An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (20 page)

He sat in the armchair by the bedroom window, the lights dimmed, a glass of malt whisky in one hand, the telegram in the other. He could hear Sumiko coming down the long hallway, the thud, thud, thud of her crutches on the carpeted floor, not unlike the heavy beat of his own heart. He rose from his seat, walked unsteadily across the room, opened the door just as she arrived on the other side.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘
O genki desu ka
?’

She swung herself across the threshold. ‘I am fine. Just so sorry to spoil everything.’

‘Don’t be silly. These things can’t be helped. Accidents happen.’ He felt he would be happy to go on like this, just spouting clichés. ‘Did you enjoy Kamakura anyway?’

‘It was such a lovely day. And I laughed so much. Jerome-san is very funny. Thank you for taking me.’

‘You must have some tea,’ he said. ‘I insist.’

‘Please don’t fuss, Eddie-chan. I just want to sit, thank you. My foot is still sore.’

‘Of course, you must sit. Here take my armchair. And I’ll get some pillows to prop up your ankle.’

She sat down and he brought her a footstool, some cushions off the bed. Then he topped up his glass from the decanter on his desk. He tried to keep his hand steady as he poured.

‘What is wrong, Eddie-chan?’

‘Nothing is wrong.’

‘You act very nervous.’

He sighed. ‘There is something I need to tell you.’

‘What is it?’

He looked around for the telegram, he had put it down
somewhere
while fetching the pillows. There it was on the bedside table. He picked it up, waved it at her.

‘This has come,’ he said.

‘Oh no,’ she gasped. ‘Someone is dead?’

‘No, no, it is nothing like that. It is good news for a change. No, I didn’t mean it like that either. It is good news for me. No, not that. I have to go. To go back to London.’

‘You will be away for a long time?’

‘I am leaving Japan for good, Sumiko. This is a telegram from my agent.’ Again he waved the document at her, as if it were a divine calling rather than Aldous’ probably over-optimistic words of command. ‘Publishers are interested in my book. I have to go back. I need to think about my career. I am not coming back.’

‘But you told me you are happy here.’

‘Yes, that is true.’

‘Why are you leaving then?’

‘Because happiness is not enough.’

She let out a horrible wailing sound, dropped her head. Her shoulders began to shake. He found himself on the verge of crying himself. That leaden ball of emotion in his stomach all wrapped up inside of him waiting for release.

‘Take me with you,’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘Please take me with you.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just can’t.’ He gave her a whole list of reasons. Logistical
reasons
. Cultural reasons. Consular issues. Everything except the truth. That she was of this time and place in his life. She was of Japan. It was not a relationship he could transfer, just like that, exchanged like currency from one country to the other. How could he tell her that?

‘You see,’ she said. ‘I am just your
panpan
girl.’

‘I’ve told you before. That’s not true.’

‘You are just like the Americans,’ she hissed. Then she began to struggle out of the armchair, pulling herself up on her crutches.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘To have a bath.’

‘A bath? Now?

‘Yes, now. I feel dirty. Or do you want me to get out of this room too?’

‘Let me help you then.’

‘Leave me.’

He let her be, poured another drink, went to sit by his desk at the window, the burn of the whisky starting to soothe him.
He heard her turn on the giant taps, the hollow clunks
resounding
somewhere deep in the pipework as the water came gushing in. He cursed himself for hurting her. But it was true what he had said – happiness was not enough for him right now. It was meaning he craved. If he wanted happiness, he could just stay here, existing only in the present, in this village, at this hotel, in this room, with Sumiko, without a care for what had been in his life or what would be. But if he wanted his life to have meaning, to have some kind of narrative arc, he needed to think about his future as well.

Somewhere out in the darkness, he heard an owl call. He leaned forward, pulled aside one of the curtains. It was a clear night, a half moon in the sky. He could just make out the hotel boilerhouse with its giant chimney, the tennis courts, the path that led through the trees to the waterwheel. He thought of how he used to write there in the late summer, how beautiful the light was as it filtered through the trees, spread out over the pond, illuminating the orange-gold backs of the carp languidly
swimming
to and fro. Sumiko would bring him out tea and biscuits on a lacquer tray, sit with him for a few minutes, just the two of them, silently, listening to the waterwheel filling and emptying its troughs in a gentle flow.

It was the warm ooze around his stockinged feet that alerted him. At first, he thought he’d spilt a cup of tea on the carpet, the tea on the lacquer tray that had formed part of his reverie. Then through the pleasant numbness of his alcoholic haze, he realised what was happening. He rushed to the door. But it was locked. He banged his fist hard on the wooden panelling. ‘Sumiko,’ he cried. ‘Sumiko. Open up.’ Silence. Except for the gush of the taps.

