An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful

by J David Simons

  ‘We just wondered whether you wish to return to London in consideration of your recent tragic loss,’ Kobayashi told Edward in a translation of his superior’s words. It was an unnecessary role for Kobayashi to play, given that Edward understood very well every word Tanaka had said. But he also understood that the proper procedures had to be acted out. That the foreigner could not be seen to speak better Japanese than his boss could speak English. Tanaka sat behind his desk, pulling at his brilliant-white shirt-cuffs as he waited for his reply.

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Edward responded, with a short bow towards the general manager.

  Tanaka nodded then asked in Japanese. ‘Perhaps a few days’ compassionate leave?’ Again Kobayashi translated.

  The deaths of his parents still seemed far off in another time zone and all Edward wanted to do was keep on working, keep up a rhythm, keep up his emotional guard. But Tanaka’s question presented an interesting cultural dilemma to which he did not know the correct answer. Was it more important to continue working, thereby exhibiting the proper stoicism and loyalty to the company, or was it better to take time off in order to show the proper mourning and respect towards his deceased parents? Edward chose the former.

  Tanaka sucked in his breath, quickly conferred with Kobayashi.

  ‘In that case,’ the translator said, ‘we wonder if you would like to join us tomorrow on the company’s summer coach trip to Hakone? The colourful hydrangeas will surely lift your spirits.’

  ‘I am sorry about parents, sensei,’ Mie the tea girl told Edward in a practice of her English as their motor-coach, the leading one in a convoy of three, moved away from the coastline. Mie was also one of his students in an English conversation class he taught one night a week for some of the staff under a private arrangement with the company. She was a bright young woman, far more adept at picking up the language than her male classmates, but unlikely ever to rise above the level of tea girl. One hand half-covered her mouth as she spoke, the fingers of the other fluttered over the fan in her lap. Edward had always imagined the Japanese fan to be some kind of fashion accessory until he experienced the first few days of summer in this country. The humidity was unbearable. Even now, at nine in the morning, he could feel his shirt cling to the seat fabric as he turned to speak to her. Mie with her round face and very flat features, almost no contours at all, no shadows, no secrets. Just this wide openness waiting for his reply.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, not knowing what else to say in these circumstances. ‘It is very sad,’ he added.

  ‘Yes. Very sad.’ Then her face brightened as the coach cranked down noisily into a lower gear and began to climb the steep road up the hillside. ‘Soon we can see Fuji-san,’ she said, then dipped her gaze. ‘But Fuji-san never lets herself be shown to tourist. Only person who stays in Japan long time will see Fuji-san with no clouds. Perfectly.’

  ‘Then I am sure Fuji-san will show herself to me,’ he replied. ‘Perfectly.’

  She smiled at his remark and he had an instinct to touch her then, just briefly, on the back of her hand. To connect physically to the comfort of another human being. It had been so long. But he turned his attention back to the window where the scene was set for a cat-and-mouse journey as he strained to catch a glimpse of the famous mountain through every break in the treeline. So many different kinds of trees. Maple, elm, cherry, dogwood, magnolia, others he couldn’t name. The steamy, earthy smell of the leafy forest floor caught in the draft through the open coach windows. He greedily sucked in the pine tang as the bus continued its crawl above and away from the suburbs of Tokyo and Yokohama. Up into the undulating greenery that appeared to shrink back from the encroaching urban sprawl below. So unlike the wild, craggy and domineering landscape of Scotland.

