Read An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Online
Authors: J David Simons
An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (22 page)
Sumiko had a car. A rather large, sleek, metallic-silver,
executive-type
of vehicle. Japanese, of course. Edward recognised the marque. If only he had put his inheritance into that company all those years ago, he would be sitting pretty by now. Actually, he was sitting pretty, embraced by all this luxurious, top-of-the-range, grey-suede upholstery as Sumiko effortlessly swung her monster of a machine down the steep roads from the museum.
‘Do you remember when you took me there?’ she asked as they passed yet another spa resort.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, tapping the floor between his legs with his walking stick at the sudden flush of memory. ‘Bathing in hot springs is such a sensual experience,’ he added, trying to make the sentence sound matter-of-fact. But he knew he was testing her, reminding her of their intimacy, probing to see whether even with Jerome Fisk’s ring still on her finger, he could provoke her into a nostalgia for their sexual history.
‘It would be good for my arthritis,’ she said. ‘I have so much trouble with my left hand. Look at these fingers.’ She lifted the
offending appendage off the steering wheel. ‘It is like a… like a claw. What am I to do with something like this?’
‘Perhaps we could visit one again.’
‘Please stop it.’
‘Stop what?’
‘You know what I mean. Making plans for us.’ She drove faster, her stare fixed straight ahead, the tyres screeching slightly on the bends. And then he saw she was crying.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. And he truly was. He had got carried away.
‘You can’t do this, Eddie. You can’t just walk back into my life and pretend everything is fine.’
She swung the car into the hotel forecourt, and immediately there was the familiar beetling of the bellboys around the vehicle, busy hands opening doors, searching for luggage. He waved them away, took her hand. ‘Would you like to come inside? Stay for dinner?’
She sniffed, nodded her head.
‘Good. That’s settled.’ He dragged his legs out of the seat,
hobbled
to his feet on his cane. The car was whisked off, leaving this empty space between them in the forecourt. He waited as she tied a silk scarf around her head.
‘Do you know what would be nice?’ she said, her eyes puffy from the tears but smiling now. ‘If we could take a walk in the garden. Could you manage that?’
‘The azaleas are very beautiful,’ Edward remarked, as they
wandered
slowly along the pathways. ‘I remember you were fond of them.’
She knelt down, the hem of her plaid skirt grazing the ground, placed her palm under one of the drooping heads, pulled in closer to the scent. He observed the still-graceful curve of her neck and seemed to recall watching her perform the same action those many years ago. Had he been truly happier then? Or was it all just an illusion? If he could go back to the past and place himself exactly on this path with Sumiko, would he have been the young writer full of ideals and passion and ambition he recalled with a wistful
melancholy or would he be just the same sad and disillusioned human being he was now? He held out his hand and awkwardly helped her to her feet. They walked the rest of the way to the waterwheel in silence.
She let out just the slightest squeal when she saw it. ‘Oh,
Eddie-chan
. It’s still here!’
‘Yes, it is. Although it’s actually a rebuilt version of the old one. Look at how fresh the wood is. You can almost smell it from here. The substance has gone but the form still remains.’
‘We Japanese are very good at doing that.’
He sat down on the low wall and she came to sit beside him. He closed his eyes, breathed in slowly, trying to grasp some kind of internal feeling for her presence. The chill of the air chafing his cheeks, he could feel that, and the sound of the breeze sifting through the trees, lifting the leaf-laden branches, creating that
wonderful
rush-reedy sound.
‘Eddie-chan. Are you listening to me?’
‘Forgive me. What were you saying?’
‘This place brings back so many memories.’
‘For me too. I was happy here.’
‘Then why did you leave?’
‘I had to.’ These words seemed so weak now. But it was what he had always believed. A crossroads in his life. Stay in Japan with Sumiko or return to England to be a writer. That was his choice and if he hadn’t taken it then, he would never have had another chance. Only Aldous had sown any seeds of doubt on that decision. ‘If you were meant to be a writer,’ his friend had told him many years later. ‘You would have become a writer whether you had stayed in Japan or not. Destiny will always work itself out. Even if mere mortals like yourself want to fuck it up. Destiny will always win.’
