An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (27 page)
Read An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Online
Authors: J David Simons
As if through the revolving door in some West End farce, Sumiko departed his bedroom just before Enid entered it. She was crying when she left. It amazed him to think he still had the capacity to make women weep. A tearless Enid now stood by his bed, copying down his choice of lunch from the hotel menu.
‘I think I should call a doctor. Just to check you over.’
‘It will not be necessary.’
‘Mr Takahashi says there is a fine doctor living in the village.’
‘That must be very pleasant for him.’
Enid sucked in her breath. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Please draw the curtains. The morning sunshine hurts my eyes.’
‘Do you have a headache?’
‘I have a splitting headache. There are some aspirin in the
bathroom
cabinet.’
Enid returned with a silver-paper strip of aspirin and a glass of water, which she placed on the bedside table. She then went to close the drapes.
‘Do you need anything else?’
‘Ask Takahashi to send me in a bottle of whisky. He knows the one I like.’
‘I will do no such thing. Please get some rest. I will call you in a few hours.’
As soon as Enid had left, he rang Takahashi at reception. Ten minutes later, a sullen bellboy arrived with the whisky on a tray, positioned it on the already crowded bedside table. The bottle was only one-third full. A note from Takahashi on the hotel’s headed notepaper explained:
“This is all we have left of your favourite whisky. If you would like some more, but of a different brand, please let me know. We have some very fine Japanese malts.”
He propped himself up on two large pillows, pushed out two
tablets
into his palm, washed them down with a large glass of malt. He breathed out deeply and noisily as the liquid hit his stomach, released its fiery glow. His head throbbed. This fall had shaken him, really rattled him up. His whole left side hurt. He took another sip of whisky. Enid had surprisingly left a crack in the curtains and a shaft of light slanted through. All the way from the sun, all those millions of miles, just to arrive in this place. And to die here. Such a remarkable journey. And for what purpose? To illuminate for a few moments his notebook lying open on the desk, the same mahogany desk on which he had written his famous novel so many years before. So many light years before. Time and space. Space and time. All mixed up.
The ring of the telephone woke him. His hand fumbled over the bedside table, knocking over a glass, finding the receiver, the
tangled
wire knocking over something else… a bottle, the thudding fall cushioned by the deep pile of the carpet. His head, heavy, thick. His voice throaty, dry.
‘What is it?’
‘Sir Edward?’ A woman’s voice. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, this is Sir Edward Strathairn.’
‘I’m sorry but it doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Enid.’
‘Enid? Where the hell are you?’
‘I’m in my room. Upstairs.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. What time is it?’
‘Five o’clock.’
‘Christ. I can’t believe I’ve slept so long.’
‘I thought I’d let you be. But we need to talk.’
‘Fine. Talk to me.’
‘I’d prefer to see you.’
‘Give me ten minutes then.’
He looked around the room. The light through the curtain crack was grey. A lacquer tray clustered with the dishes of an untouched lunch lay on the desk. He pulled back the covers, manoeuvred his legs off the bed. His left side was stiff now rather than painful. He considered that to be an achievement in his body’s test of recovery. Stiffness he could manage. Stiffness he was used to. He hobbled over to the desk, gulped down a bowl of cold miso soup, followed by four pieces of fried tofu, several spoonfuls of sticky rice, a slice of salmon in a delicious soya and ginger sauce, then two small
cupfuls
of green tea. The blood that had pounded inside his head when he awoke had now diverted to his stomach. He could almost feel whatever proteins, fats, carbohydrates and vitamins he had
consumed
begin their march through his veins. He burped healthily and began searching for the bottle of whisky. Just as he spotted it poking out from under the hem of the duvet cover, there was a knock on the door. He slipped back into bed before he called for her to come in.
‘Enid. How are you?’
‘I am coping as usual. And you?’
‘I am in fine form. Just a little stiffness in the limbs.’
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘I have not been drinking.’
‘What am I going to do with you, Sir Edward?’ Her eyes scanned the room for the incriminating evidence. ‘I can smell your breath from here.’
‘All right. I had one glass. Just to help me sleep.’
‘Well, in that case, you will be rested enough to listen.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I’m afraid there have been some developments.’ Enid brought out her notepad, flicked it to the opening page. ‘Her autobiography has now hit the shelves.’
‘What is this need people have to bore us with made-up tales of their lives? Such egotism. Such crassness. What’s it called?’
‘What is it called? You want to know what it’s called? Oh, let me see. Yes, here it is. It’s called
Macy Collingwood – Not So Abstract Expressions
.’
