‘Look,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long day. I don’t know… would you like to have a cup of tea somewhere?’
She appeared unfazed by his request, looked him up and down, mouth pursed tight in contemplation. He was about to apologise for his forwardness when she said: ‘Something stronger would be nice.’
He took her to the White Lion. Almost bounced along the streets with her as they walked. She told him her name. Macy.
‘My parents met in the New York department store,’ she explained.
‘I’m glad they didn’t meet in Marks and Spencer. Or Fortnum’s.’
She laughed. That same gutsy, confident laughter he had heard in the queue. He felt immensely pleased with himself.
He found an empty table, tucked away at the rear of the pub, close to the fire. Sean, the barman, looking over his shoulder at Macy as he poured their drinks, his little moustache twitching with curiosity.
‘You’re a sly one,’ Sean said.
‘We’ve just met.’
‘All the same. Had you marked down as a loner.’
‘Probably still will be after the evening’s out.’
‘That’s not the attitude to take.’ Sean tapped the side of his forehead with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘Got to think positive. That’s the secret. Trap the successful capture of your prey as an image inside of your head. Imagine that you’ve won even before the game has started. That’s what the army taught me.’
‘It’s not a war I’m fighting here.’
‘That’s what you think.’
Macy had taken off her coat. Half-turned her chair so she could warm her hands by the fire. She was wearing a cream silk blouse and black knee-length skirt. A simple pearl necklace. Elegant. Too elegant for him, he feared. He slopped some beer on to the table as he laid down the glasses. Back again to Sean for a cloth and some sarcastic comment before he could settle down.
‘Is this your usual pub then?’ she asked, cheeks reddening in the firelight.
‘I live just two doors down.’
‘Handy.’ She searched her handbag, found a packet of cigarettes. Winston. With one of these new filter tips. She offered him one.
He shook his head. ‘Are you staying in London?’
‘Near Grosvenor Square,’ she said as she lit her cigarette. ‘My father works at the American Embassy. My mother stayed in the States but I thought I’d come over with him. Try to do some painting. An American in London, that’s me.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know. Like the movie with Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. An American in Paris.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Maybe it hasn’t come over yet.’ She smoothed down her skirt over her knee. ‘I’m not always like this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This outfit. I did it for the King. I thought it would be appropriate.’
‘I don’t think he noticed.’
She laughed. ‘I meant that I’m a sweater and jeans kind of girl. Thought you should know, that’s all.’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t pay much attention to fashion. Too wrapped up in my studies.’
‘So what was the visit to Westminster then?’ A long drag on her cigarette, purses of smoke released to the air. ‘A night out on the town?’
It was his turn to laugh. And then he dared to say on the first rush of alcohol to his head: ‘I did get to meet you.’
‘You certainly know how to flatter.’
He had no idea how to flatter. He had gone to an all-boys grammar school. His first year at university had been spent in a daze at actually having female students right there with him in the lecture rooms. Later on, he had managed a few heavy petting sessions at parties and rag balls, one girl masturbating him until he ejaculated inside his trousers. He was more embarrassed than relieved by the event, eventually finding a handkerchief so she could wipe her hands clean. He never saw her again. He was still a virgin, with all the blood of his sexual interest preferring to flush his cheeks rather than to fortify his penis.
She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray, quickly lit another, her fingers moving with a fussy energy, the painted nails scratched clean here and there. Her head leaned in towards him, elbow on the table, chin cupped in her hand. Brown eyes, flecked with bronze. Dark smudges of tiredness below the rims. The sleeve of her blouse slipping down slowly off her wrist, letting the silky down of her bare forearm flicker in the firelight. ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Who are you?’
Edward thought that if he had been a spy, he would have confessed everything to her there and then. Take all the documents, the names, the codes, the microfilms. The secret radio. The frequencies. Just be my lover. Please be my lover. Instead he told her about his studies with an enthusiasm he hadn’t previously believed he possessed. He spoke about the intriguing formality of the Japanese language. The ephemeral quality of beauty in The Tale of Genji. The witty delight of Sei Shonagon’s court diaries from The Pillow Book. How the simple poetry of the haiku could compress the essential qualities of nature into a few syllables.
