An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (26 page)

‘Can you stand by yourself?’

‘I think I can.’ And he pulled himself up straight on his cane. ‘I do believe I am all right.’ He looked down his left side. The skin under his rib cage, over his hip and along his thigh was already patched bluish. ‘Apart from a few bruises, I think I have survived intact.’

‘It might be a good idea to soak in the pool, Sir Edward. The hot water would soothe the hurt muscles. Prevent some stiffness. Let me assist you.’

‘No, no. I can manage,’ he said, waving away the attention. ‘Please let me be. I can do this by myself.’ He wobbled towards the pool, grabbed the handrail, grateful for the broadness of the steps, the slight angle of descent. He placed a foot in the water. He had forgotten how boiling hot these
onsen
could be. It was almost unbearable. He waited until a slight tolerance for the heat had been achieved then waded in thigh-high. Again he waited, this time until any feeling for the temperature at all had been scalded out of him. He then paddled over to the edge where there were layered shelves and eased himself down into a sitting position,
chin-high
in the water. His skin was now numb from the heat, except for where it throbbed with the bruising. His heart was pumping crazily, a thermostat out of control. But he began to settle, to adjust, to let the heat take over. That was the secret. Not to resist. Just give in to
the sensation. Allow the blood to boil, the organs to bake, the
muscles
to loosen. He turned to look at Takahashi. But surprisingly the man had left. Never mind. He needed this time alone. To collect his thoughts. He closed his eyes. He felt his body as a mass of heat. He let his mind play with words, juggling syllables and meaning until he had finally composed a
haiku
.

Winter’s ice is here

Children skating without fear

The old man stumbled.

Lifting himself out of the pool, washing again, towelling dry,
pulling
on his robe. All these manoeuvres, he performed slowly and with great care. The muscles on one side were stiff and painful, the rest of his body loose and limber. Such a strange combination. His right side with its weak hip was what usually needed the support of his cane. Now it was the left that demanded the attention. With very small steps across the slippery tiles, he managed to reach the exit but even that small journey had tired him. He doubted he had the strength to negotiate the long passageways back to his room. He wondered if there was some kind of emergency bell he could ring for assistance. He opened the door to the hallway. A bellboy stood waiting with a wheelchair.

‘What happened?’ Sumiko screamed as she ran across the room, knelt down by his chair. ‘You took such a long time. And now this.’

‘It’s all right. I am fine. Just a small fall.’

‘A small fall? There is no such thing as a small fall at your age.’

‘Please stop fussing. Do you have any money? I need to give this boy something for his trouble.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ She raised herself from her crouch, went in a search for her purse, found it on the bedside table. The lad accepted the tip with a gracious bow.

‘How dare you let him see me here,’ she snapped as soon as the door was closed. ‘It will be all over the hotel I stayed here in your
room. Like a common prostitute. Takahashi-san will know.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Sumiko. You are an old woman. Why should you still care what people think?’

‘I see. Suddenly I am an old woman. You didn’t think that a few hours ago.’

‘Please calm down.’

‘Calm down, calm down. That is all you can say. You were always selfish. I forgot that. That’s what forty years can do. Wipe away the bad parts. But now I remember. Selfish, selfish, selfish. I am the one who has to live here. I am a married woman, Eddie. Just remember that.’

‘Will you please help me out of this chair? I need to lie down. I have such a headache.’

‘I should just leave you there, you know that. Like some old… some old… I don’t know.’

‘Wreck.’

She pulled out a handkerchief from her bag, wiped her eyes. ‘Yes, wreck. That is what you are. Now let me push this old wreck close to the bed. And how is this old woman supposed to lift you? You will have to help me.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

London
•
1965

Are You really out there?

If So, Answer Me

Do You really care?

If So, Answer Me

Do You hear my prayer?

If So, Answer Me

Do You see this tear?