‘I suppose that’s OK. What else?’
‘Well, it’s only been released in America so far. There have been some reviews, mainly in the art magazines, culture pull-outs in the papers, that kind of thing.’
‘What does she say about me?’
‘I haven’t received a copy yet.’
‘Enid?’
‘Only what I’ve seen on the Internet. There have been the expected allegations. A few of the American broadsheets have picked up on those.’
‘What do they say?’
‘I would say that the main theme is on the subject of your hypocrisy.’
‘Well, I was never popular in the States anyway. What about back home?’
‘Nothing seems to have reached the press yet.’
‘Well, that’s not too bad then.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s not good news.’
‘For God’s sake, Enid. Just spit it out.’
‘The BBC called to say they were re-considering their offer regarding the interview series. The producer was very nice about it. She said she didn’t want to rush into any rash judgements. But Sir David would like to have a chat with you. I’m so sorry.’
‘I see.’
‘What do you think we should do? I could put out a press release. Denying the allegations.’
‘I keep telling you, Enid. There is nothing to deny.’
‘But it was so long ago. And what about your reputation?’
‘What can I do? As Aldous used to tell me: “Life’s beginning moulds you, its ending will judge you. It doesn’t matter what you do in between.”’
‘But you’ve done so much in between.’
‘I appreciate your support, Enid. But I’ve heard enough. I think you should go now.’
‘I still think you should fight back.’
‘We came here to get away from all of this nonsense. Not to fight it. I’m feeling very tired now.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Let me take away this tray. I’ll leave you till the morning.’
‘Thank you.’
He fixed himself another drink, this time diluted with a little water from his aspirin glass, just to stir up the flavour. The bottle was almost empty. He moved over to the writing desk, switched on the table lamp. Through the gap in the curtain, he could see the darkening sky over the treetops. He rose again and walked stiffly over to his suitcase on the stool-rack, rummaged around inside until he found Kobayashi’s puzzle-box, brought it back to the desk. There it would sit, a marquetry tribute to the woods of its birth lying beyond the window. How appropriate. Now he was ready.
He would write. Not some pithy
haiku
but the seeds of
something
substantial. He had not thought about writing a novel for years. Surely ideas had been backing up, building up, bubbling up. Another wee dram should start to open up the sluice gates. He gulped down his drink and picked up a pen. Sketch down some thoughts. He listed his more important novels
chronologically
with their subject matter attached. His famous three. His triumvirate: “
The Waterwheel
(injustice).
The Fall of Dominic Pike
(the dispossessed).
If So, Answer Me
(spiritual void).” All so bloody serious. So bloody heavy. What he needed was to write a
comedy
. A humorous look at life. A conversation with a wise clown.
How would you like to do a series on that, Sir David? When was the last time a great writer had written comedy? Apart from Shakespeare. And Cervantes. Nothing in the last four hundred years. That was it. If he were to carry the massive, ever-changing structure of a novel inside his head for the next few years, let it be light, let it be joyful, let it be funny. He finished off the bottle. He felt truly inspired. He wrote down the word “Comedy” on the page. ‘Aha!’ All he had to do now was think of an amusing theme. To begin the process, he would order another bottle of malt, have a shower, let the hot flow massage the ideas inside his head, let his thoughts percolate.
‘Eddie-chan, what are you doing?’
He didn’t have an answer. His brain had done that quick-flick memory-scan kind of thing and come up with a blank. He did not know what he was doing. All he knew was that he was standing in a corridor, back flat-pressed against the wall. His skin felt cold, damp on the surface but inside he was hot. Sumiko was in front of him, unfurling his fingers, extracting something from his grip.
‘Why are you carrying around an empty bottle? And what is this sticking out of your ear? Oh, dear. It’s a cotton bud. Oh, Eddie. A cotton bud. And your robe is wet. Have you just come out of a shower?’
Yes, he remembered that. There had been a shower. The hot pinpricks of water reviving him. Such a pleasant sensation. As was the touch of Sumiko’s fingers gripping his hand. Leading him where? Back to his room, of course. The Fuji Suite. She drew him to the centre of the room, made him wait there, then she was back tut-tutting, stripping off his robe, rubbing him down with a large towel. Yes, he liked that.
‘What would you do without me?’ Rub, rub, rub. ‘Shiver to death.’ Rub, rub, rub. ‘And look at all these bruises. You have to be careful.’ Rub, rub, rub. ‘You just can’t go wandering around like this.’