Sumiko stood up, straightened her skirt. ‘I understood you had to go,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know why you didn’t take me with you.’
‘Ah, Enid. Forgive me for having abandoned you. Please let me introduce you to an old friend from this hotel. Sumiko, this is Enid.
The woman I cannot live without.’ He saw that Sumiko looked confused. ‘My personal assistant,’ he added. The two women nodded to each other. Sumiko with a certain politeness. Enid, he noticed, with just a shiver of disdain.
‘I have had more than enough to occupy myself,’ Enid said. ‘And when I had a few free moments, Mr Takahashi was kind enough to arrange for a guide to take me down to Hakone. The marquetry is quite exquisite. I bought some lovely souvenirs.’
‘Hakone is blessed with so many different kinds of trees,’ Sumiko said. ‘Did you buy one of the puzzle boxes?’
‘Actually, I preferred the mosaic bowls and dishes. Now, Sir Edward, I need to talk to you about a more important matter.’
‘I’m afraid it will have to wait. I have promised to escort Sumiko to dinner.’
‘It really is most pressing.’
‘Later, Enid. Now if you will forgive me again, I’m sure my chatter with Sumiko about old times will bore you.’
‘It is quite all right. I am happy to dine quietly in my room.’
The evening sparkled. His conversation sparkled. Sumiko
sparkled
. And when Takahashi joined them for coffee, Edward was so proud of her, this former chambermaid, holding her own so eloquently in English with the manager of this grand hotel. He sucked shamelessly on his cigar, savoured his peaty malt, absorbed the warmth of it all. He could almost say he was content. It was a state of being he had never really wanted to achieve until about two minutes before he was ready to die. After all, what kind of life was there to live in a state of contentment? A boring one was all he could imagine. Life was all about the struggle for fulfilment, the desire to fill the void. ‘All creativity comes from loss.’ But once the void was filled, what else was there? Yet, in this moment, he felt very close to that state of being.
‘It has been a great pleasure to converse with you, Sir Edward,’ Takahashi said, rising from his chair and bowing. ‘It has reminded me so much of the old times. The once great days of this hotel.’
‘The dining room looks quite full to me. It seems you are still doing very well.’
‘Ah yes. But there is so much competition these days. And it is hard to attract the…’ Takahashi coughed lightly into his closed fist. ‘The same exceptional quality of clientele as we used to.’
‘Takahashi-san. I am sure you understand I would like a few quiet words with Sumiko before she leaves.’
‘Of course. How unthoughtful of me. Yes, I must go. There are matters to which I must attend. Sir Edward. Sumiko-chan. Please enjoy the rest of the evening.’
‘He is a very kind man,’ Sumiko said, once the manager had left. ‘But such a busybody, don’t you think? Busybody. That is the right word, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is the right word.’ He drew on his cigar and observed her through a cloud of his own making. ‘Tell me. Are you happy now?’
‘You mean, now at this moment? Or now in my life?’
‘Both.’
‘Yes, I am happy to see you again. And in my life? Well, I live with my two dogs in the mountains, Jerome is very generous, and I was the lover of a famous writer who named a prostitute after me. That is not bad for a poor Japanese chambermaid.’
‘Not bad at all.’
She picked up her napkin off her lap, folded it neatly. ‘Eddie. It is getting late. I must go.’
He rose with her, escorted her into the foyer.
‘I have taken the same room,’ he told her.
‘The Fuji Suite?’
‘Yes, the Fuji Suite. Would you like to see it?’
He gave her the key and she went on ahead of him, almost
running
down the corridor in her excitement. Hobbling after her, he felt as if he was following in his own ghostly footsteps, their ghostly footsteps. By the time he had caught up with her, she had already pulled back the curtains. She opened and closed the door of the walk-in cupboard.
‘See,’ she said. ‘The light goes on automatically when you open the door. Just as always.’
