An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (5 page)

Edward thought that if he had been a spy, he would have
confessed
everything to her there and then. Take all the documents, the names, the codes, the microfilms. The secret radio. The
frequencies
. Just be my lover. Please be my lover. Instead he told her about his studies with an enthusiasm he hadn’t previously believed he possessed. He spoke about the intriguing formality of the Japanese language. The ephemeral quality of beauty in
The Tale of Genji
. The
witty delight of Sei Shonagon’s court diaries from
The Pillow Book.
How the simple poetry of the
haiku
could compress the essential qualities of nature into a few syllables.

‘That’s what I like the most,’ he gushed, caught up in his own excitement, in her apparent interest. ‘The subtle awareness. The attention to detail. Just look at
shodo
, the calligraphy. All that intense energy. Concentrated on a single brushstroke.’

She ran a finger through a small pool of beer, tracing her own private design on the tabletop. ‘I like to see passion in a man,’ she said, looking down at her handiwork.

He reddened to the comment, hastily gulped down the rest of his beer, not sure if she was referring specifically to him or just to any male of the human race.

‘My father spent a few years in Tokyo,’ she continued. ‘He expects great things from the Japanese. He says they are
absorbing
all things American, refining them with their own aesthetic, then selling them back to the West. They’ve already started with the shipping industry. Manufactured items will follow next. He believes the Japanese economy is set to boom.’

‘I hope he’s right,’ he said, relieved the conversation had turned to more practical matters. ‘I was thinking of a job in international commerce after I’ve finished.’

‘Smart thinking. Most young men in your situation choose the diplomatic corps.’

He broke off the conversation to fetch another round of drinks, his head already beginning to spin light from the first. Apart from a meat paste sandwich in the queue of mourners, nothing to eat all day. Macy appeared unaffected by her half of bitter, happy to tackle another.

He asked her about her painting. She turned out to be more
serious
about her art than he had imagined. It was not just a little rich girl’s hobby, the diplomat’s daughter dipping into bohemia before daddy’s trust fund fully kicked in. She had a degree in Art History from some Ivy League university, she was passionate about the new Abstract Expressionism breaking through in the States, spearheaded by the man she cited as her greatest influence – Jackson Pollock.

‘He just spreads his canvas on the floor, drips his paints on to the surface direct from the can,’ she explained. ‘Action painting. No composition. No relationship between parts. Just the pure
expression
of the artist’s unconscious mood. No space between the self and the work. It’s angry. Aggressive. Arrogant. Screaming to be heard.’

He watched her as she talked. Red-painted lips animated over those so-white, even tributes to American dentistry. Her arms open, describing Pollock’s techniques, pulling slightly at the silk of her blouse, revealing just a peek of bra strap, the shadow of cleavage.

‘I wonder how similar they are,’ he said.

‘What? Who?’

‘These artists on canvas. This Pollock with his abstract
expressionism
on the one hand. And the Japanese calligrapher on the other.’

‘You must be joking. They couldn’t be further apart.’

‘Don’t be so sure. What you describe seems to be very manic, releasing the subconscious through lack of control. Painting
without
thinking.’

‘So?’

‘Well, on the face of it,
shodo
seems to be the opposite.
Calming
the mind until reason and emotion are one, allowing for a deeper spirituality to emerge. Yet both are about truth. One is truth achieved through a state of agitation. While the other is achieved through a state of calmness. The difference between Western and Oriental thought perhaps.’

Macy sat back in her chair, grinning.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.

‘Well, first I thought you weren’t listening. Second, I was ready for you to dismiss Pollock as a madman. But you’ve got an open mind, Eddie. I can call you Eddie, can’t I? Edward is too formal. Too much like that dead king. I like that about you, Eddie. An open mind. And a sensitivity to go with it.’ She sucked on her cigarette, then waved away the smoke, clearing the space between them. ‘I’ve got a little exhibition of my work coming up in a week or so. Nothing much. A space in a gallery of a family friend. You should come.’

‘Has it lots of dripping paint in it?’

‘More like sloshing.’

‘Good. I prefer the sloshing.’

‘That’s exactly what this beer is doing in my stomach. I’m
usually
a gin and tonic girl.’

‘So why the beer?’

‘I thought I’d try to impress you.’

His fingers wandered to her cigarette lighter, flicked open the lid, sparked up a flame to the empty air. ‘Would you like to get something to eat?’