She dressed him in a fresh robe, made him wait again as she skilfully sorted out the sheets, plumped up the pillows, just like
the chambermaid she had been. He eased himself on to the bed, stretched out his legs.
‘Would you like something to drink? I can make a pot of tea.’
He nodded. And waited. All these sounds. The steaming kettle. The washing of cups. A voice outside in the back courtyard. He imagined the chef, sneaking a cigarette, scolding a kitchen boy.
Nan dayo. Nan dayo
. A hot cup placed in the clasp of his hands. ‘Can you manage that?’ He nodded again. The scent of the tea the same as her body perfume. He had to concentrate. That was what his
doctor
had told him. ‘You must try and focus on everything you do. Tell yourself what you are doing as you do it.’
I am holding a cup. I am watching Sumiko bring over a chair to the side of the bed. She is picking up her cup in those delicate hands of hers. She is talking to me. I can see her mouth moving, chattering away into the tea-mist.
‘… You are so stubborn. Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. It is a miracle you ever managed to get here. How you made it to see Jerome in Tokyo I will never know. What are we going to do with you, Eddie-chan?’
‘You know, Sumiko. I still cannot seem to get that tune out of my head. Dada dada da. Are you sure it is the song from the Tokyo Olympics? I thought it might have been the national anthem, but you would know your own anthem, of course. Perhaps it is
something
else altogether?’
‘Oh, Eddie.’ He watched her stand up, take his cup, lean over his body to adjust the bedcovers. ‘You should try to sleep.’
Her neck was so close to his face. He remembered how she used to wear her sleek hair pinned up with long needles in a bun, just like a little maid all contrary, come from a ladies’ seminary. Now it was cut shorter in a bob. He could see some grey underneath where the dye had faded. The Paisley pattern of her blouse. He grabbed her arm as she moved away.
‘Sumiko.’
‘Yes?’
‘I would like to go to Kamakura. Can we visit there? It is not very far. We had such a great time there the last time we went.’
‘Yes, yes, we can go there. Let us see how you are tomorrow. If it is a fine day and you are feeling better, I will take you there.’
‘Thank you.’ He heard her footsteps as she padded away from him, the click of the light switch, the door closing. A tickling sensation as he felt the solitary tear on its stop-start journey down his cheek.
Edward had been going through a polite and pleasant patch with Macy. A truce. A state of
détente
. His career was going well, as was hers, and they were being just a little more generous and gentle with each other. Now that it was summer, Macy would even come downstairs some mornings, join him for breakfast in the garden of their Chelsea house where they would pour each other cups of tea, open their respective posts, share a comment or two about a certain newspaper article or chat distractedly about how well the fruit trees were faring this season. It was on one such occasion she informed him her mother was very ill.
‘I am going back to New York,’ she said.
‘For how long?’
‘A few weeks. A few months. I will stay until she dies.’
‘Perhaps I will join you for a while. Give you some support.’
Macy lowered her newspaper. He saw a softness in her look towards him he hadn’t seen for years.
‘That’s mighty nice of you, Eddie. Why would you do
something
like that?’
He felt embarrassed. He wasn’t even sure himself why he had made the suggestion, this getting on with Macy over the last few
weeks catching him out. ‘I don’t know. It feels like the right thing to do. What do you think? I won’t come for long. Just give you a bit of company. I’ve never seen New York. I’ve never even met your mother.’
‘I just hope she’s well enough to know who you are.’
‘So you think I should come then?’
‘If they’ll let you in.’
Giles Morgan, his publisher, was delighted.
‘We’ve always wanted to push you in the States, Edward,’ he said. ‘This is a great opportunity to test the waters. And New York is a fabulous place to kick off. The Big Apple. We’ll take a nice big juicy bite out of it. You’ll see. It shouldn’t be difficult to set you up with a few readings, interviews and signings around the city.’
Giles rose from his swivel chair, moved over to the window with its expansive view of the Thames, his chubby cheeks
glowing
like a couple of big rosy apples themselves. Edward noted that while his publisher wore the customary pinstripe of his profession, the shirt, however, was lavender and the tie floral. ‘It’s just
brilliant
,’ Giles said to his rainbow reflection in the pane. ‘Just bloody brilliant.’
Edward had always liked Giles’ exuberance. It was probably the reason why he attracted such high profile clients, this infectious enthusiasm that made his insecure writers feel valued and loved. And it wasn’t just froth either. That was why Aldous had recommended him. ‘Giles delivers,’ his old friend had once told him. ‘Giles
definitely
delivers.’ Edward wondered if they had been lovers.
