An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (8 page)

‘Mostly
kikokushijo
,’ Jerome whispered.

Edward stared back at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Returnees. Fathers were diplomats, industrialists or just
company
employees sent to live and work overseas. The family went with them, and the kids studied either at an international school or the local school. Now they have returned. They’re a special breed of student, struggling to get back into Japanese society. Some of them never do. Especially the women. And by the way, their
English
is excellent. This is the top class.’

Jerome gave a short introduction, then asked for questions. One brave soul put up his hand, an intense-looking youth who asked what advice Edward would give to a young writer.

‘Make sure your story or novel is about something,’ he replied, trotting out his well-worn response. ‘By that, I mean some
underlying
important theme that guides the narrative. Not some
outpouring
of personal angst, but something meaningful, like moral or personal conflicts. And something you feel passionate about. Really passionate. After all, unlike creating a poem or a painting, you have to live with the creation of a novel for at least a year or two if not more.’ At this point, he often felt tempted to add Aldous’
observation
that while everyone has a novel in them, most are just a pile of self-indulgent, self-deluding shit. But better not discourage the young and aspiring of this world.

‘I don’t have any experience of great conflicts,’ the questioner complained.

‘Then you have two choices. Make them up or wait until you get older.’

‘And may I ask, Sir Edward, what choice did you make?’

‘I waited until I grew up. And it was coming here and seeing Japan after the war that gave me the moral conflict that created
The Waterwheel
.’

There were other questions – the usual ones about his body of work or advice on being a writer. He fended them off easily, which was just as well, as he was beginning to tire. His class seemed to be running out of steam too when a young woman at the back raised her hand.

‘Motoko,’ Jerome said.

Motoko stood up. Unlike the rest of her classmates who had dressed up formal for this occasion, Motoko wore a pair of ripped jeans and a loose T-shirt that fell off one shoulder.

‘Sir Edward,’ she said boldly, one hand on a hip, the other clutching a glossy Japanese magazine. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking this question… but there was something in this
publication
that intrigued me.’ The accent was Australian. Such a strange combination – that serene, moonlike face coupled with the lazy Antipodean drawl.

‘I didn’t realise I am still of interest to popular Japanese magazines.’

Motoko smiled. ‘I’m sorry, Sir Edward. It is not really about you directly. It’s about the artist Macy Collingwood. She was here in Tokyo a few weeks ago and she gave an interview for this
magazine
.
Tokyo Art Lover.’
Motoko held up the issue. She had attracted the turned heads of her classmates and was wilting under the
pressure
. ‘I am personally a very big fan of Macy Collingwood. I really love her work… and she did mention you, and I was wondering… I was wondering if you could tell us something more…?’

CHAPTER EIGHT

London
•
1953

The Reading Room at the Brtish Museum was Edward’s
favourite
building. He had a nostalgic affection for the Gothic style of his alma mater, Glasgow University, with its cloisters and
quadrangles
. And a pride in the stark, rugged walls of Edinburgh Castle in its craggy dominance of Princes Street. But when it came to useful interiors, the Reading Room inspired his greatest
admiration
. He loved the circular design, the womb of books, the arched windows, the magnificent lantern dome trapping for eternity the risen thoughts of its many illustrious readers. He imagined himself among these ghosts, touched by their presence, in awe of their anarchy, as they sat at the spokes of tables within this great wheel of literature. Hardy, Wilde, Browning, Twain, Dickens, Kipling, Tennyson, Yeats and Bloomsbury’s very own Virginia had all held tickets. Over there was Karl Marx wriggling bad-temperedly on his boils, behind him Lenin and Trotsky, heads bowed in
conspiracy
. He had even composed a little ditty to these
revolutionaries
who had once basked in the splendour of the room’s Imperial beneficence.

Lenin and Trotsky

What a pair of sharks

Used to utter Spenser

Now they work for Marx.

And who could blame them for searching out such a sanctuary? Who really wanted a freezing cold, dim garret to host their work when the Reading Room was there for their comfort? ‘Come in, find a quiet spot, sit down, hook your toes around the warm,
heating
pipe passing by your feet, and we’ll bring you what you need. What is it that you are doing? Writing the definitive novel?
Penning
the epic poem? Planning the great revolution?’ Edward loved this respect paid to the readers. The little details. The black leather desktop, a hat peg, hooks for his pens, a book rest that unfolded magically from the wooden panel between the rows of desks. The polished mahogany chairs.

He only wished that all this pampering could help him with his own work. Since he had published the one short story in
The Londinium
, he had written nothing else. Aldous had passed on some favourable responses to
The Girl on Roller Skates
and one scathing
criticism
. ‘Clumsy, infantile twaddle’ was the phrase that had stood out.