  He thought of the photograph his Aunt Cathy had sent him, the picnic with his parents somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. He had absolutely no recollection of the holiday at all. Now that his parents were dead, even their corroboration of the event had disappeared. Only the photograph remained as the solitary evidence he had ever been present. Without the photograph, there was no memory, no past, no childhood. He wondered what happened in the eras before photography. Did people lose their past to the erosion of time or did they concentrate more clearly on remembering the present? This picnic he knew must have taken place in the Highlands due to the intrusion of a long-haired cow into the corner of the photograph. Quite comical really. He must have been about eight years old, the three of them sitting together on a blanket, so ignorant of their bovine observer. Being a family. The Strathairns. Staring at the lens of some unknown photographer. A family friend or relative? An obliging stranger. His father leaning away slightly from the group, supporting himself on his good arm. He wore a suit while his son sat beside him in his school uniform even though they were on holiday. Only his mother seemed relaxed and casual in cardigan, blouse and skirt. He wondered what the colours of these garments were. His uniform would be dark blue, he knew that, of course. But what was the colour of his mother’s blouse? Or her cardigan? Or her eyes? For God’s sake, what was the colour of his mother’s eyes? And suddenly through a clearing in the hillside woods there was Mount Fuji. Free of cloud cover. Totally naked. That sacred, snow-capped volcano. Too symmetrical to be carved out by the randomness of nature but rather by a benevolent God with an eye for geometry. He felt blessed by the sight of it. As did the rest of the coach party who gasped collectively at this glimpse of their mountain god. A tap on his shoulder. Mie. Indicating Kobayashi, who had leaned over from his seat on the other side of the aisle.

  ‘Many woods make Hakone craftwork,’ Kobayashi said, smiling at Mie as he spoke. She drew away as politely as she could from the stale breath of the translator.

  ‘I am sorry but I don’t understand,’ Edward said.

  ‘Many woods make Hakone craftwork,’ Kobayashi repeated. ‘Yoseki-zaiku zougan.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘I will show you later,’ he said. ‘I will show you yoseki-zaiku zougan.’

  Along with his co-workers, Edward visited Owakudani for a scenic view of Mount Fuji, now covered by cloud. He trudged through a volcanic valley where the grey mud still bubbled and sucked in rock pools. He bought black-shell eggs boiled by crafty locals in the water leaked out from crater cracks. Their whole party hired a boat to sail out on to Lake Ashi, visited the Hakone Shrine, wandered among the ruins of the toll-road checkpoint, then walked the avenue of ancient cedars into Hakone itself. There on the shores of the lake, Edward came across the craft Kobayashi had been talking about. Yoseki-zaiku zougan. Marquetry. Hakone it seemed was famous for it. Intricate wooden inlays fashioned from the many timbers Edward had witnessed on the surrounding hillsides to produce boxes, trays, small chests and picture mosaics. Even wooden eggs, in sets of twelve, ever decreasing in size so one fitted inside the other like Russian dolls. Although Mie insisted it was the Japanese who gave the idea to the Russians rather than the other way around. It was the must-have souvenir of the region and Edward bought a set to take home.

  After supper at a lakeside restaurant, the Tokyo Autos coach party was in a buoyant mood for the return journey. Amid this collective corporate spirit and bonhomie Edward realised he was quite enjoying himself. As was Mr Tanaka who during the meal had managed to drink copious amounts of sake poured with great diligence by Mie. The red-faced general manager now stood at the front of the bus directing a sing-song.

  ‘I have something for you,’ Kobayashi said, moving in to sit beside Edward in place of Mie who had been commandeered into singing a solo by her boss. The translator was also flushed from drink, his eyes bloodshot, his little moustache glistening with sweat. ‘A gift from Hakone.’ Kobayashi handed him an elaborately wrapped square package.

  ‘May I open it?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Of course, of course. Please. Go ahead, as Americans say.’

  Edward restrained his instinct to tear off the wrapping paper as quickly as he could, i
nstead peeling off the layers carefully to reveal one of Hakone’s famous marquetry boxes with a wooden mosaic picture of Mount Fuji on the lid.

  ‘Himitsu-bako,’ Kobayashi said, looking very pleased with himself.

  Edward made the translation in his head. Secret box. ‘Why secret?’

  ‘It is like safe. You need to move panels in special order to open. This is seven-move box. Seven moves to open. It is a puzzle box. In old times, people pass along road through Hakone to Edo will buy puzzle box to keep them busy in journey. I do the same for you.’ Kobayashi took the box, slid open a secret panel, and handed it back. ‘Only six more,’ he said. ‘I have instruction paper if you need.’

