An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful

by J David Simons

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Jerome Fisk. In his cream suit, the American looking more colonial servant than academic. Without waiting for a response, Fisk pulled out a chair, sat down. A waiter swiftly moved into attendance, laying out a second place.

  ‘The American breakfast,’ Fisk said, ignoring the menu. ‘You look like shit, pal. Are you ill or something?’

  ‘Slept badly.’

  Fisk peered over at his tray. ‘Could be all that Jap food making you restless. Miso soup, natto, grilled fish. At this time of day. You gotta be kidding.’

  ‘An acquired taste,’ Edward said, looking down at the fish skeleton left over from his own breakfast. ‘Just like kippers really.’ He picked up his knife and fork, scraped a last remnant of flesh off the bones, popped it into his mouth as if to prove his point. ‘How’s the wonderful world of academia?’ he asked.

  ‘For you writers, it’s a case of publish and be damned. For me it’s publish or be damned,’ Fisk said, laughing too loud at his own joke, causing a Japanese couple at the next table to visibly stiffen.

  ‘What’s your research about?’

  ‘Really interested, Eddie? Or just being a polite Brit?’

  ‘Bit of both.’

  Fisk cleared his throat. ‘A linguistic theory I’m putting forward about the Japanese. The way they put the verb at the end of the sentence.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The Japanese want to know all the details first before they take action. Same with the Germans and their verb.’

  ‘And we English-speakers?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. We’re all about “I” with a big capital letter. Even in the middle of a sentence. Only culture to do that. But usually it’s “I” right at the beginning followed by the verb. We put our big selves first, then we do the action, then we worry about the details later. I, I, I, I. That’s what we English-speakers are all about. But does our grammar create our culture of egoism? Or our culture create our grammar?’

  ‘Well? Which is it?’

  ‘Haven’t decided yet. What do you reckon?’

  ‘I’d need time to think about it. But it’s an interesting thesis.’

  ‘Thanks. I believe it explains the obsessive deliberation of the Japanese before they decide to do anything. They want to know the who, where, how and why of everything before they move their asses. We Yanks and you Brits. We just jump on in, work out the details later.’

  ‘Seems accurate.’

  ‘You think so?’

  He was about to answer when Fisk suddenly placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘Hey, look at that little doll.’

  That little doll was Sumiko. She had emerged into the garden from one of the side doors, holding a large pile of sheets in both hands. Despite her load, she walked remarkably upright. Edward could just see her face above the top sheet. Her steady forward gaze, eyes showing no sign of a sleepless night. Fisk’s presence was a fortunate distraction. He could focus on the man’s striped tie, the leery eyes, the throat purple-raw and noduled from shaving. He could feel his own skin become hot as he struggled to hold his gaze away from the window.

  ‘Don’t know what to make of them,’ Fisk said, shaking his head as if in a memory of some previous encounter. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not really,’ Edward responded, not sure whether Fisk meant Japanese women or just women in general.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’

  Ishikawa, the hotel manager, had arrived at their table along with the waiter and Fisk’s breakfast. The manager bowed, the morning sun reflecting blindingly on his thick lenses. ‘I am sorry to disturb you. But I must announce that lunch will be served in the terrace-lounge today. The Honourable Prime Minister of India, Jawaharlal Nehru, will be hosting a private luncheon in this room on behalf of the Indo-Japan Friendly Society from twelve o’clock. I trust that this will not inconvenience you in any way.’

  ‘I’m sure we can cope, Ishikawa-san,’ Edward said. ‘I read of the Indian Prime Minister’s visit to Japan. But I didn’t realise he would be staying at this hotel.’

  ‘Regretfully, Mr Strathairn, that will not be the case. I believe the Honourable Prime Minister has to return to Tokyo this evening.’

  Ishikawa remained by the table, rubbing his hands together in what appeared to be gleeful anticipation. ‘And if I may also inform you,’ he continued. ‘Tonight there is to be a performance by the great Chinese illusionist Hu Wei in the Magic Room. Your attendance would be most welcome.’