‘I still don’t think the Yanks have forgiven me for
The Waterwheel.
’
‘Oh tosh. That was centuries ago. The world has moved on since then. They’ve got Vietnam to worry about now. Anyway, it’s
If So
we’ll be pushing.
The Waterwheel
won’t even be mentioned in dispatches. And the Macy connection should help too. You know, husband of the celebrated American painter, Macy Collingwood.’ Giles rubbed his hands together.
‘I think we should play down the Macy connection. She’s over there to see her dying mother. And we’re not exactly the perfect couple.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Play down the Macy connection. Play it down. Play it cool. Play it oh so cool. But it’s all just brilliant.’
The Americans weren’t so impressed by the proposal. Edward’s visa was refused. No reasons given.
As Edward sat waiting in Jack Collingwood’s office, he tried to recall how long it had been since he had seen the man who was still in all legality his father-in-law. It must have been at least fifteen, perhaps even closer to twenty years since they had met in that gallery in
Albemarle
Street where Macy had exhibited the very first of her
paintings
. Then there was that disastrous dinner in Soho when Macy had stormed off in a fit of pique at something her father had said. Jack had stayed on in London, eschewing an international career in the
diplomatic
corps or even in American politics, for the sake of his love for a junior attaché from the Spanish embassy. At least that’s what Macy had told him. She had met them both once, bumped into them as a couple walking through Mayfair, hand-in-hand, happy as larks, she reported. Macy had hardly spoken to her father since.
Looking around at the bare walls, Edward wasn’t sure what building he was in, never mind which office. No signs at the grey concrete entrance, just a number. And a couple of stiff security guards. A bland reception area. No signs either to indicate which department or office was located on which floor. All he knew was that Jack Collingwood was high up in the building and high up in the US Government.
The door burst open and Jack swept in. Hair pure white now, the face more lined, Mount Rushmore craggy, but still that
confident
, easy, American way about the man. Shiny cheeks, shiny suit, shiny smile. Edward felt immediately ill at ease.
‘Well, well, well, Edward Strathairn. My famous son-in-law. You are still my son-in-law, aren’t you?’
‘I’m afraid so. Macy never wanted a divorce.’
‘She always was a stubborn bitch. Just like her mother. Doing quite well for herself now, I see. I even bought one of her
paintings
. Don’t tell her that though. She’ll probably ask for it back or something. So what can I do for you?’
‘I need a favour, Jack.’
‘Yeah. Go on.’
‘I’ve been refused a visa for the States,’ Edward said, trying to sound casual. ‘I thought you might be able to help.’
‘Macy sent you?’
‘No. My own initiative. She doesn’t need to know.’
‘Have you any idea what I do here, Eddie?’
‘Not really. No. No, in fact, I don’t. I just thought you might have some clout. You know, after twenty years with Uncle Sam in the United Kingdom, you might be able to help out family.’
‘Well, you’re not exactly family. You are the estranged husband of my estranged daughter.’
‘Let’s not be estrangers then.’
‘This is not a laughing matter.’
‘You’re right, Jack. Macy’s mother is very ill. She’s gone out to be with her. I thought I’d tag along, lend her support.’
Edward could see the information had caught Collingwood
off-guard
, the confident sheen dulling momentarily, a light going out from under his tan.
‘How bad is she?’
‘Don’t know exactly. Macy is staying out there until she dies.’ He hadn’t meant the words to come out so cruelly. After all, he had no idea what kind of relationship this man still had with his ex-wife.
‘I see.’ Collingwood cleared his throat, then shivered himself back into confidence mode with a straightening of his tie. ‘Well, you’re not exactly the easiest person to smuggle into the old US of A. A bit of a
persona non grata
. Couldn’t stand your book myself. And unfortunately there are a lot of war veterans who feel the same way. Some are probably even in government now. Possibly even in embassies and consulates around the world, stamping visas into passports.’
‘I don’t want to argue with you, Jack. You’ve got your take about what happened in Japan. And I’ve got mine.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Collingwood came up trumps. The visa was granted within forty-eight hours.
It was the sheer scale that impressed. Larger than life. Take a
London
building, a London street, a London store, and double it. No treble it. Quadruple it. Take it to the power ten. And that was New York. Skyscrapers blocking out the sun. Avenues running wider and deeper than the Thames. The people were bigger too. Louder. Ruder. More vibrant. The whole place exciting Edward from the off, filling him with a feeling he hadn’t experienced for a very long time. Wonder. As soon as he had slid into that fat yellow cab at the airport and the driver had turned and asked: ‘Where to, fella?’ It was just like being in a movie.