He tried the door again, shook the handle. It was only a snib on the other side. He took a few steps backwards then hastened
forward
, shoulder first. The lock gave away easily and he was through.

He stood in a slush of water, mist filled the room. He could just see the upper half of Sumiko’s naked body slumped in the bath, one arm draped over the side, her bandaged ankle propped between the taps.

‘Sumiko!’ he screamed. He rushed over to her, knelt down in the puddles of water, grabbed her shoulders, shook her gently. ‘My God. What have you done?’

No response.

He slapped her lightly across her cheeks. Her head jerked and she breathed out a moan.

‘Thank God,’ he said. He dipped both his hands into the warm water and under her body, scooped her up and out of the bath. Somehow he managed to stand her upright, balance her limp body against his own so he could reach out, grab a towel, wrap it around her. Then, careful not to slip on the wet floor, he carried her into the bedroom, laid her gently down on the bed.

‘What have you done?’ he asked again.

Her eyes flickered open. ‘
Nan desu-ka
?’ she whispered.

‘Did you take something? Some medicine?’

‘
Hai
,’ she said drowsily. ‘Before I came. The hospital gave me. Because of the pain. It makes me sleepy. Sleepy in the warm bath. So sleepy.’

‘You fell asleep?’ he said.

‘
Hai
,’ she said. ‘The taps, Eddie-chan. The taps are still running.’

He went back into the bathroom, turned off the water, let the bath drain. When he returned to the bedroom, she was fast asleep again. He found her
yukata
, spread it across her towel-wrapped body, lay down on his back beside her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hakone, Japan
•
2003

He had arrived early at the Hakone Open-Air Museum with its twenty-six works by Henry Moore and the exuberant paintings, ceramics, sculptures and tapestries displayed at the Picasso Pavilion. He wanted to locate the meeting place at the Shikanai Plaza, stroll around the sculpture exhibits and installations on the lawns, visit the works of Miro, Calder, Bourdelle and Dubuffet in the main gallery, then return to the plaza in plenty of time to cool down and relax from his exertions. To sit waiting as a calm and unflustered gentleman, resting on his cane, enjoying the fresh air, at one with nature on this dull afternoon. Only a few hours previously,
Takahashi
had supplied the answers to the questions he had wanted to ask ever since he had arrived back in Japan: ‘Do you know what happened to Sumiko? Is she still alive?’

‘Why, of course she is.’

Edward had actually felt his heart quicken to this piece of
information
. A double beat. A skip of joy. When had he last felt joy? Pure joy.

‘And how is she?’

‘I can tell you she is in very good health.’

‘That’s pleasing to hear.’

‘She left her employment at this hotel many years ago but in recent years she has chosen to live close by.’

‘My goodness. She lives here in Hakone?’

‘Only ten minutes or so from the hotel.’

‘Only ten minutes.’

‘By car.’

‘Ten minutes by car. Is that all?’

‘Yes, very close by.’

‘Do you think it would be possible to see her?’

‘Absolutely.’ Takahashi had leaned forward across the table. ‘I hope you don’t mind. But I took the liberty of calling her earlier. Before I came here for our little chat. She asks if this afternoon at the Hakone Open-Air Museum would be convenient. At three o’clock?’

It was quarter to three now. He shivered on his bench, clasping his scarf tighter at the neck, observing the elderly Japanese gentleman sitting in a wheelchair opposite, mummified in a tartan blanket. This poor soul must have been abandoned by his relatives or carers as they sought to explore the gardens unhampered. So there the old man sat, staring straight ahead through thick lenses, no one to wipe the dribble off his crumpled chin, lined up opposite like some medieval jousting companion. Edward shivered again, dismissing any comparison with his fellow senior citizen. After all, he had been able to fly halfway across the world. He had taken bullet trains to Tokyo. He had wandered these grounds under his own volition. He had even managed a half-mast erection in the bath. Try doing that, old man. Just try doing that.

As if to prove his point, Edward stood up, tapped his cane loudly on the tiles in the direction of the wheelchair, before taking another little tour of the gardens, humming as he went. That same damn tune. He had been sure it was the national anthem. But perhaps it really was the melody for the Tokyo Olympics. Da, da, da-da-da. He had left Japan long before that event had taken place. But he remembered watching it on television. Black and white. Fuzzy. Via
satellite. Such a concept in those days. As was this open-air museum in these days. This environmental art. This artistic environment. He would re-visit the Moore sculptures and, if there was time, the ceramics at the Picasso exhibition.