  ‘The staff call him binzoko,’ Fisk said after Ishikawa had left. ‘Bottle bottoms. Because of the specs. Not to his face, of course. Coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Edward glanced out of the window. Sumiko had already completed her passage across the pond and was gone, the door of her exit left half-open. To add to his misery, a fish bone had wedged itself between two of his back teeth. He tried to dislodge it with his tongue.

  ‘What about your novel?’ Fisk asked.

  ‘Yes, my novel. I am working on the first draft.’

  ‘Well, what’s it called?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s an odd thing. Not having a title.’

  ‘Not really.’ To his relief, the bone had wriggled free. He picked it out of his mouth, wiped it on to his napkin. ‘I believe that anyone who ever says he’s got a wonderful title for a book will never write it,’ he added, stealing one of Aldous’ many pronouncements on literary endeavour.

  Jerome looked chastened. As if he had such a wonderful title stored up there in his brain beside all his linguistic theories.

  ‘So what’s it about then, Eddie? Can you at least tell me that?’

  ‘I took your advice. It’s about American colonialism in Japan.’

  ‘I suggested that?’

  ‘The night I caught the soldier chasing the chambermaid. Coincidentally, it was that girl we just saw in the garden.’

  ‘Can’t blame him then.’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s going to be a love story. But the underlying theme concerns the Tokyo fire-bombings, Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Especially Nagasaki.’

  ‘Why especially Nagasaki?’

  Edward knew he should back off but there was something about Jerome Fisk and his American breakfasts that made him want to continue. ‘Yes, Nagasaki. A monstrous act.’

  ‘It brought the war to a quick end, Eddie. Saved tens of thousands of lives. Both American and Japanese.’

  ‘That’s the official narrative. But the fire-bombings had already brought Japan to its knees. They were ready to surrender even before the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. But even if I could forgive you Yanks for Hiroshima, Nagasaki was completely unnecessary. An utter disregard for civilian life.’

  ‘You really think so?’ Fisk chomped down on a piece of toast. There were buttery crumbs on his chin. ‘So why did we evil Americans do it then?’

  ‘To finish off the Japanese before the Russians got involved in the war in the East. And to show off your devastating weaponry, thereby proving who’d be in charge in the post-war world.’

  ‘That’s a dangerous thesis, Eddie. I’d keep that one to yourself. A lot of our boys who were fighting in the Pacific are still based here. They wouldn’t take too kindly to what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m telling you straight. Bombing Nagasaki was an act of pure evil. The Emperor was ready to surrender. Then seventy thousand civilians wiped out for no reason. What was that all about? It’s about time you Yanks did some soul-searching. Instead of hiding behind this “saved so many lives” story.’

  ‘Like I said, Eddie, there are a lot of guys who wouldn’t take too kindly to what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘And like I said, Fisk. It’s a love story.’

  Fisk dabbed his lips with his napkin, rose to his feet. ‘Well, don’t make it a love story to the Japanese. They had their fair share of evil acts too. Just ask the residents of Nanking about that. Or any of the survivors of the Ba
taan Death March. Hey, maybe I’ll see you tonight in the Magic Room.’

  The Honourable Jawaharlal Nehru had returned to Tokyo but several members of his entourage remained. Edward had seen them loitering in the dining room, milling around in the corridors, strolling in the gardens. A noisy, animated bunch enveloped in clouds of pungent tobacco smoke as they got down to the serious business of politics. Divided strictly by gender and colour of garment – the men in their baggy white cotton clothes, the women in colourful swathes of silk. By the time he arrived at the Magic Room almost all the seats were taken by these distinct groups of Indian men and women.

  Earlier in the day, he’d caught a glimpse of Nehru in his trademark frock coat and white cap, addressing the packed luncheon. He marvelled at how the presence of just this one man could create such a stir among the staff and guests. The hotel so puffed up for the event, Edward imagined he could hear the beams and plaster crack with pride. Limousines stacked up in the forecourt, their capped drivers, arms folded, leaning carelessly against the expensive paintwork. Journalists, photographers, police officers, all adding to the excitement. An excitement that remained and carried over as a palpable buzz to the Magic Room, this salon off the main reception area, where the guests chatted and smoked as they awaited the commencement of the evening’s entertainment.

  He scanned the room, trying to locate Sumiko among the few members of staff in attendance. He had not seen her since her morning cameo in the garden. She had not come out to the waterwheel to deliver his afternoon tea nor had she attended to his room while he had been at dinner. He worried that he had scared her to the point of leaving her employment.

  ‘Hey, Eddie.’ Fisk shouting, pointing frantically to the empty seat beside him. ‘Come sit here.’

  Edward pushed his way through a bevy of Indian woman to the front of the room.

  ‘Kept one for you, pal.’

  ‘Very considerate.’

  ‘Just being an evil American. Did you see him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The great man. Nehru.’

  ‘Only in passing.’

  ‘I got to shake his hand.’ Fisk wriggled his palm at him as if it still retained some essence of the Indian leader.

  ‘Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Wished him good luck.’

  ‘Good luck for what?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s a big country he’s running.’

  ‘The show’s about to start.’

  ‘Yeah, like I’m going to see the Great Houdini or something.’

  ‘Maybe you will.’

  Ishikawa performed the task of master of ceremonies, introducing Hu Wei to the audience first in Japanese then in English. The internationally-acclaimed illusionist was a thin, elderly gentleman who bore all the usual characteristics of his trade – the wispy beard, the pantaloons, the wide-sleeved silk coat embroidered with gold dragons. More impressive was the Chinaman’s air of aloofness, as if he were here this evening to pass on the mysteries of his ancestors, but only if he deemed the audience worthy of receiving them.

  The illusionist started off modestly. Rings were linked and unlinked with ease, silk handkerchiefs changed colour, a needle was passed through a balloon. Edward had seen a similar performance at the Glasgow Hippodrome with his father just before the war. It was all very ho-hum. He was just about to slip away when Hu Wei announced in English:

  ‘Many of you may have seen an illusionist cut a woman in half. But tonight I will go one stage further.’ He stretched out an arm to beckon the arrival of two of the hotel staff carrying a long, pale-green wooden box, which was placed on top of a covered table.

  ‘Tonight I will cut a woman into three parts. Please. My assistant for this evening.’

  And there she was. Sumiko. Shuffling on to centre stage, dressed in her traditional kimono, her face painted with thick white make-up. She bowed to the audience, her eyelids fluttering, the stage lights reflecting the perspiration on her upper lip. She really did look like someone who was about to be cut up into parts. Edward genuinely feared for her – not for her safety – but for her ability to carry out the performance. Surely she had never done anything like this before.

  At Hu Wei’s beckoning, she entered the box from one side, sliding in until her quivering feet appeared at the far end. There were three flaps across the front that Hu Wei lifted and closed in order to show the three sections of her body. A saw was produced and flourished high above the audience. Sumiko’s head and feet settled into tense stillness. The audience hushed. And the cutting began. It wasn’t the illusion of the sawing that enthralled Edward, or the grind of metal teeth on wood, the sawdust gathering on the floor, the collective imagining of torn flesh, blood, organs and entrails. It was when Hu Wei separated the three sawn sections, moving them on their individual tables about the stage, that he became the most excited. Sumiko’s head on one side of the stage, her torso on another, her legs in the middle. He found the whole performance to be extremely erotic, as if each part of her was being served up for him, and for him alone. Of course, Hu Wei re-formed her, held her hand while she tip-toed front stage, bowed to the audience. Edward clapped loudly, too loudly, in the hope of attracting her attention. But she remained impassive, caught up in an almost trance-like state that may or may not have been part of the act. She bowed again and disappeared behind a rear curtain.

  The audience had hardly re-settled in their seats when the illusionist moved into his finale – shooting flames from the tips of his fingers. It was a spectacular display of digital fireworks, provoking loud cheering until one of Hu Wei’s ribbons of fire hit a pelmet to the side of the stage. The flame flickered then caught hold of the curtain fabric. Edward assumed, as must have everyone else in the static audience, that the incident was part of the illusionist’s act, until he saw a young reception clerk rush from the back of the room, rip down the flaming fabric, throw a bucket of sand over the fiery heap. The poor lad appeared to burn his hand in the process.

  ‘I am a doctor,’ declared an Indian gentleman emerging from the audience. ‘Ice. Get me a bucket of ice. Please. I will need some ice. And make way for our young hero.’

  There was a burst of applause as the crowd parted. Edward saw Hu Wei pick up a piece of the burnt fabric from the stage, shake his head, then follow the doctor and his charge downstairs to the kitchens. Someone opened a window to let out the lingering smoke.

  ‘Quite a performance,’ Fisk said, flushed his cheeks.

  ‘The sawing or the burning?’

  ‘The whole goddamn show. Fancy a nightcap?’

  ‘Another time. I think I’ll go back to my room. I feel like writing.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to disturb the muse. And the untitled novel.’

  Edward really did feel like writing. The events of the day and evening shaking him up into a state of creative agitation. He needed to get it all out, get something down on paper.

  She was waiting for him. In the semi-darkness. Sitting in the armchair where he had sat the night before waiting for her. Fingers of blue moonbeams lighting up her pale make-up. That porcelain face.

  ‘I am trembling,’ she said.

  He walked over to where she sat, drew her off the chair. She really was shaking. She held her face up to his. That white, expressionless mask. The corner of her eyes bloody in irritation from the make-up. What did she want? He really couldn’t tell. He held two alien cultures in his hands. The culture of woman. The culture of the Japanese. He could not read the signs, these strange hieroglyphs of need, desire, fear. Then instinct or passion or some other invisible force took over. And he kissed her.

  At first, Edward feared he might be acting merely in the spirit of the times, the lingering zeitgeist of the Occupation – another arrogant, foreign victor come to take the spoils now that the Americans had departed. Or even more simply, that he was the honoured paying guest taking advantage of the poor chambermaid. But it was not like that. This was not an unequal partnership. Sumiko possessed as much power
over him as he did her. His life became dictated by the possibility of her turning the handle of his door as he waited, caught on that emotional ledge between anticipation and disappointment.

  Sumiko confided their liaison to no one. And neither did he. The Fuji Suite served as the sole location of their relationship, and by making herself responsible on the staff rota for the cleaning of their love nest, she gradually sneaked more and more of her belongings into his rooms. He loved these almost daily additions to his surroundings. When she was not there, he would go over to the wardrobe just to smell her scent on the sleeves of her garments or play with the jars of mysterious creams and unguents on the dressing table. There was something comforting in seeing her robe draped over the foot of his bed, discovering a long strand of her hair in the basin or flicking through the pages of the book she was reading just to feel where her own fingers had been.

  ‘You should read this book,’ she said. She was sitting upright and bath-clean on the bed, wrapped in a blue and white yukata courtesy of her employer. Her feet were bare. Such tiny feet. He abandoned his manuscript just to go over and kiss their soles. Her skin hot and scented from the soak. She giggled and wriggled and kicked at him to stop.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, sliding up to lie beside her.

  ‘Snow Country. By Yasunari Kawabata. It is both sad and beautiful. It is my favourite book.’

  ‘My Japanese is not good enough to appreciate such a novel.’

  ‘I will help you translate.’

  ‘What is it about?’

  ‘About a cold man from the city. He goes once a year to an onsen in the snow country. There he meets a hot-spring geisha. Are you such a cold man?’

  ‘Why do you say such a thing?’

  ‘Because sometimes you are mean to me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In little ways.’