His American publishers had booked him into the River Plaza Hotel on the Upper West Side. His room was twelve floors up with a view over the Hudson, across to New Jersey. Macy’s mother’s apartment was just two blocks further uptown, a thoughtful
convenience
. He called Macy as soon as he arrived. The news was not good.
‘She’s just been transferred to a hospice,’ she told him. ‘It can’t be long now.’
‘I’ll come over. You’re only five minutes away.’
‘Kind of you to offer. But I’d rather be on my own tonight, Eddie. I need to adjust to all of this. Why don’t you leave it until tomorrow? You’re probably dead beat.’
‘I’ve got some kind of event to do late morning. I’ll come over afterwards.’ He clicked off the phone, let the receiver hang there in his hands. He felt closer to Macy than he had done for a very long time.
He slept late, wasn’t ready for the mid-morning arrival of the diminutive but sharply turned-out Miss Desai at his door. He had to greet her in his big fluffy white bathrobe while she stood before him in a black suit with creases like razors, black shoes, black
briefcase
and hair so black it was almost blue. He felt like a giant polar bear stooped over a penguin.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m running a little late,’ he said.
‘True,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you sit down? There’s some coffee in a pot there.’
‘I’ll just wait, thank you.’
He went back into his bedroom, dressed quickly, returned to find Miss Desai standing exactly where he had left her.
‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, trying to sound cheerful. ‘Lead on.’
He felt her nervousness as they travelled down in the lift together, saw her fingers nipping away at her trouser creases. He thought at first it might have been his lateness that had upset her, or he even presumed to think his reputation might be a factor. It was only in the taxi he discovered the real reason.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a problem,’ she confessed,
looking
straight ahead.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘With the reading.’
‘It has been cancelled?’
‘That could have been an option. But we’ve decided to proceed.’
‘Look, Miss Desai. Will you please just tell me what is going on?’
She wriggled herself even straighter. ‘The bookstore has received a number of phone calls. There have been accusations. Accusations that the store is being unpatriotic by hosting your event. Yes, that is what they are being accused of. And, of course, we too are being accused as your publishers. Of being unpatriotic.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ was all he could manage.
Miss Desai ignored his remark and continued, all the time
staring
ahead as if the licence details of the driver, one Nikos
Loukanidis
, was of immense importance to her. ‘We have contacted the New York Police Department, but there is nothing they can do. It is not as if there has been a direct threat or anything like that. And we can’t very well interrogate the customers entering the
bookstore
. After all, it is an establishment open to the general public. America is still a free country after all. So the show must go on.’
‘Yes,’ Edward sighed. ‘The show must go on.’
He had half-expected there to be a knot of protestors waiting outside the store just like the anti-Vietnam War demonstrations he had seen on the television, but he was able to walk straight in unheeded and unhampered in the wake of the purposeful Miss
Desai. The reading was scheduled to take place in a large public area in the basement where there was a small stage, a couple of chairs, a table with a microphone, several stacks of hardback copies of
If So
,
Answer Me
. He was pleased to see there was an audience of around sixty eager souls, already seated. He scoured their ranks for anyone he might be able to identify as an outraged Pacific War veteran. What was he looking for? Someone in army fatigues, crew cut and bandana straight out of ’Nam? They all seemed a perfectly pacific bunch to him. He began to relax.
Miss Desai carried out the introduction. She did so quite
eloquently
, without notes, encapsulating with great knowledge and insight his literary career to date. It suddenly occurred to him that behind her sharp exterior, Miss Desai might have even been a fan.
He stood up to such hugely generous applause he felt quite
overwhelmed
, heard his voice quiver slightly before he launched into his usual
spiel
. But he soon found his stride as he began to outline the tragic events that had led to him writing his
If So
novel, the necessity to fill this void with some creative endeavour. ‘All creativity comes from loss,’ he said after a long pause and he saw several members of the audience nod gravely in agreement. It was a gentle preparation he knew that could not help but gain a certain amount of sympathy. He then read from four different sections of his novel, sat down to loud clapping and even some enthusiastic whistling. ‘God bless America,’ he thought. ‘Why did I wait so long to come here?’ Miss Desai took questions from the floor, nothing he hadn’t been asked at least twenty times before. But he delivered his responses as if he were doing so for the first time, adding in a little well-rehearsed humour if he could, always trying to remain humble.