Aldous had laughed at the comment. ‘You have nothing to learn from someone who still uses the word “twaddle”.’

But it was his Japanese studies that took up the bulk of his time within this sacred space, although he always kept a notebook at his elbow in case the seed of an idea came to him. He looked at the open page beside him. He had written one word. Macy.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ A leather-aproned attendant stood over him, face fixed in a smile of polite irritation. ‘I was asked to give you this.’ The man quickly passed over a folded-over piece of paper, grunted dismissively and was off.

Edward unplucked the tight wad and read. ‘I’m at the White Lion. Macy.’

How was it that six words could make such a difference to a life? Twenty letters and two full stops. Lines on a piece of paper,
scratched this way and that to create such a conflict of emotion. Joy. Anger. Insecurity. Resentment. Even the great novelists who had graced this very room couldn’t inspire him with such a range and rage of feeling. He looked at her signature, then the solitary word on his own notepad. Perhaps he possessed a secret gift for
conjuring
up people just by writing their names. But if that had been the case, Macy would have appeared to him a hundred times by now. He re-read the note. Minimal. Not a ‘sorry’ or a ‘please’. He would let her wait.

Within a minute, he was dragging on his coat, rushing out of the Reading Room, through the wrought iron gates of the Museum, across the road and into the pub. She was sitting at their table.
Smoking
, dressed in her usual sweater and jeans, her legs corkscrewed around each other in a tension. A pint glass of bitter waited for him.

‘Hello, Mr Serious,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette,
immediately
reaching for another.

‘Where have you been? I called you for weeks. I even tried to visit.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Busy? What does that mean? Busy? You didn’t have five
minutes
in your precious bloody life to telephone me?’

She shrugged. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Eddie? Relax.’

‘I don’t want to relax.’ But he sat down anyway. Hands shaking as he took a couple of hurried sips of beer. The fact he was so glad to see her annoyed him even more. All these weeks of nursed anger disappearing in an instant just because she was there in front of him looking so damn beautiful.

‘You said you wanted to see me again and then…’ Now there was a whine in his voice.

‘I did. And I do. So here I am.’

‘Why didn’t you return my calls?’

‘Because I want to be in control. Those are my rules. If you want to see me, then it will be on my terms. No telephone calls. No visits. If that doesn’t suit you, you can leave now.’

‘But this is my pub.’

She smiled weakly. ‘You know what I mean. Well?’

‘Why?’

‘My reasons are my own business.’ She quickly finished her drink, began to pack away her purse and cigarettes into her bag. He reached out across the table, grabbed her wrist.

‘No… wait.’

She laid her hand on his, stroked it gently. She might as well have been stroking him between his legs, because under his coat he had the most powerful erection.

‘So another drink then?’ she suggested.

‘No… not just yet.’

‘Well, I’d like one.’

He let her fetch it herself. Fortunately, his physical desire for her subsided quickly, but he still felt enthralled by her. He took off his coat, fumbled with her cigarette pack, wishing he smoked, just so he could do something with his hands. She was back with her gin and tonic.

‘I read your short story.’

‘Oh. Where did you see it?’

‘The reading room at the Anglo-American library takes a copy of
The Londinium
. That’s where we Yanks go when we can’t get a ticket for that wonderful place across the road.’ She played with the cocktail stick that snared the lemon slice in her drink, twirling and dipping it, until she pulled out the piece of citrus fruit from the glass, sucked the gin from the flesh, licked the juice from her lips. ‘Writers are like magpies, aren’t they? Stealing the glittering bits of people’s lives when they’re not looking.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, that whole roller skate thing. That was from the first night we met, wasn’t it? That guy who ran circles around us in the park.’

‘I suppose it was.’

‘So, what else was about me? About us?’

He felt himself redden. ‘Nothing.’

‘I see.’

‘I don’t think you do see, Macy. You shouldn’t presume that everything I do has to be about you.’

‘Even if it is.’ She sipped from her drink, looked at him
steadily
over the glass, reminding him of the way her father had looked at him at the gallery. ‘Come on, Eddie. I know you like me. You shouldn’t be ashamed to admit it.’

‘OK. I surrender. I admit it.’

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I like you?’

‘You’re here now, aren’t you?’

‘Touché.’ She leaned back in her chair, her sweater
tightening
over her breasts as she stretched. ‘Anyway, I liked the story. It showed promise. You should take your writing more seriously.’

‘How do you know that I’m not?’

‘What else have you written then?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you waiting for me to give you more material?’ ‘I hope so.’