  Edward pressed his hand over the shiny smooth surfaces, trying to find the slots that slipped open like pins in a lock. This was going to be a long process but he wanted to show Kobayashi he was genuinely appreciative of the gift. The gesture had quite moved him. He had always assumed Kobayashi resented him for having to see his hard-worked translations constantly revised, the daily editing that must have sent a message back to the translator saying – what you do is not good enough. Yet here was a completely spontaneous gift. And an expensive one too. He searched for Kobayashi’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Arigato. Thank you.’

  ‘Not to mention it.’ Kobayashi stood up. ‘Please excuse me. I feel a little unwell.’

  Edward sat back in his seat, closed his eyes, let the dappled light flash across his face as the coach moved in and out of the evening sunlight on its tortuous ride down the hillside. He heard Kobayashi retch into a paper bag on the other side of the aisle, Mie’s thin voice piping out some Japanese folk song from the front of the bus, he smelled the viscous stench of petrol fumes from underneath the floor boards. He opened his eyes. The coach had just rounded a corner swinging his window round into a direct confrontational view with the building wedged magnificently into the rock face. The sensation of familiarity was immediately apparent even though he had never been down this road in his life before. It was as if the hotel had always been there waiting for him. Just as he had imagined. The curved grey roofs flowed naturally down the contours of the hillside, like an architectural waterfall, moving effortlessly from level to level. Red balconies traversed the facade along each floor, moths flitted around lamps already lit to welcome the dusk. White-gloved bellboys stood at attention on either side of the main entrance while one storey above, guests in evening wear lingered on the terrace in the shade of an enormous white pine. Edward had seen this building before. He knew it was impossible but he was convinced he had. In a Japanese story book. In a dream. In a previous life. The feeling of déjà vu was very strong. Mie had returned to sit beside him and answered his question before he had time to ask it.

  ‘It is the first hotel Japanese build for foreign guest,’ she said. ‘You must stay there some time. I believe it is very comfortable inside. Both Japanese and foreign style. Very high class. Very beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘It is very beautiful.’

  Once he had received confirmation from the lawyer Wilson Guthrie that his parents’ estate had been wound up, Edward telegrammed his notice of termination to Digby at Argos Motors in London. The next day, at the office of Tokyo Autos, and with Kobayashi in attendance, Edward executed a series of low bows before general manager Tanaka.

  ‘I regret to inform you, Tanaka-san,’ he said directly in Japanese, ‘but I have decided to leave the company.’

  ‘I see,’ Tanaka responded in English, with a smug nod to Kobayashi. ‘You are returning to London?’

  ‘Actually, I’m not. I’ve decided to stay on here in Japan.’

  ‘To do what, may I ask?’

  ‘I would like to try writing. Writing a novel.’

  Kobayashi, who stood stooped in front of his boss, slowly raised his head, stretched his lips across his teeth in such a curious way Edward wasn’t sure if the translator was snarling or smiling at him. But the gesture had unnerved him. Edward knew his idea of a literary career was both a vain and a fatuous one and he felt Kobayashi could see right through to that. After all, his decision was not based on much – just two short stories published in The Londinium. For this he was grateful to Aldous, who unwittingly had also been responsible for this sudden career change in one other small way. It had derived from a sentence in a letter his friend had sent him not long after his parents had died. Perhaps it was a throwaway line, perhaps it was truly meant to inspire. The line read: “All creativity comes from loss.”

  ‘I did not know you were a writer, Mr Strathairn,’ Tanaka said.

  ‘I’m not really sure if I am. It’s just that I’d like to give it a proper try.’

  Edward then bowed his head towards the general manager – a simple gesture in this minefield of gestures that he hoped conveyed his humility for even entertaining such a lofty notion.

  Tanaka nodded thoughtfully. ‘We Japanese have great appreciation for our artists,’ he said eventually. ‘Only last year, we created these…’ He fired off some Japanese at Kobayashi.

  ‘Bearers of Important Intangible Cultural Properties,’ the translator said.

  ‘Do you know of them, Mr Strathairn?’ Tanaka asked. ‘These… how did you say…? These bearers of…?’ A wave of the hand left lingering in the air for a reply.