He was aware of his calmness despite the impending
meeting
. But that was often the case with these dramatic and traumatic moments in his life. It was as though his nerves were so
overwhelmed
by the thought of meeting Sumiko again, they switched him into some kind of serene state, a higher plane, a second
spiritual
wind. As a marathon runner must experience after the first ten miles or a climber at high altitude pushing over 14,000 feet.
Accelerated
heartbeat, a struggle for breath, dizziness, nausea and then… the barrier is crossed. Overdrive. Less revs per minute. Fifth gear. Cruising. That was how he felt now. It was how he had felt when he had taken his driving test, married, knelt before the Queen. An inner calm. His own secret weapon.

The Henry Moore sculpture garden. So appropriate to let these huge bronzes lie back, legs wide apart, and breathe the mountain air, their undulating forms so reflective of the nature around them. So organic. So fluid. He just wanted to reach out and touch, run his palm over the speckled bronze mounds. The knees. The breasts. Crying out to be caressed. What could they do to him for such a sin? Arrest him? He was sure Henry wouldn’t mind. Not that he knew the man personally, although he did recall attending some function with him years ago. In the Seventies. A garden party? He remembered marquees, waiters drifting among the guests on the lawns, noble Henry among them, the miner’s son made good. From hewn coal to sculpted bronze. No, Henry wouldn’t mind. And anyway who would know? There were no cameras. No guards. Just a discreet slide of the hand. Like that. The metal chill to the touch. So smooth.

‘Eddie-chan. Eddie-chan. There you are.’

His hand leapt off the sculpture. He twisted around in the direction of the voice. And there she was. Not exactly running towards him. But walking quickly. With those small steps of hers. Both arms outstretched. Not in a kimono but wearing a
knee-length
plaid skirt and a green blazer. Looking as if she had just won the US Masters. What a strange thought to creep into his mind at a moment like this. He didn’t even like golf. She was closer now. Her figure the same. Not filled out, but trim.
Perhaps
from playing golf. He believed it had become a very popular sport here. Those two hands out to greet him. Then noticing his cane, only one hand. So awkward. What to do? What to say? And then his fingers plucked into hers, his skin memory tingling to her touch, causing another shiver through him, and the smile spreading weblike around her eyes, and the hair streaked with grey and the mouth exactly the same, kissing him warm on one cold cheek and then the other. She stood back and looked at him as if she were measuring up a cabinet for her living room, and he wondered what she thought about this shrivelled up, pitiful old man with his walking stick and his few strands of hair and his crumpled-up suit trying to look so calm and dignified and
unflustered
and noble like Henry Moore at a garden party, yet feeling the opposite with his flimsy heart banging around inside of him, and his frail lungs struggling to say this one word:

‘Sumiko.’

‘Oh, Eddie,’ she said, a scolding tone in her voice. Scolding him for what? For never contacting her in more than forty years? For being so decrepit while she remained so vibrant? ‘I am so happy to see you.’

‘As I am happy to see you.’ He held on to her hand, so tiny in his grasp, clinging desperately to this lifeline back to that
wonderful
part of his past when he had so much energy and passion, when there was so much to do, to be achieved. ‘You look beautiful,’ he added.

‘I look like an old woman.’

‘Nothing of the sort.’ His turn to playfully scold as he tried to make the calculation. She would be sixty-nine, seventy at most. ‘You are a young beauty.’

‘Enough flattering,’ she said, squeezing his hand before she let it go. ‘Let me take you for tea. There is a lovely
chaya
down by the pond. We can sit outside if it is not too cold.’ He was surprised
when she linked her arm in his, perhaps in nostalgic affection, or perhaps just to support him. But he felt a tingle from her closeness. A tingle that went all the way down to his abdomen. He started humming again.

‘Tell me, what is this tune? I cannot get it out of my head.’

‘Oh, Eddie. Is that all you can say to me after all this time?’

‘No, seriously.’ He hummed a bar. She giggled. So he hummed another. ‘It’s not your national anthem, is it?’

‘No, it is not. It sounds like that song for the Tokyo Olympics. Da da da-da-da.’

He smiled and continued humming the tune as they walked.

The
chaya
was set in such a lovely spot on the edge of the woods, nestling up to a pool, accessible only by a bridge. The water
brimming
with carp, of course. Despite the cold, it was hard to resist
sitting
outside at a table, each one shaded by a pale-orange umbrella. He would have preferred to be inside but here by the pond it was so – he had to admit it – so romantic. He had actually put
ambience
before his own personal comfort. When was the last time he had done that? Sumiko off to freshen up as she put it. Her English so fluent. That was a surprise. After his departure he would have expected her to be sucked back into a Japanese world of
waitresses
and chambermaids, her English discarded like love-letters on a flame. Here she was now, bringing out their tray of tea-things, just as she used to tend to him as he sat by the waterwheel. And as he watched her graceful approach, he felt something he had not felt for a long time. Gratitude. Towards some universal force, or God, or deities, or Nature, or whatever else made this world spin round. Yes, he felt gratitude for being allowed to live long enough to enjoy these poignant moments.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she said, laying out the cups and saucers on their little table. ‘Coming back to Japan after all this time and not contacting me immediately.’

‘I didn’t even know if you were still alive.’

‘You just needed to ask.’

‘I didn’t know who to ask. I was frightened to ask.’

‘Frightened, Eddie? Is that really true? Or were you just ashamed?’

‘Why would I be ashamed?’

‘That such a famous writer should have known such a lowly chambermaid?’

‘You could blame me for many things but not that. I was never ashamed of our relationship. Secretive, maybe. But not ashamed.’

‘Then why frightened to ask?’ She began to pour out the tea, first into his cup and then into her own. Then a glance at him, a smile. A smile that was hard to interpret. ‘Did you think I would want to scold you?’

‘I thought you might be dead. That it would be too late.’

‘Why should you care now? You had more than forty years to find out about my welfare. Oh, look what I’ve done…’ She had spilt some tea on the table. He passed her a paper napkin from his plate. ‘I am sorry,’ she said.

‘An accident.’

‘I mean I am sorry for my comments. They are very harsh. I am not being very polite. I must stop behaving like a stupid schoolgirl. The past is the past.’

He placed his hand on hers. Could almost feel her jump to his touch but she did not withdraw from his grasp. His white-haired, liver-spotted hand covering her smooth, unblemished skin. ‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ he said, taking his hand away.

She sat down, gathered herself into a stiffness. ‘How was your trip to Tokyo?’

‘Takahashi-san told you?’

‘No.’ She looked away from him, then back again. ‘Jerome did.’

‘Jerome? You still know Jerome?’

‘I married him,’ she said flatly. ‘He didn’t tell you?’

A strange laugh erupted in his throat, a sound he did not
recognise
as part of himself. Jerome and Sumiko. Sumiko and Jerome. He shook his head. ‘He mentioned there had been a marriage to a Japanese girl. He just didn’t tell me it was you.’

He waited for her to say something. But she remained silent, began touching things on the table. A salt cellar, a sachet of
sweetener
, a small vase with a plastic flower.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Don’t you think that’s strange? I mean we were standing in his office together looking at a photograph of you. You and me in Kamakura.’

She shrugged. ‘Not really. After all, we don’t see each other very much these days. We have a Japanese divorce. For the sake of form, we are still married. But the reality is that he spends all his time in Tokyo. And I live here in the mountains where I am happy. Jerome is very kind to support me in this arrangement.’

‘How long did you stay together?’

‘It doesn’t really matter.’ She picked up her cup, sipped at her tea, all the time looking at him over the rim. ‘What did you expect me to do? After you left me I was devastated and I was… I was soiled goods. Jerome was the only one to pick up the pieces when I realised you would never come back. When there was not even a letter. What right do you have to…?’ She sucked in her breath, held up her palm towards him as if to ward off his evil presence. ‘No, no. I said to myself I will not be angry. I will not be angry.’ She wriggled her shoulders, shivering herself into more of a calmness. ‘Sugar? Do you take sugar in your tea, Eddie? See, I have forgotten, if you take sugar in your tea.’

‘One,’ he said, reproaching himself for feeling a certain
satisfaction
at the sudden shrill in her voice.

‘Would you like to try a piece of this cherry cake?’ she asked, her tone changing again, more gentle. ‘It looks very delicious, don’t you think? And then you can tell me why you have finally returned to our hotel in the mountains.’

He didn’t want to tell her why he had come back. All she needed to know was that he was happy to be here right now in this tearoom. The reality of the moment. It felt so relaxing just sitting by this pond in the crisp mountain air. The waning sun. Branches lifting and settling in a light breeze. Modernist sculptures
beckoning
his eye from various niches on the hillside. Tea warming his belly, spreading heat through his veins. No current aches or pain he could speak of. Sumiko seated across from him. On the bridge, a young child, her face drawn into concentration in the realisation of her power to attract the carp simply by throwing crumbs into the
water. He picked up his fork, carved out a piece of cake from the slice Sumiko had placed on his plate. The moist sponge mingled in his mouth with the sticky-sweet ripeness of the cherries. She was right. This cake was delicious. He looked up and watched as she dabbed her eyes then her lips with her napkin, leaving stains of red on the dimpled paper.