She laughed, put down her drink, moved in towards him. Her fingers began to trace light sworls on the back of his hand and he felt the sensation all the way down to his toes. Her touch moved to his wrist, tickling him under the cuff of his shirt. He felt himself stir again, amazed at how such tiny pressure from the hands of another human being could arouse such lust.

‘Do you still live near here?’ she asked.

‘Two doors away.’

‘Can we go back there?’

‘What? Now?’

‘Yes. Now.’

He emitted some kind of gargled sound. Then tried again. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Good. Do you have anything to drink?’

‘I’ll get something from the bar.’

He bought two bottles of porter for himself, a quarter bottle of gin for Macy.

‘Anything else?’ Sean the barman asked, nodding towards Macy.

‘No. That’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘Something for the weekend?’

‘It’s only Tuesday.’

Sean smiled. ‘I could slip you a packet of three.’

Edward couldn’t believe it. Half an hour ago, he was sitting miserable in the Reading Room and now he was being asked to plot the loss of his own virginity. ‘I don’t know. Yes. Do it. Please.’

‘Right you are. I’ll pop them in with the booze, easy as you like, so no one needs to notice. That’s Sean for you. Always willing to oblige. Good luck with the lady.’

‘I’m not counting my chickens.’

‘This one will hatch. Trust me. Sean knows these things.’

The cold air hit Edward like a slap. Macy shivered, swayed on her feet, then snuggled up against him. It occurred to him it may have taken more than one gin and tonic for her to send over the note, another to invite herself round. He struggled with his keys to the front door of the building as she giggled and flopped all over him. He felt her lips press against his neck. He heaved the door inwards with his shoulder, then pulled Macy inside. They were only three steps up the communal stairway when she stopped him.

‘Kiss me,’ she commanded.

Her lips tasted sharp from the lemon. Then hot, as she pushed herself into him. He felt the cold tile against the back of his head, her fingers on the buttons of his coat as she pulled it open and pressed herself hard against his chest. He wanted to concentrate on kissing her but so many other thoughts were fighting for his attention. The paper bag with the bottles and condoms slipping and tearing in his grasp. And what should he do with his other hand? Bring it in under her coat? Smooth down her hair? Grab her hip? And what if a neighbour should enter the hallway? And what of the books he had abandoned at his desk in the Reading Room? It was hard to breathe. When would she realise he had little experience in these matters? That he was no Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart. That he was the virgin product of a Scottish grammar school for
boys. That he was completely out of his depth yet so completely desirous of her. He could feel her breasts against his shirt, not just the wool of her sweater but the ribbed cup of her bra. He was growing between his legs. And he knew she must feel him too.

‘Good,’ she said, pulling away from him. Her eyes smiled at him. ‘So where is this flat of yours?’

‘First floor.’

‘Then take me there.’

His rooms were freezing. As he drew the curtains, Macy flounced around, opening doors, until she found his bedroom. She yanked a blanket off his bed, wrapped herself in it and returned to sit on the sofa in the living room. He liked the way she did that. Making herself at home, as if she were already a part of his life. He busied himself at the hearth, trying to act calm, feigning a relaxed humming as he worked, crumpling up newspapers, adding the coals, until he had a decent fire blazing.

‘So what’s this then?’

He looked up to see her with the bottle of gin in one hand, the packet of condoms dangling in the other like a piece of sexual mistletoe. His humming came to an immediate stop.

She laughed. ‘I like a man who is prepared.’

‘Excuse me,’ he stammered. ‘The coal. I have to wash my hands.’

He hurried past her to the bathroom, locked the door, ran the cold water over his hands, watched the sooty liquid swirl away. His reflection stared back at him from the wall cabinet. He drew in closer, examined his face, the fearful innocence in his eyes, until his breath misted over the glass. He unbuttoned himself over the toilet, urinated into the bowl, careful to adjust his stream on to the ceramic so she wouldn’t hear him. He shook out his penis, shrivelled in the cold, attempted a few practice strokes. Women do not know of such things. How so much can rest on the performance of this one fickle organ at this crucial time. He regretted not having snatched the condoms away from her, taking one out now to experiment. He pulled down the toilet lid, sat down and stared at the door. God, he was so unprepared for this. Yet this rite of passage had always
been there. Lurking. With the promise of so much pleasure if only this one threshold could be passed. He wanted to be a man but he felt so much like a child. He had read about fathers who took their sons to prostitutes to experience sex for the very first time. That was what he needed now. Professional help. ‘Hold me here. Touch me there. Let me help you put this inside of me. Now.’ His father had never taken him to a football match, never mind a brothel.