An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful

by J David Simons

  ‘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 beauti
ful.

  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.

  ‘Ano… Daijyobu desu-ka? Are you all right?’

  He opened his eyes. A porter.

  ‘Yes, yes. My room. The Fuji Suite. Where is it? Fuji? Doko desu-ka?’

  The porter pointed to the door next to where he sat.

  ‘How silly of me. Of course. Arigato, domo.’

  He rose from his chair, opened the door. The curtains had been drawn, the bedspread turned down, a lamp conveniently left on for his return. He saw his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The strands of thinning hair matted to his scalp. His complexion so pale. Stains of sweat on the edge of his shirt collar. Such a fine bespoke suit, crumpled now in his shrinking frame. His mind flirted with the image of the young Japanese woman in her red lingerie. What have I become, he thought? What have I become?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  London, England • 1952

  Uncle Rob’s inheritance provided Edward with a well-furnished flat in Bloomsbury, not far from Russell Square and his new college, the School of Oriental and African Studies. From one floor up over a busy junction, looking down on to a shop selling shooting sticks, canes and umbrellas, he could watch the store’s clientele, almost always elderly gentlemen, indulge in the same routine as they emerged with their new purchases. A swift tap on the pavement to test the resilience of the tip, a sweep of the head to take in the gaze of an imaginary audience, a neat turn of the heels, then a purposeful stride towards the intended destination to the beat of hard rubber on concrete. It seemed the nation’s gentry was turning itself into an imitation of the cane-wielding Churchill as it leaned yet again on the Prime Minister for support.

  For the King was dying. In Glasgow, Edward had considered the monarch a remote figure, but here in London, with Buckingham Palace only a mile away, the royal presence was palpable. He could see it in those loyal subjects who crept around the capital like worried relatives pacing a downstairs room, their conversations reduced to whispers. He could see it in everyday commerce as customers and shopkeepers alike handled the coins and postage stamps bearing the head of their sovereign with a deliberate reverence. In cinemas he stood with the audience at the end of each evening performance to sing the anthem and to murmur prayers in wish of a miraculous recovery. And in the daily newspapers he read the dramatic bulletins plotting the cancerous decay of the one remaining lung.

  Amid this London gloom, he established a daily routine, his own personal square within the capital, marked out on each of its corners by his flat, his college, the Reading Room at the British Museum, and his local pub, the White Lion. For routine was the legacy of the only child – that filling in of the spaces where a sibling might have been.

  At college, he took weekly classes consisting of Gramophone Drill, Structure of the Spoken Language, Speech Work and Romanised Texts. There was also course work on the history of Japanese literature, a discussion class in Japanese, an introduction to Shinto and Confucianism. The Reading Room was where he took refuge from this onslaught of oriental language and thought. And whether it was because of his own loneliness or the sense of misery pervading the capital, he found himself writing poetry for the first time. Reams of it. As if he were compelled to find expression for his own language amid the Chinese characters and Japanese alphabets that crowded for attention within his head. From the Reading Room it was on to the White Lion for a warm pint in front of the hearth, with a copy of the Evening Standard at his elbow. It was a solitary existence. He had made few acquaintances among his fellow students, none he could call a friend. But he was used to being content enough with his own company.

  The King’s death came almost as a relief from the monotony of his daily existence. Not the surrender to cancer as the nation had expected but a heart attack in the royal sleep after a day’s hunting. Edward was amazed at the spontaneous reaction of the public. Drivers stopped their cars, got out and stood at attention beside their vehicles. People wept openly in the streets. Flags drooped to half-mast. Hotels and restaurants closed. Shop owners took down their more colourful displays. Even the Thames appeared to run more sluggish. He went to watch the newsreels showing the grieving but dutiful daughter boarding an aeroplane in Uganda as a princess, ready to return to London as a queen. The pictures – in black and white – possessed a whiteness he had never seen before. The whiteness of an African sun preceding the darkness of a mournful London. He would never forget the princess that day – her transformation from a daughter of the people to the mother of the nation. After all, she was only one year older than he was.