He felt so happy watching her, but also so immensely weary. He sat down on the side of the bed, slipped off his shoes and jacket,
loosened his tie. She had gone into the bathroom and he could hear her turn on the taps just to delight in the clunk and gasp of the old pipework. He felt as if his world was closing in on him and all that was left for him was this room, a tiny speck of warm light in a universe of cold darkness. With difficulty, he managed to bring his legs over on to the bed, laid his head down on to the coldness of the quilt. He felt Sumiko’s presence.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I am fine. Just tired. So tired.’ He raised his head slightly from the pillow. ‘Please lie with me. Lie with me and hold me. Just for a few minutes. Hold me, Sumiko. Please.’
‘The Americans, my dear Edward, will hate it,’ Aldous said,
leaning
back in his office chair. On the desk between them lay the final proofs for
The Waterwheel,
edited heavily in red. ‘Absolutely hate it. Bugger them for their insecurities.’
‘Well, I’m not changing any of it. Not a damn word.’
‘I’m not asking you to, dear boy. That’s what I like about the book. The uncompromising way it humanises the Japs.’
‘I just want to remind the Americans we drop bombs on people. Not on abstract targets.’
‘Unfortunately the Yanks will not be reminded as I doubt they will be reading it. But from where does this sense of fair play emerge? This great sense of outrage against our American cousins? Methinks you spent too much time consorting with the natives.’
Edward shrugged. ‘I’ve just never understood how you could wipe out so many people just like that. Even listening to the news about it on the radio at the time, I felt that way. You’d think they’d have some kind of conscience about it all.’
‘It’s still too raw.’
‘It’s been thirteen bloody years.’
‘It could be fifty years ago and they’d still be in denial. You’ve got to understand the Yanks, dear boy. They’re all about glitz and glamour. They’re not interested in introspection. While what I am interested in is their export market.’
‘Is that important?’
‘Oh yes, very important. It’s not enough to sell well nationally these days. The international market is just as vital. And America is the big one. Roland has done remarkably well across the pond.’
Roland. Roland Earnshaw. Not only Aldous’ latest lover but also his sole client. Roland and his wartime yarn
The Adventures of Private X
had sold close to one million copies on both sides of the
Atlantic
, mainly on the basis of one quite sexually graphic scene that had managed to escape the censor’s attention. Aldous’ commission from these sales had paid for the refurbishment in Regency style of
The Londinium
offices in which they now sat. Red and cream striped wallpaper matching the upholstery on the chairs, brass wall-lights, sconces, heavy furniture, all topped off with a chandelier at the
centre
. The room looked like an upmarket brothel.
‘Well, Macy liked the book. And she’s American.’
‘I wouldn’t call Macy your typical reader, dear boy. First of all, she’s been your lover these past few months. And secondly, she’s bound to like anything that would annoy her father. After all, Jack Collingwood was a prosecutor in Japan during the Occupation.’
‘Like I said before. I’m not going to soften my stance. Anyway, the bombings are only a small part of it. There’s a love story as well.’
‘Then I think we might have to adopt a different approach.’
‘Which is?’
‘Well, if the Yanks won’t like it, then perhaps the Japs will. And there are what? A hundred million of them? Not quite as big a
market
as the States but that’s still a lot of potential eyeballs on pages. We could have it translated into Japanese. What do you think?’
‘It’s not a bad idea.’
‘Not a bad idea? It’s a bloody brilliant idea. You couldn’t handle the translation, could you?’
‘Afraid not. My Japanese is nowhere near good enough.’
‘Well, do you know someone who could?’
Edward thought back to his time in Japan. It had only been months but it seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime ago with another person altogether in the starring role. ‘Actually, I just might. There was someone at Tokyo Autos when I was there. Kobayashi his name was. Not particularly good at Japanese to English. But he was pretty good the other way around.’
‘Can you get in touch with him?’
‘I suppose so. These chaps stay in their jobs for life over there.’