  ‘With respect to Kobayashi-san,’ Edward said, ‘but I believe Living National Treasures is a simpler translation of the Japanese phrase.’ He had read about these appointments in the Japanese press. They were some kind of reaction to the Occupation, the fear of losing the traditional crafts amid the deluge of American culture swamping the country. A public trust fund set up by the Japanese government to protect the country’s great artists and master craftsmen, designating them as living national treasures, providing them with grants to support their work, to help them train apprentices to carry on their skills. Edward thought of them like knighthoods with stipends attached. Awards had already been made to a potter, a bamboo weaver and a swordmaker.

  ‘Do you know what it takes to be a true master, to be one of these Living National Treasures, Mr Strathairn?’

  ‘I’m sorry but I do not.’

  ‘It requires two things,’ the general manager said, holding up one finger, then another. A gold ring flashed on the second raised digit. ‘Just two. A lifetime committed to hard work. And an open heart directly to your art. Do you possess those qualities, Mr Strathairn?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose this is what I am trying to discover.’

  Tanaka grunted then spoke rapidly in Japanese.

  ‘Tanaka-san wishes you luck in your journey of discovery,’ Kobayashi translated. ‘You are fortunate to have both the time and money to find the answer to these questions.’

  He took up residency at the hotel that had so fascinated him on his trip to Hakone, the hotel that had been specially built to welcome the first foreigners to Japan, the hotel that on first glance had felt so familiar, as if it were his destiny calling out to him. He rented out on an indefinite basis the Fuji Suite, which consisted of an enormous bedroom with an equally large adjoining bathroom situated at the rear of the main building. The beauty of his accommodation was in its outlook – from a stout mahogany desk by the window he had a view of the hotel gardens and the wooded hillsides beyond.

  His father would have liked the hotel. He would have sat quietly in one of the ample armchairs in the lobby, smoking his pipe among the potted palms, as he admired the craftsmanship in the wooden parquet flooring, the intricate designs carved into the teak reception desk or the cloisonné bowls on the window ledges. For his mother, it would be a different experience. With an eager staff to take care of the cooking and cleaning, she would be restless, nervously scratching for work to busy her idle hands. Perhaps she would find solace, even a blossoming talent, in some handicraft like needlework or a flair for horticulture, helping the gardeners with the seedlings in the greenhouse nurseries. Edward sensed the spirits of his dead parents lurk
ing in the corridors, nestling high up in the eaves of the dining room, brushing past him as he sat in the tea lounge, watching him as he sipped an evening cocktail by the giant white pine on the terrace, protecting him, guiding him on his path, not just with the blessing of their inheritance, but with a gentle hand on his shoulder, a whispered word of encouragement in his ear. ‘We are with you,’ the voices would say. ‘We are watching.’

  During his first few days of residence, Edward kept his daily strolls to the immediate pathways of the grounds but as he began to explore the full extent of his new home, he followed a track that took him beyond the tennis courts, under an awning of trees that almost concealed his route with the thick bend of their branches, then through veils of cobwebs defending his approach. At the end of this secret tunnel, he emerged into a clearing that hosted a secluded pond. And in the far corner of this delightful spot, attached by a shaft to a thatched hut at the edge of the pool, turned a giant waterwheel.

  He sat down on a low stone wall, closed his eyes, tilted his face to the sunlight. He could hear the wheel creak around in its cycle, scooping the water into the troughs on the one side just as it released its liquid load on the other. Not the pumping heart of passionate existence, but the continuous ebb and flow of the natural circle of life. Birth and death and birth and death and birth. The recycling of energy. This constant stream. This yin and yang of grasping and releasing, grasping and releasing, grasping and releasing. He opened his eyes, let himself be hypnotised by the movement of the wheel. It was a fine piece of carpentry, all mortises, spokes, struts and hoppers, with just the minimum of metal gearing. He wondered if the device performed any actual function, whether within the hut a millstone still might grind away at rice husks. But there were no barrows or sacks or anything else lying around to suggest the building was a working mill. He leaned forward, ran his fingers across the slime of the pond. Away from the churn of the wheel, he noticed schools of carp just under the surface. It was so peaceful here. He would ask the hotel manager if he could bring out a chair. For this was his spot. This was – weather permitting – where he would write.