They picked up two fish and chip suppers in Soho. Her idea. After all she was still an American in London who relished the idea of her food wrapped up in newsprint. He insisted on walking her back to her flat, choosing a route along the broad pavements of Bond Street and Mayfair, past Georgian porticos, windows with flowerboxes, balconies with sawn-off wrought-iron stumps.
Consular
buildings, luxury hotels, private apartments and gentlemen’s clubs. It was a London still confident of its own elegance, deluded by its sense of importance in a post-war world. Clear sky, full moon, dead king, princess pining in the palace, this woman by his side. Feeling it more appropriate in the cold to take her hand than not to, yet still managing to keep apart. The formality of space. Very
Japanese
. At Grosvenor Square, he had expected the American Embassy to dominate, to be lit up grand like a southern plantation mansion with Uncle Sam rocking back easy on the porch. But the chancery was just the same as the other embassies dotted around Mayfair, hidden away behind the broad doors, brass plates and flagpoles of a block of terraced Georgian houses.

In silence they wandered into the large open square in front of the embassy. A barren space with just a few trees, the scattered survivors of wartime bombings. She directed him towards a statue, standing pale in the moonlight. “Franklin Delano Roosevelt 1882 – 1945”. Dressed in his cape, propped up by his cane. Then suddenly, from a corner of this quiet plot of parkland, a figure came hurtling towards them along one of the pathways, surprising them, gliding, too fast, too smooth, to be running. A young man on roller skates.
His torso arched in a forward prow, hands clasped behind his back, scarf trailing in his slipstream, he slid past them and around the statue. Expressionless, the skater executed one loop of the plinth, then another and another, wheels grinding rough on the concrete, passing them each time, performing this private dance for them, wreathing them in some fantastic web before breaking away and disappearing back along the path.

‘You can leave me here,’ she said, her voice breaking the spell.

‘Oh. I thought I’d see you to your flat.’

‘Here’s fine,’ she said. She fumbled in her coat pocket. Found him a flyer, pressed it into his hand, her fingers red from the fry. ‘It’s my exhibition. Try to come.’

He pulled his coat in tighter. Rocked back and forward on his heels. Noticed her lips greasy and flecked with salt. Two beers and the skater making him feel he might be brave enough to try a kiss.

‘I had a nice time, Eddie,’ she said, stepping back and away from him. ‘Don’t spoil it.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Japan
•
2003

Edward had arranged a wake-up call with the front desk but it had proved unnecessary. He awoke well before the dawn, remarkably clear-headed for only four hours sleep. As his life became shorter, he slept less and less, until he wondered if there would come a time when he would not require any sleep at all. The achievement of a perpetual state of awakeness, of constant awareness, before the reward of permanent sleep.

A quick shower before sitting down in his robe at the writing desk. He ran his fingers over the mahogany, letting his palms be lightly scored by the corners and edges. The rectangular,
olive-leather
inlay had been replaced and the space for the inkwell was now sealed off with a circle of wood that just failed to match the original. But he was sure it was the same desk. He turned on the reading lamp, opened up the notebook he had bought for the trip, began to write. No longer fiction, for what stories had he left to tell? But poetry. Just like he used to write in the early London days. Except then he wrote about youth, about love, about hope. Now he wrote about nature. About death and birth. Poetry had become his literary garden of retirement where he pottered about in his
withered skin, pruning that branch, choosing to pick that flower, hacking out that stubborn weed. Writing
haiku
.

He paused from his scribblings to watch the day break over the hillside, the sunlight rising to glint on the grey tiles of the hotel’s outbuildings, to melt on the dewy branches of the poplar trees. Lights flickered on in the kitchens, steam churned out of the
fired-up
boilers, giant extractor fans started to whirr. The crisp, oily smell of grilling fish, the baby-milk aroma of boiling rice. Bird tracks on the frosted grass. The cold ring of a temple bell. The waterwheel off in the distance. Life beginning anew. Rebirth. Renaissance. Reincarnation. Such a sense of it, deep in his belly.

Lark tracks scratch the frost

Marching fast away from me

Winter’s death tolling.

He ordered a light, Japanese-style breakfast to be delivered to his room. A waiter brought a lacquer tray laden with an array of dishes. Miso soup, sweet omelette, pickles, barley porridge, broiled fish and a pot of green tea. Each in its distinctive, ceramic bowl. He marvelled at the delicious combination of tastes and textures delighting his tongue and palate, each one sparking off a flash of memory, too fast for him to harness in conscious thought before the next one appeared and then also died. And then the next one. Pickled radish. What did that sour yellowed root remind him of? Sugared egg. So quick. Impossible to grasp, these disappearing images from his Japanese past. But the sensation pleasant nevertheless. Until the telephone interrupted this grand fireworks display of fleeting recollections.