If So, Answer Me

That was all Edward had managed to write – the title page for his third novel. Yes, he already had a title.
If So, Answer Me.
Along with a dedication to Aldous. “All creativity comes from loss.” And if that were true, he should now be in a period of phenomenal endeavour. For the essence of life had been denied his unborn child, and it had been taken from his old friend. Future loss had also been accounted for. Macy had told him she would never be able to carry a
pregnancy
to completion.
The Fall of Dominic Pike
had also abandoned him, taking its first independent steps, stacking the bookshops on the back of enthusiastic reviews, establishing for itself a public life
of its own over which he no longer had any control. It was time to create something new. To cherish Aldous’ memory at least. But he was totally incapable of writing anything else beyond that first page. For all that was left to him was a numbness. He couldn’t even say he felt numb, for that would have implied he still retained some
ability
to feel. He didn’t feel anger, remorse, sadness, compassion for Macy, or even sorry for himself. There was just this senselessness. A blank, black, stony coldness.

For Macy it was different. She could lose herself in her art. For the first time in her artistic career, she was not derivative of Pollock. The sense of self, of woman, of daughter, of would-be mother, of apprentice, of self-conscious artist, that had somehow interposed itself between her brush and canvas was gone. Was dead. She now worked in a fluid frenzy, creating her best ever work. She entitled them her
Void
series.
Void Number One,
Void Number Two
, right up to
Void Number 14
. When she finally found the energy and the courage to exhibit them, these were the paintings that would make her world famous.

For the first few months, Macy had wept. Then she raged. Against him, against herself, against God. Then she envied. Other pregnant women, women with babies, advertisements with babies, clothes for babies, toys for babies, food for babies. She avoided playgrounds and nurseries, closed the windows to the sounds of passing schoolchildren. There was a whole world out there he felt he had to shield her against. Then she started to blame. Herself. God. And finally him again.

‘I can’t believe you never cried over the loss of our child.’ She had just come down to the kitchen from her studio at the top of the house. Her boots were splattered with multi-coloured drops of paint. Sometimes she wore those boots on the rare times she went out socially. Friends often commented on their hippie trendiness.

‘I did mourn,’ he said. ‘In my own way.’

‘You’re just heartless. Always were.’

‘That’s not fair. Along with Aldous’ death, it was just too much. One of us had to stand firm, or we would have both just drowned in sorrow.’

‘I would have preferred if you had joined me in my grief.’

‘I told you. I wanted to be strong for you.’

‘Like I said. You’re just cold.’

‘Do you think I didn’t hurt too? Do you think you have a monopoly on the mourning of our unborn child? Just because I don’t spend every waking minute under a blanket crying my heart out doesn’t mean I don’t feel anything.’

‘Well, you could at least do something constructive. Rather than just sitting around in your pyjamas all day, reading newspapers. That’s not going to solve anything.’

‘You know I can’t write anything.’

‘Can’t write, can’t write, can’t write. If I can paint, you can write. What’s the problem, Eddie?’

‘Writing is more cerebral. The way you paint is much more emotional. That’s the difference.’

‘Well, maybe you should try being a bit more emotional about your work.’ She collapsed into an armchair, fumbled in her
overalls
for a packet of cigarettes. He rose from the sofa, went over to the sink, filled the kettle with water. He noticed his hands were shaking.

‘Tea?’

She didn’t reply so he was forced to turn round to look at her. She sat in her chair like a man, sunk down, legs splayed apart. A lit cigarette dangled between her fingers. He thought she looked ugly. Not ugly physically. But ugly as a person.

‘How will we manage now?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How will we manage without a child? How will we manage to get through all these fucking years to come just on our own?’

‘I thought our love would see us through.’

‘Sure, Eddie. If that’s what you think.’

But she was right. Where was the glue for their marriage without children? All these milestones that bound other couples together. The name-choosing, the nappies, the sleepless nights, the first word, the first step, the first day at school. He had so wanted a child he could end up blaming Macy for not giving him one.
Perhaps that was what Macy was doing now. Pre-empting him. Punishing him before he blamed her.

He took her to Scotland. He thought the trip might cheer them up, might help their marriage if they spent some time out of
London
, away from their grief, to where there was space to breathe. It would be his first visit since his parents had died. They trained it up to Glasgow, hired a car for a trip to Oban and the Western Highlands. It felt good to be back, his misery humbled into
insignificance
by the craggy summits, chastened by the wildness of it all. Macy stayed silent for most of the journey until they approached the small town of Inveraray on the shores of Loch Fyne.

‘Hey, look at that,’ she said pointing to a small herd of Highland cattle. ‘Big shaggy dogs with horns.’

The cows were grazing in a field bordering the driveway up to Inveraray castle. He could see the towers and turrets of the Duke of Argyll’s grand residence just above the treeline. And he suddenly realised he had been to this place before. With his parents. There had been a photograph, the one his Aunt Cathy had sent him to Japan. The three of them sitting on a tartan blanket, he in the
middle
in his school uniform, the hairy head of a Highland cow straying comically into a corner of the picture. He had to pull over into a lay-by, stop the car. He stared out at the placid waters of the loch, holding on to the knot of grief tight in his stomach, Macy quiet and stiff beside him. He needed her, really needed her to say something, to touch him, but she could not or would not respond. And he realised that his grief was just as much about her as it was for the loss of his parents.

‘What has happened to us?’ he said, not sure whether he was asking himself or Macy. ‘What the fuck has happened to us?’

At first, she didn’t say anything, just picked away at the fringes of the travel blanket she had pulled around herself. Then eventually:

‘I don’t want to sleep with you anymore.’

‘Christ, Macy. You certainly choose your moments.’

‘It’s better you know the truth about how I feel.’

‘And what about me? About how I feel.’

‘I no longer consider myself responsible for your emotions.’

It was his turn to remain silent, to soak in these leaked pieces of information, these new boundaries for their relationship. And that was how it was for the rest of the trip. A few sentences meant to inflict wounds on each other and then a period of respite,
letting
the hurt sink in and be absorbed. Each new utterance
marking
their progress into the remoteness of the Highlands like verbal postcards of hate. By the time they had reached the tiny island of Iona, walking as strangers among the headstones in the abbey’s sacred burial ground, she had defined their relationship to him thus. She would move into her own bedroom, which by virtue of being next to her studio meant she would occupy her own
separate
section of their Chelsea house. She did not consider herself obliged to eat with him, sleep with him or go on holiday with him. However, regarding friends in common and other shared social and professional engagements, she would be happy to accompany him if he wanted her to. For the sake of appearances. She did not want a divorce.

‘Why not?’

She shrugged. ‘I saw my parents go through it. Guess I just don’t want to do the same to myself. But it’s up to you. If you want one, I’ll go along with it. I wouldn’t blame you.’

His first reaction was to go for the divorce, just to spite her more than anything else. Yet he found himself backing down from that idea, not because he harboured some secret notion he could somehow make everything right between them again, but because he didn’t know what else to do. He was so bruised and battered inside, so utterly defeated, all he could do was hang on to the little she was prepared to give him.

‘You can take lovers,’ she added. ‘I wouldn’t object.’

‘I suppose you already have one. Is that what this is really about?’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Eddie. But my despair is all about you and nobody else.’

‘I should feel flattered.’

‘Don’t be. We just weren’t good for each other. You should have stayed in Japan. With your little chambermaid. She would have made you happy.’

‘How would you know?’

‘I just have to read
The Waterwheel
to see that.’

As parents live through their children, Edward felt he had lived – and was living – through his books. How he truly felt, what he truly believed, his shadows and his demons, his fears and his hopes, his pride and his shame, it was all there in his novels, in his
characters
and the conflicts he created for them. His living, breathing, everyday self was only a pretence. The artist was in the painting, the musician was in the song. If anyone wanted to know who he was, the real Edward Strathairn, all they had to do was line up his novels and read them from start to finish. There he was. On the shelf. For everyone to see.
The Waterwheel
– a love story between a British translator and a
panpan
girl as well as a plea for America to do some soul-searching in the aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
The Fall of Dominic Pike
– his stance against social injustice that fed into a fear so many people felt when confronted with the homeless: there but for the grace of God go I. And then came
If So, Answer Me
, the one the critics said was his masterpiece even though
The Waterwheel
would remain his best-known work. Macy had been right. He had needed to bring more emotion into his work and
If So
was the novel that did just that. It was his scream of anguish. He wrote it in the five years after Aldous’ death and Macy’s
miscarriage
, carried it with him all that time in his heart and in his head. He had thrust his hand into the mire of his life, raked around inside and come up with gold. If
The Waterwheel
had given him
intellectual
respect in the eyes of the literary world, if
The Fall of Dominic Pike
had identified him with worthwhile social values, then
If So
gave him emotional integrity.