvelled at how the presence of just this one man could create such a stir among the staff and guests. The hotel so puffed up for the event, Edward imagined he could hear the beams and
plaster
crack with pride. Limousines stacked up in the forecourt, their capped drivers, arms folded, leaning carelessly against the expensive paintwork. Journalists, photographers, police officers, all adding to the excitement. An excitement that remained and carried over as a palpable buzz to the Magic Room, this salon off the main
reception
area, where the guests chatted and smoked as they awaited the commencement of the evening’s entertainment.

He scanned the room, trying to locate Sumiko among the few members of staff in attendance. He had not seen her since her morning cameo in the garden. She had not come out to the
waterwheel
to deliver his afternoon tea nor had she attended to his room while he had been at dinner. He worried that he had scared her to the point of leaving her employment.