‘Are you angry with me?’ Enid asked.

‘Why would that be?’

‘I thought you might have joined me for breakfast.’

‘I took it in my room. I was writing.’

‘Well, then, a taxi has been ordered for ten. The
Shinkansen
tickets are at reception.’

‘Oh God. Jerome Fisk and his damned award ceremony. I’d almost forgotten. What about back home?’

‘No news is good news.’

‘And other stuff?’

‘Yes, there’s other stuff. The usual requests for your attendance at events I will politely decline. It is the Poet Laureate’s birthday though. Would you like me to send something?’

‘What do I usually do?’

‘Depends on who’s
in
situ
. This one’s new.’

‘Well, send him a bottle of malt then. He writes better when he’s pissed. Anything else?’

‘All quiet on the western front. It’s past midnight in the UK. Enjoy your trip to Tokyo.’

By the time he had dressed and was walking along the corridors towards reception, his mood was still upbeat. It was the breakfast that had done it. Enid would have disapproved of the grilled fish. And his bowels were sure to pay for it later. But it was just like
eating
kippers really. He began humming some vague melody as he walked. A slow, ponderous fugue. He tapped his cane to the beat. As he caught sight of Takahashi in the lobby, he believed the tune was the Japanese national anthem.

‘I trust you slept well, Sir Edward,’ Takahashi said, breaking off from talking with a staff member to greet him.

‘I did indeed.’

Takahashi straightened. Not a strand of his thick, dyed-black hair out of place. ‘And did you enjoy your breakfast?’

‘A good Scotsman likes to start the day with his kippers.’

‘I am afraid I don’t understand.’

‘Nothing to be afraid of, Takahashi-san. Just my exuberant spirits.’

‘I see.’ A little cough into a clenched fist, then the manager said: ‘I did not recall seeing you in the bar last night.’

‘I was feeling slightly unwell. I went to bed early.’

‘Perhaps it was jet lag?’

‘No doubt.’

‘And will you require dinner this evening? On your return from Tokyo?’

‘I imagine I will dine in Tokyo.’

‘I see.’

The hotel manager lingered.

‘There is something else, Takahashi-san?’

‘Perhaps you remember our desire to have a little chat?’

‘Our desire?’

‘About the old days.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow. I am sure I can manage some time tomorrow.’ Edward looked around the lobby. The door to the telephone booth was open and he could see inside to the
glass-encased
poster advertising the Hakone Open Air Museum and its exuberant paintings. ‘Now where is that damn taxi?’

‘It has just this second arrived in the driveway.’

Edward pushed through the revolving doors into the crisp morning air. His dry cheeks felt the chill. He put on his hat. A lone birdcall echoed hollow in the valley with such a sadness it actually pained him. That ache in the centre of his chest. He touched the spot, kept his hand there until the tightness had passed. The taxi driver – a small, chubby man wearing a dark suit and white gloves – quickly stubbed out a cigarette, opened the passenger door. Sheets of white cotton covered the seats. The interior air freshened with aerosol lavender.

The driver took his place, adjusted the electronic screen
displaying
a map, then began to fuss annoyingly with the buttons on the radio. Channels tripped by on loops of sound and blurry green numbers. A classical music station.

‘OK?’ the man asked, turning round slowly. His fat neck strained at the tight, bright-white collar. ‘OK?’

Edward nodded and sat back happily in his seat. The boundaries had been set. No tortured conversations in primitive English or Japanese. Just pure Mozart.

The taxi began its winding climb down the tree-lined hillside, swinging and swerving through a tunnel of dappled light. The area was famous for its hot springs and every so often the hedges of leaf and timber would clear to allow a glimpse of a driveway dipping down to a spa resort. He recalled a trip with Sumiko to one of these
onsens
. Twenty-four hours of sleeping, soaking and making love until his body had dissolved into a hot, rubbery mass.

After about twenty minutes, the road eased out, straightened, broke away from the wooded slopes towards Odawara. What he remembered as a simple, tiled-roof town noted for its plum trees and medieval castle had now become engulfed by urban blight. Japan poured more concrete than any other nation on earth, and here it showed. Concrete river beds, road bridges, rail bridges,
hillside
buttresses constructed against potential landslides, all waited patiently on the plain, knowing the time would come soon enough to spread their tentacles of cement upwards into the hills.

‘Odawara no eki,’
the driver announced, leaning his head back but keeping his eyes on the road.

‘Ah yes. The station.’