‘Excellent. Do what you can to bring him on board. I’m sure I can arrange a small fee. But do it quickly.’ Aldous rose from his chair, walked over to the window. Outside the rain was sheeting down, rattling off the panes. ‘And how is dear Macy?’ he asked, lighting a Balkan Sobranie, the black-papered, gold-tipped
cigarettes
being his latest affectation. ‘I’ve hardly seen her since you’ve returned.’
‘Well, don’t blame me. I haven’t seen much of her either. She’s been too involved with her damn exhibition.’
‘Ah yes, the exhibition. That would distract her.’ Aldous turned from the window, blew a lungful of smoke high into the
chandelier
. The smell thick and sweet like liquorice, reminding Edward of his father’s pipe tobacco. ‘But everything is all right between you?’
‘You never know with Macy.’
‘That is very true. But her sojourn in America changed her, don’t you think?’
‘I haven’t noticed. Being with her is still as much of an
emotional
rollercoaster as ever.’
‘But that’s what you need. She keeps you on edge. Stops you slipping into complacency. Into ennui.’
‘Unlike you. Who has slipped into a life of domestic bliss with Roland.’
Aldous smiled. ‘That is a different scenario altogether. After all, I am an older man. My needs have changed. Domestic bliss, as you call it, suits my middle-aged temperament. And my reduced libido. While you, my dear Edward, require a woman who can keep you on the back foot. On the front foot, I fear you could be quite cruel.’
Edward was never sure about these remarks from Aldous. Either they were meant to be terribly profound or otherwise just throwaway bits of nonsense.
Macy’s studio was a vast concrete space, once the top floor of a
textile
factory hosting several rows of looms beneath the vaulted
glass-panelled
ceiling. What used to be the workplace for a whole colony of weavers and seamstresses struggling to feed hungry mouths in post-war Britain was now home to a solitary artist. Macy loved the natural light of the place, even on a grey day such as this one. With just one paraffin heater sputtering in its hopeless attempt to keep the room warm, a kettle constantly simmering on top of its metal casing.
‘Do you think I’m cruel?’ Edward asked her.
She stood at the centre of a large canvas stretched out on the concrete floor, her face, hair, overalls and boots splattered with
different
coloured paints. He reckoned her body and clothes could be as much of a representation of her abstract expressionism as her paintings. She was breathing heavily from her exertions, misting the cold air.
‘Yes, I think you are.’ She drew herself up, folded her arms, scowled at him. Surrounded by her work, this moat of paint
standing
as a barrier against him, she was untouchable.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you have just interrupted my work mid-flow. By walking into my studio asking stupid questions.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Just like my father.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Not giving a shit about my work.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Macy. Stop whining about your father.’
‘There you go,’ she said, raising her arms wide, appealing to some invisible audience. ‘As God is my witness. Just as I said. Cruel. A goddamn cruel bastard.’
How did she do that? How could she take just one moment of insensitivity on his part and turn it into a major issue? So that he stood
there shaking, trying to control the shameful venom that had risen up inside of him. Instead of trying to find sympathy for her. He knew the exhibition was important to her. It was her first in two years, the first since Pollock had died. And now she felt herself to be among the anointed, one of the heirs to the great man. One of the carriers of the dripping trowels, sticks and knives of existentialist American art.
The kettle steamed and bubbled on its hotplate, distracting both of them, allowing him time to swallow down his own heated-up temper.
‘I realise you’re anxious about the exhibition,’ he said.
‘What would you know?’
‘It’s the same for me. Putting my book out there. Making myself vulnerable. A target for criticism.’
Her expression softened. She exited her painting with a giant stride. ‘Maybe you’re right. I just feel so exposed.’
He followed her to the sink where she was wiping her brushes, put his arms around her, kissed her neck.
‘Leave me,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the mood for you.’
But he persisted, moving his hand to cup one breast through the spattered workcloth. She leaned back, opened up her neck to his kisses.