  King George VI was to lie in state for three days in Westminster Hall, a quirk of protocol that would allow his ordinary subjects far more physical proximity to the royal personage in death than in life. It was this accessibility rather than any real feeling for the deceased monarch that persuaded Edward to go to pay his respects. But he was sadly unprepared for the enormity of the event. The queues stretched for miles. Newspaper pictures would show them as a mournful and respectful bunch, tens of thousands of them shuffling patiently along the bridges and streets of the capital in the persistent drizzle under a carapace of umbrellas. But in reality the mood was quite cheerful. Some of the mourners boasted about their attendance at the lying in state of the King’s father. Others had filed past the coffin of Edward VII in 1910. One old biddy reminisced about the death of Queen Victoria. There was gossip about whether the Duke of Windsor would return from America. A boisterous coach party of pensioners from Leeds, all wearing black armbands, assembled behind him, passed around meat paste sandwiches and thermos flasks of hot tea, offered for Edward to share.

  After six hours the procession reached the final corner and he could see the entrance to the Great Hall. Heads around him suddenly sank at the view, hands folded into a clasp, the chattering ceased. At the grand doorway, uniformed ushers paired off the mourners.

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  Edward looked up. A young woman about his own age. She was wrapped up warm and pretty in a dark green coat, matching beret and leather gloves. He had noticed her before, standing a few rows ahead of him, chatting easily to those around her, tossing back her head in a wide-mouthed laugh at various comments. He heard her accent now. Of course. American.

  He nodded.

  ‘Good. We need to enter in twos. Just like Noah’s Ark.’ A quick smile, then she drew in beside him, two or three inches shorter than himself, her gloved hand so close he felt he could grab it if he wanted to. Just the thought of that contact – the comfort and warmth that lay so near – highlighting the coldness and loneliness of his everyday life. She bowed her head as did he, their misty breath mingling in the air in front of them. The line shuffled forward and she was pushed closer to him, close enough to smell her flowery perfume mixed with the damp rising off her coat. He felt they could be a couple of newly-weds, she recently pregnant, deciding to call the child George if it were a boy, Elizabeth for a girl, both quietly happy in the thought of this, their own personal contribution to mark this historic event. Moving forward again, he could now see into the Great Hall. He heard her gasp.

  They stood at the entrance to a vast medieval building with just its one precious exhibit on display – a guarded coffin on a central dais, resting on top of a catafalque draped in purple velvet. Clusters of lights hung on long chains from the oak-beamed ceiling, casting a
ghostly aura over the hall. Four long tapers struggled to illuminate the dais. Colour splashed from the velvet, the uniforms of the guards, the Union flag over the coffin, but otherwise all else was stony grey. The scene was from a royal age when monarchs ruled from draughty castles with steely armour, a testament to the warring heritage that had flowed through this dead king’s chilled blood. Slowly, they descended the stone steps, bunching up with those in front, footfalls echoing in the cold, colder than the outside air, colder than death itself. They filed along the edge of the hall, reaching the mid-point, turning to face the coffin, just a few seconds allowed for Edward to absorb the tableau. A large jewelled cross at one end of the coffin, then along the flag-draped lid lay the King’s crown, orb and sceptre. Four Royal Life Guards stood at each corner of the coffin, heads and shoulders drooping from the long vigil. And then one step lower down four Yeomen with their pikes. Edward bowed his head. The young woman beside him dipped in a slight curtsy.

  Big Ben struck six o’clock. The drizzle had stopped and the other mourners dispersed quickly along the wet pathways. Back to a London life that continued to trundle along despite this dead heart at its centre. Edward lingered self-consciously at the exit of the Great Hall with this young woman Fate had selected for him to share in this historic moment. She was pretty. So very pretty.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘You could feel the power of your country’s royal heritage back there. All those centuries of monarchy stacking up behind that body.’

  ‘Yes, it was impressive,’ he managed, clearing his throat. The first words he had spoken for hours. Perhaps for days. ‘I didn’t think you could still see that kind of thing in this day and age.’

  She said nothing. Instead, she took off her beret, shook out her dark, shoulder-length hair, combed through the waves with her fingers. He shivered, stamped his feet, searched for his voice, searched for courage.