Edward felt the extra buzz as he stood on the elevated platform, set above the comings and goings of the ordinary trains below.
Everything
up here was more streamlined – the uniforms, the benches, the signs, the kiosks – as if their designs and architectural lines had been pressure-moulded by the passing trains. For the Tokaido
bullet
train stopped here. The Shink. The tracks began to hum. A fluttering in his stomach. Good to know that there were still
experiences
left in life to excite him. The announcements became more frequent, more frantic. The train was high speed, and so the waiting passengers must be too. Ready to board in seconds. Arched down for a sprint rather than stood up for a middle-distance race.
Children
were assembled. Luggage stacked with handles sprung upright. Time was at a premium here. Targets had to be met, standards had to be maintained. He tapped his cane around his designated area as the seconds flicked down to arrival. He was prepared. Feeling sprightly. Not the usual aching in his bones. And there was that song again. The Japanese national anthem. Or was it the theme song for the Tokyo Olympics? Dah, dah, da, da, da. A glance down the tracks. It was coming. A rush of displaced air. The
metallic-silver
wingless Concorde, this beautiful, aerodynamically perfect beast, swooshed into the station. Breathtaking. It slid to a halt in
front of him. A carriage door appeared exactly opposite. Number Eight. Corresponding to the number on his ticket. Whoosh. The automatic release of compressed air to open the door. Excellent. Such exactitude in an increasingly chaotic world.

The train took off again before he had time to find his seat. He swayed in the aisle, struggling for balance, searching the overhead sills for his seat number. There it was. A window seat. A
middle-aged
salary man stinking of hair cream stood up to let him in. Off with the coat. His fellow passenger kind enough to place it on the rack. At last, he could settle. He was looking forward to
reacquainting
himself with the landscape between Odawara and Tokyo. So much must have changed. Tokyo and its environs back then had been only ten years in recovery since the fire-bombing.

He took out his notebook, ready to record his impressions. But everything flashed by too quickly. He tried to focus on buildings, clusters of trees, fences and fields, follow a car along a country road. But it was hopeless. Just a blur, his eyes sore from the trying. Then a tunnel. Thud. Sudden darkness before the interior lights came on. Pressure forcing the inside wall of the train to squeeze against his shoulder and forearm. His ears clogging.

He practically skipped along the platform at Tokyo station, with hardly a lean on his cane. While his actual body was earthed solid on the concourse, somehow his molecular structure was still
vibrating
at a rate of one hundred and fifty miles an hour or at whatever speed these trains were capable of. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a schoolboy. A June sports day, sprinting free on a
hundred-yard
dash, blood flowing easily, limbs moving smoothly, lungs clean and fresh, shorts flapping. Parents watching from deckchairs on the sidelines.

He scanned the crowd beyond the barrier. Was that Fisk coming towards him? His hair white now, but still plenty of it. Colour in his cheeks. Looking solid but youthful in a beige sports jacket, grey flannels and grey polo. Like a retired senator with golf as a hobby striding down the fairway. How should he greet this man after all these years? A handshake? A hug? His hand grasped his cane more
tightly. Fisk in front of him now, taking the initiative, clutching him tightly by both shoulders as if to show off his vigour. The man’s hair was thinner than he had first thought, scalp red and flaky under the white waves. Skin shining, teeth too white to be real. Fisk was a year or two older. But Japan had treated him well. Must be all that raw fish and tofu. Edward used to think it was something in the genes that made them the longest living race on the planet. But it had to be the diet. Definitely the diet. He had never been so lean, his bowels had never worked better, than when he used to live here.

‘Eddie. Are you well?’

‘What do you mean? Do I look ill or something?’

‘No, no, no. I just mean…’ Fisk stood back. ‘How are you, for God’s sake?’

‘Not too bad. Considering I have endured both a long-haul flight and a bullet train in the last couple of days.’

Fisk laughed. ‘And the cane? You always said you wanted a cane. “When I am old enough for it to be an appendage and not an affectation. Like our illustrious leaders Winston and Franklin D.”’

‘Did I say that?’

‘Sure did. So what is it then?’

‘What is what?’

‘An appendage or an affectation?’

‘It’s my hip. I should have had an operation years ago.’

‘You gotta attend to these things, Eddie. Or you’ll end up
hobbling
around like an old man.’

‘I am an old man.’

‘It’s all in the mind. I’m older than you are. And look at me.’

He didn’t want to look at Fisk. At his precision-pressed flannels and casual deck shoes. At the cashmere collar, flashy wristwatch and expensive dentistry. He just wanted to turn around and head back to the hotel faster than a speeding bullet train. But instead he found himself asking in an enthusiastic tone: