An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (3 page)

‘In that case, I will go back to university.’

‘To do what?’ Guthrie asked.

‘Japanese studies.’

‘Japanese studies?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Edward said, even more convinced of the rightness of his decision. Although he had no idea where he might study such a subject.

Guthrie leaned forward on his desk. ‘I don’t think such studies are appropriate for a young citizen of the British Isles.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Japs. They were our enemy. I know people who fought over there. Perhaps French studies might be more suitable?’

‘I thought I only needed to provide the necessary receipts.’

‘What about Chinese studies? Or African? Or South American? What do you think, Mr Strathairn?’

‘I think the young lad should do whatever he damn well pleases.’

CHAPTER THREE

Hakone, Japan
•
2003

A gentle prodding roused him.

‘Ah, Takahashi-san. I must have drifted off.’

The hotel manager stepped back a pace, almost stumbling on one of the uneven slabs laid around the pond. He then bowed deeply with an enviable flexibility. He held a tartan blanket over his arm.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, Sir Edward. But Ms Blythe asked me to find you. Actually, she asked me to tell a bellboy to find you but I thought I would come personally. I was concerned it might be a little chilly for you out here in the garden.’

‘That is very considerate of you.’

‘But I see you are wearing your coat.’

‘Yes, yes. Now tell me. Is there a message?’

‘Professor Fisk called. Ms Blythe said it was urgent.’

‘Ah yes, of course. Fisk.’

Edward struggled up from his stone perch, fumbled for his cane and followed the manager back towards the main building. Every so often, Takahashi would pause and point.

‘There we have some azaleas, Sir Edward. Such a beautiful early season blossom when it arrives. We will have a tapestry of pinks, reds, yellows and whites here in the garden. Japan is famous for its azaleas.’

And when, breathless, Edward had caught up yet again with the manager, he was told: ‘And over there, our wonderful orchard of cherry trees. It is so merry to sit under the pink blossom in the springtime.’

It was with this stop-start procession of botanical inspection they finally reached reception together.

‘You may call from over there,’ Takahashi said, pointing to a wooden booth in the foyer. ‘It will save you returning to your room. And perhaps we can meet later for our chat?’

‘Our chat?’

‘About the old days.’

Edward took the paper with Fisk’s number on it. ‘I see. That little chat. After dinner, perhaps.’

‘A drink in the bar? We stock a selection of the finest Scottish malts. As well as the hotel’s own excellent blend.’

‘That sounds fine. Now if you will just excuse me.’

Takahashi smiled, then bowed. ‘I will look forward to it very much. There is so much to review.’

Edward remembered the booth from his first visit when it was the only public telephone in the building. The whole structure was made of teak, matching the panelling, flooring, desks and stairway in the rest of the reception area. The door boasted one of those concertina designs and as with the closet in his room, the light went on as soon as he folded open the panels. A smell of fresh polish. He settled himself against a stout shelf stacked with directories, set aside his cane, propped his spectacles on his nose. A glass-encased noticeboard displayed cards for local restaurants and taxi firms as well as a small poster in English for the Hakone Open-Air Museum:

‘Ah yes, exuberant paintings,’ Edward muttered to himself. ‘How wonderful to be back.’ He then read out the number as he dialled. The line connected, then a male voice.

‘Moshi, moshi.’

Hard to make out if the accent was American or Japanese. ‘Is that Professor Fisk?’

‘This is Professor Fisk. My God. Eddie. Is that you?’

‘Yes, it is. I can’t believe I found you.’

‘Well, your secretary did a good job tracking me down.’

‘Sherlock Holmes has nothing on Enid once she’s got her mind set. And you’re still here.’

‘Remember what you used to say, Eddie? If you start bowing when you’re talking on the phone, it’s time to leave. Well, I ain’t bowing yet.’

‘Did you marry a Japanese girl? Was that it?’

‘Once upon a time.’

‘I see. And you got your professorship? What was your thesis again? Language versus culture? Something about verbs at the ends of sentences?’

‘Well remembered. That was a long time ago. In my idealistic days. I’m mostly retired now, of course. But I’m still on the
university
board. A literature class here and there. Small office on
campus
. Keeps me off the streets, away from the hostess bars.’ A deep chuckle. ‘And you’re back at the old hotel?’

‘It’s hardly changed a bit.’

‘But you have. I heard they made you a knight of the realm. Do I have to kneel when I meet you?’

‘Something like that.’

Another chuckle. ‘So, Eddie, everything is organised.’

‘Organised for what?’

‘The ceremony.’

‘What ceremony?’

‘You’re kidding me? I made all the arrangements with your secretary.’

Edward leaned against the door and suddenly the light went out. ‘Damn this contraption.’

‘What’s happening there?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’ He pulled the door slightly ajar until the light came back on. ‘I don’t recall any ceremony. Enid arranged for us to have lunch tomorrow in Tokyo. That was all.’

‘Eddie. My university is giving you a doctorate.’

‘For God’s sake, Jerome. You are ruining everything.’

‘Ruining what? What am I ruining, Eddie?’

‘This is supposed to be a private visit.’

‘Look, I busted a gut arranging this ceremony at such short notice. You must have been told?’

A slight panic washed over him then passed, leaving him with a tinge of nausea. He could almost feel his blood struggle for passage through his hardened veins. He opened the door a little further. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I was.’

‘Listen, Eddie. There’s no need to worry. It will be an informal affair. Twenty faculty, tops. Some of my senior literature students. The dean will mumble a few words about your contribution to Japanese culture. Give you a scroll. Probably a cloisonné bowl as well. That’s what they usually present to distinguished guests. Then we’ll grab a few slices of sashimi from the buffet and be off. Mission accomplished. Say you’ll do it, Eddie. It’s all arranged. Lots of face to be lost if you don’t.’

‘All right, all right. But will we have time to talk?’

‘Sure we will. Now I’ve arranged for a cab to pick you up at ten tomorrow morning to whisk you down to Odawara station. I’ve also made a reservation for you on the Shink. I sent the tickets to the hotel. I’ll meet you at the Tokyo end.’

‘The Shink?’

‘The Shinkansen. The bullet train. After your time. Hold on to your hat, Eddie, or whatever you knights wear. Forty minutes and you’ll be in Tokyo. I’ll see you then.’

Edward replaced the receiver. Typical Jerome Fisk. From just this one short conversation, he felt both irritated and warmed by him, and realised that was exactly how the man used to make him feel all those years ago. He opened the door of the booth, raised himself on his cane.

‘Where is Ms Blythe?’ he asked Takahashi at reception. ‘Where is that woman?’

‘She is waiting for you in the dining room.’

He stood at the entrance trying to locate her. The place was packed, yet the conversation was elegantly muted, softened by the thick linen tableware and the tapestries hanging from the ceiling. During his previous stay, the diners had been almost all
foreigners
, mainly American, with evening dress de rigueur. This used to be the only hotel in Japan, apart from perhaps the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed Imperial in Tokyo, where a visitor could find borsht, bouillabaisse, turkey curry and ox tongue on the menu. Now, he saw it was the expensively tailored Japanese who
dominated
the guest list. Only a few well-heeled overseas tourists could afford to visit Japan these days.

A waiter spotted him and guided him over to where Enid sat. A table by the window, tucked away from the rest of the guests.

‘Ah, Sir Edward,’ she said, pouring out a glass of water for him. ‘Takahashi found you then.’

‘I just spoke to Fisk. He says he’s organised some degree
ceremony
for me at the university. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I arranged for you to meet him for lunch. That was all.’

‘He told me he made the arrangements with you.’

‘He did no such thing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course, I’m sure. Why would you think…?’

‘I’m sorry. The sly bastard.’

‘You didn’t agree, did you?’

‘What could I do? He said it was all arranged.’