‘That’s what I like the most,’ he gushed, caught up in his own excitement, in her apparent interest. ‘The subtle awareness. The attention to detail. Just look at shodo, the calligraphy. All that intense energy. Concentrated on a single brushstroke.’
She ran a finger through a small pool of beer, tracing her own private design on the tabletop. ‘I like to see passion in a man,’ she said, looking down at her handiwork.
He reddened to the comment, hastily gulped down the rest of his beer, not sure if she was referring specifically to him or just to any male of the human race.
‘My father spent a few years in Tokyo,’ she continued. ‘He expects great things from the Japanese. He says they are absorbing all things American, refining them with their own aesthetic, then selling them back to the West. They’ve already started with the shipping industry. Manufactured items will follow next. He believes the Japanese economy is set to boom.’
‘I hope he’s right,’ he said, relieved the conversation had turned to more practical matters. ‘I was thinking of a job in international commerce after I’ve finished.’
‘Smart thinking. Most young men in your situation choose the diplomatic corps.’
He broke off the conversation to fetch another round of drinks, his head already beginning to spin light from the first. Apart from a meat paste sandwich in the queue of mourners, nothing to eat all day. Macy appeared unaffected by her half of bitter, happy to tackle another.
He asked her about her painting. She turned out to be more serious about her art than he had imagined. It was not just a little rich girl’s hobby, the diplomat’s daughter dipping into bohemia before daddy’s trust fund fully kicked in. She had a degree in Art History from some Ivy League university, she was passionate about the new Abstract Expressionism breaking through in the States, spearheaded by the man she cited as her greatest influence – Jackson Pollock.
‘He just spreads his canvas on the floor, drips his paints on to the surface direct from the can,’ she explained. ‘Action painting. No composition. No relationship between parts. Just the pure expression of the artist’s unconscious mood. No space between the self and the work. It’s angry. Aggressive. Arrogant. Screaming to be heard.’
He watched her as she talked. Red-painted lips animated over those so-white, even tributes to American dentistry. Her arms open, describing Pollock’s techniques, pulling slightly at the silk of her blouse, revealing just a peek of bra strap, the shadow of cleavage.
‘I wonder how similar they are,’ he said.
‘What? Who?’
‘These artists on canvas. This Pollock with his abstract expressionism on the one hand. And the Japanese calligrapher on the other.’
‘You must be joking. They couldn’t be further apart.’
‘Don’t be so sure. What you describe seems to be very manic, releasing the subconscious through lack of control. Painting without thinking.’
&nbs
p; ‘So?’
‘Well, on the face of it, shodo seems to be the opposite. Calming the mind until reason and emotion are one, allowing for a deeper spirituality to emerge. Yet both are about truth. One is truth achieved through a state of agitation. While the other is achieved through a state of calmness. The difference between Western and Oriental thought perhaps.’
Macy sat back in her chair, grinning.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
‘Well, first I thought you weren’t listening. Second, I was ready for you to dismiss Pollock as a madman. But you’ve got an open mind, Eddie. I can call you Eddie, can’t I? Edward is too formal. Too much like that dead king. I like that about you, Eddie. An open mind. And a sensitivity to go with it.’ She sucked on her cigarette, then waved away the smoke, clearing the space between them. ‘I’ve got a little exhibition of my work coming up in a week or so. Nothing much. A space in a gallery of a family friend. You should come.’
‘Has it lots of dripping paint in it?’
‘More like sloshing.’
‘Good. I prefer the sloshing.’
‘That’s exactly what this beer is doing in my stomach. I’m usually a gin and tonic girl.’
‘So why the beer?’
‘I thought I’d try to impress you.’
His fingers wandered to her cigarette lighter, flicked open the lid, sparked up a flame to the empty air. ‘Would you like to get something to eat?’
They picked up two fish and chip suppers in Soho. Her idea. After all she was still an American in London who relished the idea of her food wrapped up in newsprint. He insisted on walking her back to her flat, choosing a route along the broad pavements of Bond Street and Mayfair, past Georgian porticos, windows with flowerboxes, balconies with sawn-off wrought-iron stumps. Consular buildings, luxury hotels, private apartments and gentlemen’s clubs. It was a London still confident of its own elegance, deluded by its sense of importance in a post-war world. Clear sky, full moon, dead king, princess pining in the palace, this woman by his side. Feeling it more appropriate in the cold to take her hand than not to, yet still managing to keep apart. The formality of space. Very Japanese. At Grosvenor Square, he had expected the American Embassy to dominate, to be lit up grand like a southern plantation mansion with Uncle Sam rocking back easy on the porch. But the chancery was just the same as the other embassies dotted around Mayfair, hidden away behind the broad doors, brass plates and flagpoles of a block of terraced Georgian houses.
In silence they wandered into the large open square in front of the embassy. A barren space with just a few trees, the scattered survivors of wartime bombings. She directed him towards a statue, standing pale in the moonlight. “Franklin Delano Roosevelt 1882 – 1945”. Dressed in his cape, propped up by his cane. Then suddenly, from a corner of this quiet plot of parkland, a figure came hurtling towards them along one of the pathways, surprising them, gliding, too fast, too smooth, to be running. A young man on roller skates. His torso arched in a forward prow, hands clasped behind his back, scarf trailing in his slipstream, he slid past them and around the statue. Expressionless, the skater executed one loop of the plinth, then another and another, wheels grinding rough on the concrete, passing them each time, performing this private dance for them, wreathing them in some fantastic web before breaking away and disappearing back along the path.
‘You can leave me here,’ she said, her voice breaking the spell.
‘Oh. I thought I’d see you to your flat.’
‘Here’s fine,’ she said. She fumbled in her coat pocket. Found him a flyer, pressed it into his hand, her fingers red from the fry. ‘It’s my exhibition. Try to come.’
He pulled his coat in tighter. Rocked back and forward on his heels. Noticed her lips greasy and flecked with salt. Two beers and the skater making him feel he might be brave enough to try a kiss.
‘I had a nice time, Eddie,’ she said, stepping back and away from him. ‘Don’t spoil it.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Japan • 2003
Edward had arranged a wake-up call with the front desk but it had proved unnecessary. He awoke well before the dawn, remarkably clear-headed for only four hours sleep. As his life became shorter, he slept less and less, until he wondered if there would come a time when he would not require any sleep at all. The achievement of a perpetual state of awakeness, of constant awareness, before the reward of permanent sleep.
A quick shower before sitting down in his robe at the writing desk. He ran his fingers over the mahogany, letting his palms be lightly scored by the corners and edges. The rectangular, olive-leather inlay had been replaced and the space for the inkwell was now sealed off with a circle of wood that just failed to match the original. But he was sure it was the same desk. He turned on the reading lamp, opened up the notebook he had bought for the trip, began to write. No longer fiction, for what stories had he left to tell? But poetry. Just like he used to write in the early London days. Except then he wrote about youth, about love, about hope. Now he wrote about nature. About death and birth. Poetry had become his literary garden of retirement where he pottered about in his withered skin, pruning that branch, choosing to pick that flower, hacking out that stubborn weed. Writing haiku.
He paused from his scribblings to watch the day break over the hillside, the sunlight rising to glint on the grey tiles of the hotel’s outbuildings, to melt on the dewy branches of the poplar trees. Lights flickered on in the kitchens, steam churned out of the fired-up boilers, giant extractor fans started to whirr. The crisp, oily smell of grilling fish, the baby-milk aroma of boiling rice. Bird tracks on the frosted grass. The cold ring of a temple bell. The waterwheel off in the distance. Life beginning anew. Rebirth. Renaissance. Reincarnation. Such a sense of it, deep in his belly.
Lark tracks scratch the frost
Marching fast away from me
Winter’s death tolling.
He ordered a light, Japanese-style breakfast to be delivered to his room. A waiter brought a lacquer tray laden with an array of dishes. Miso soup, sweet omelette, pickles, barley porridge, broiled fish and a pot of green tea. Each in its distinctive, ceramic bowl. He marvelled at the delicious combination of tastes and textures delighting his tongue and palate, each one sparking off a flash of memory, too fast for him to harness in conscious thought before the next one appeared and then also died. And then the next one. Pickled radish. What did that sour yellowed root remind him of? Sugared egg. So quick. Impossible to grasp, these disappearing images from his Japanese past. But the sensation pleasant nevertheless. Until the telephone interrupted this grand fireworks display of fleeting recollections.
‘Are you angry with me?’ Enid asked.
‘Why would that be?’
‘I thought you might have joined me for breakfast.’
‘I took it in my room. I was writing.’
‘Well, then, a taxi has been ordered for ten. The Shinkansen tickets are at reception.’
‘Oh God. Jerome Fisk and his damned award ceremony. I’d almost forgotten. What about back home?’
‘No news is good news.’
‘And other stuff?’
‘Yes, there’s other stuff. The usual requests for your attendance at events I will politely decline. It is the Poet Laureate’s birthday though. Would you like me to send something?’
‘What do I usually do?’
‘Depends on who’s in situ. This one’s new.’
‘Well, send him a bottle of malt then. He writes better when he’s pissed. Anything else?’
‘All quiet on the western front. It’s past midnight in the UK. Enjoy your trip to Tokyo.’
By the time he had dressed and was walking along the corridors towards reception, his mood was still upbeat. It was the breakfast that had done it. Enid would have disapproved of the grilled fish. And his bowels were sure to pay for it later. But it was just like eating kippers really. He began humming some vague melody as he walked. A slow, ponderous fugue. He tapped his cane to the beat. A
s he caught sight of Takahashi in the lobby, he believed the tune was the Japanese national anthem.
‘I trust you slept well, Sir Edward,’ Takahashi said, breaking off from talking with a staff member to greet him.
‘I did indeed.’
Takahashi straightened. Not a strand of his thick, dyed-black hair out of place. ‘And did you enjoy your breakfast?’
‘A good Scotsman likes to start the day with his kippers.’
‘I am afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Nothing to be afraid of, Takahashi-san. Just my exuberant spirits.’
‘I see.’ A little cough into a clenched fist, then the manager said: ‘I did not recall seeing you in the bar last night.’
‘I was feeling slightly unwell. I went to bed early.’
‘Perhaps it was jet lag?’
‘No doubt.’
‘And will you require dinner this evening? On your return from Tokyo?’
‘I imagine I will dine in Tokyo.’
‘I see.’
The hotel manager lingered.
‘There is something else, Takahashi-san?’
‘Perhaps you remember our desire to have a little chat?’
‘Our desire?’
‘About the old days.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow. I am sure I can manage some time tomorrow.’ Edward looked around the lobby. The door to the telephone booth was open and he could see inside to the glass-encased poster advertising the Hakone Open Air Museum and its exuberant paintings. ‘Now where is that damn taxi?’
‘It has just this second arrived in the driveway.’
Edward pushed through the revolving doors into the crisp morning air. His dry cheeks felt the chill. He put on his hat. A lone birdcall echoed hollow in the valley with such a sadness it actually pained him. That ache in the centre of his chest. He touched the spot, kept his hand there until the tightness had passed. The taxi driver – a small, chubby man wearing a dark suit and white gloves – quickly stubbed out a cigarette, opened the passenger door. Sheets of white cotton covered the seats. The interior air freshened with aerosol lavender.
An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Page 4