‘Stop it.’ But he saw the flush in her neck, felt her rump pushing back into him as he slipped his hand under the bib of her overalls. And he knew she would respond to his touch. That they would use sex to ease out the tension between them. She had bent her torso down level with the sink, using her arms to push herself back at him, and he thought this is how he would enter her. If he could figure out the clasps and studs of her workclothes. But suddenly, she turned on him, her face hot, pushing him back, taking control, forcing him to step backwards. Pace by pace until he tripped on the edge of her canvas, fell over on to the still-wet paint. He waited for her screams and accusations. But instead she was on top of him, tearing off her clothes, his clothes, as they squirmed and writhed on the gooey, gluey surface, his body slithering, skin slipping, the two of them gulping for breath. Creating swirls and smears from the rub of her breasts, the twists of his buttocks, her legs flaying, his fingers
squeezing at the thick globs on the canvas. She pinned him down by his shoulders, drew her face in close, cheeks and forehead oily with green paint. Warpaint.
‘Do you get it?’ she said, lips to his ear.
He understood. That this was her intention. That this was a
natural
extension of her work. The subconscious working at a raw sexual level. Together creating. Letting the art come through. He eased off the pace of his lovemaking, his initial thrust gone, the frenzy
somehow
absorbed into the pores of the canvas. He felt a tenderness
overtake
him, the touch of his lips and fingertips became slower, gentler. She moaned and moved lazily in his embrace. He found compassion in his heart for her, for her anxiety, for her feelings of worthlessness. This lovemaking was no longer about him, but his feeling for her. He became lost in her. Mind-less, body-less, ego-less.
Later he sat with her by the heater in the dying light, wrapped in blankets, paint caked hard on his skin, smoking one of her cigarettes, drinking coffee, admiring their joint effort, joking about what it should be called.
‘
Body Rhythms,
’ he suggested.
She laughed. ‘
Body Rhythms Number One
.’
‘First of a series?’
‘Could be.’
‘That gives me hope.’
‘Don’t get too complacent.’
‘You should exhibit it.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. It’s not half bad.’
‘Aldous would like it. He should be able to afford a
Collingwood
original these days.’
‘Maybe I’ll offer it to him. As long as you promise not to tell him how it was made.’
‘I want a credit though.’
‘Not this time.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘I think you have to be the person on top to get the credit.’
It was his turn to laugh. He felt close to her. They had reached a point of balance, poised for a moment in perfect equanimity on
their usual tightrope of emotion. He leaned over, touched her bare thigh. She grasped his hand, held it there.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For always attacking you. I just want you to know it is the only way I have of defending myself.’
‘Against what?’
‘Against me falling in love with you. And then you finding out what I’m really like.’
‘But I know what you’re really like.’
‘And you’re still here?’
‘Yes. I’m still here.’
She reached over, stole his cigarette from between his fingers, sucked in deep, her eyes staring unblinkingly at him from behind her shield of smoke. ‘Well, marry me then.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, Eddie. Let’s do it. Let’s get married.’
‘I never thought you could be so spontaneous,’ Aldous said.
‘It feels right.’ Edward scrutinised his friend’s face, trying to
discern
some sense of approval among the usual creases and frowns of exasperation.
‘You are aware what you’re letting yourself in for?’
‘Marriage will settle her down.’
Aldous laughed at that remark. ‘You don’t want Macy to settle down. You love those fabulous highs she gives you.’
‘Perhaps marriage will keep us on a permanent high.’
‘For the first two years maybe. Until the good sex runs out.’
‘And what then?’
‘Then you should prepare yourself for the lows, my dear boy. Prepare to plumb the depths.’
He married Macy in a registry office in Marylebone. Jack Collingwood had not been invited or had turned down the
invitation
– Edward was still unclear which. Aldous was the only guest. They had to haul someone else in off the street to be the other witness. Dominic Pike was his name, retired teacher was the
occupation scrawled in the register. Although Aldous said he was just a homeless bum who happened to be sitting on the steps of the building at the time. Dominic’s breath stunk of ale and there was concern whether he was sober enough to act in a legal capacity. The registrar didn’t seem to mind. Aldous found the whole event thoroughly amusing and even invited Dominic to the celebratory lunch at the Savoy.