‘I’ll call him to cancel.’

‘No, don’t do that. I would really like to see him. Perhaps it won’t be so bad. He said it was only an informal affair. A few
faculty
and some students. What harm is there in that?’

‘There could be press. We need to be so careful.’

‘Possibly a photographer from the university. These kind of events are always recorded. But the Japanese media? I don’t think so. They probably think I died years ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case.’

‘Well, let’s hope it is.’ He glanced out of the window.
My
goodness
. This is my table. This is where I always used to sit. How could they possibly know that?

This landscape was different from the wilder garden where the waterwheel stood. Here the trees and bushes were trained and sculpted to form a restful backdrop to the large pool in the
centre
. Tiny lanterns were strung along a wire across the pond while shaded electric lamps guarded the stone steps and the path that ran from the main hotel building, along the side of the water then up towards the annexe. It was here Sumiko would come laden with linen as she moved between the laundry and the guest rooms. She would never turn to look at him, although it must have been
obvious
to her he was there, and he wondered now if these journeys were orchestrated to occur exactly during his mealtimes.

‘Sir Edward,’ Enid said gently. ‘The waiter is here. Would you like to order?’

He decided to postpone his desire for raw fish and pickles, opted for something more digestible, an omelette and a glass of white wine. But halfway through his meal, he experienced that
disembodied
feeling that comes with jet lag, as if his soul was still
somewhere
up in the stratosphere trying desperately to catch up with his body. He put down his cutlery, wiped his mouth with his napkin, pushed himself up from his chair.

‘You must excuse me, Enid.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘I’m fine. Please sit back down and finish your meal.’

The corridor was less stuffy and he felt his nausea pass. He decided to return to his room. As he walked, he noticed that the walls of this passageway were lined with another array of
photographs
of illustrious guests. This time it was John Lennon, in white suit and those tiny round tinted glasses, standing in the entrance hall with Yoko. And there was Thatcher. Stepping out of her limousine, clutching her ever-present handbag, her nose sailing in front of her as if to sniff the appropriateness of her appointed accommodation.

He reached the end of the corridor, opened the bedroom door. The light was already on and he was amazed to see a young
Japanese
woman in red bra and panties standing by the bedside,
stepping
awkwardly into a slip. Her long hair hung like a dark curtain over her face as she attempted the manoeuvre. Strange, he thought. He had never seen Sumiko wear red underwear before. He was about to say something but the woman looked up at him and then her mouth contorted to make some kind of noise. A strange gasping sound emerged. A half-dressed elderly Japanese gentleman came out of the bathroom, his skinny legs snaking naked from beneath his shirt. The man began to shout at him. First in Japanese, then in English.

‘What are you doing here? What do you want?’

‘I might ask the same question.’ Edward tapped out his
indignation
with his cane. ‘This is my room. The Fuji Suite.’

‘Then it is your mistake. This is the Flower Palace.’

‘The Flower Palace? I insist this is the Fuji Suite.’

‘Then I insist you read the sign.’

Edward half-closed the door, checked the ceramic plaque but didn’t recognise the
kanji
for ‘Fuji’. ‘Oh. I see. A confusion on my part. My profound apologies.’ He took one more look at the young woman. Her legs were crouched and crossed. Like a fawn, he thought. She held the slip to her breast. Trembling. She was quite beautiful.

Back out in the corridor, he turned one way, then the other. The blood beat heavy in his left temple, he could feel the
perspiration
start to film on his forehead. This was ridiculous. He tried another door. A laundry cupboard. Another. A fire escape. He turned back on himself, hastening along the corridor on his cane until he reached a junction of passageways. A sign. He took out his spectacles. ‘Reception’. He didn’t want to return there in this flustered state. Another sign. ‘Dining Room’. He was back to where he had started. This was no use. An armchair. He sat down, sunk back into the comfortable cushions, closed his eyes, waited for his breathing to settle. An acidic fluid rose in his throat. The taste of milky egg. He swallowed.