‘“Kamakura lies host to more than eighty Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines,”’ Jerome read from his guidebook. ‘“It was chosen as the capital of Japan in the 12th century by the Minamoto shogunate because of its natural defences. The sea on one side, hills on the other three so that even to this day any entrance unless by boat means a train or road journey through tunnels. Fifty miles south of the modern day capital, it is a place where Tokyoites come to pray and play.” Get that. Pray and play. I like that.’
Fifty miles south of Tokyo. By the sea. Where Tokyoites come to play. Those were the facts that caught Edward’s attention. Kamakura sounded like the Brighton of Japan. Brighton. That was the last time he had been to the seaside. The last time he had seen Macy. He had not thought of her for a long time. Yet as soon as he ventured out of his little cave into the real world, there she was. Ahead of him on the pebbled beach, her sunburnt shoulders, summer dress drawn tight over her buttocks, shell to her ear. Dancing. He moved his hand close to Sumiko’s, scraped gently at the skin of her wrist with his little finger.
‘I want some photos of the Giant Buddha,’ Jerome said, declaring his intentions early, like a young child on a family outing. He had brought his Brownie, held it tight on his lap. ‘I think I could get some really good shots if the light keeps like this. Yeah, this is excellent light. More than I could have hoped for at this time of year. Class A light. What about you, Eddie?’
‘I’d like to see the sea.’
‘That can be easily arranged. And Sumiko-chan?’
‘I want to see the house of Kawabata-sensei. If we can find it.’
‘Sure we’ll find it,’ said Jerome. ‘That will be our mission for the day. To give Sumiko-chan whatever she wants.’
‘The head looks too big for its body,’ Edward muttered as he sat there observing the Giant Buddha, Sumiko beside him, Jerome in a crouch snapping away at the statue with his camera. The Giant Buddha stood forty feet high according to the guidebook, but appeared much taller in reality. Big and squat. That was what was unusual about the structure. Its squatness. Edward had seen his fair share of towers and columns and steeples and statues on plinths. All reaching for the sky. For immortality. But this Buddha was very much of the earth. Solid. Mortal. Its bronze coating oxidised blue-green from six hundred years of wind, rain, beating sun, storms and quakes, as well as the curious touch and disrespectful buttocks of strangers. Cast in lotus position, hands clasped, eyes closed, that too-large head bowed in meditation.
‘That is because of where we sit,’ Sumiko said. ‘If we stand in a special spot just in front of Daibutsu, it is a perfect shape.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I came here before on a high school trip.’
‘I can imagine you as a schoolgirl. Uniform and pigtails. Little white socks.’
‘Blue. Dark blue socks.’ She smiled, walked him over to the location to show him what she meant. She was right. The Giant Buddha now sat facing him in proper proportion. Such a serene icon compared to the agonising Christ of his own religion.
‘Smile for the camera.’ Jerome in front of them, box Brownie tucked into the pit of his stomach, head bowed to the view finder, shouting instructions, waving them closer. Sumiko giggling but Edward feeling her awkward and tense in his grasp at this public display of affection. A Japanese couple stopping to stare at the gaijin and his mistress. At the loud American. ‘Say cheese.’
‘Cheeeeese.’ Click. Frozen in time.
‘Can I have a copy?’ Edward shouted over to Jerome.
‘For Sumiko?’ Jerome shouted back.
‘What do you think? For Ishikawa-san?’
This made Sumiko laugh. Edward couldn’t remember having done that before. Then Jerome doing the same with his antics and his pathetic Japanese jokes. The two men getting loud and worked up into some kind of competitive frenzy, Sumiko laughing at the stupidity of it all.
She took them to a soba shop she remembered from her high school trip. Old beams, counter bar, enormous pots of scalding water steaming the windows wet. A gnarled old man with black teeth serving warm sake out of a kettle. Edward made sure he had a seat beside Sumiko while Jerome talked to his driver, a cheerful little Buddha of a man, sending him off to the nearest police box to find out where Kawabata lived.
‘What do you want to do when we get there?’ Edward asked her.
‘Jerome-san can take photograph for me.’
‘You should knock on the door. Tell him how much you like his book.’
She looked shocked. ‘You would do that?’
‘We Americans would,’ Jerome said, pulling up a stool. ‘Ask the man for his autograph. A cup of Joe. No problem.’ Making Sumiko laugh again.
The driver came back with the address and directions. Jerome clapping him on the back, buying him a bowl of noodles, telling him to sit and relax. They would abandon the car for the next few hours, walk along the seafront to the house.
The beach was empty, apart from a few bored fishermen drying seaweed on racks, the dark green fronds blowing like bunting in the breeze. No seagulls, just a couple of crows foraging for food among the stranded fishing boats. The island of Oshima just visible in a haze on the horizon. Sumiko took off her shoes, hitched up the hem of her kimono, to walk barefoot in the dark sand. Edward strolled beside her, Jerome up ahead, trousers rolled up, kicking up a splash in a stream.
‘It will rain soon,’ she said.
‘Looks likely.’
‘Your friend is a funny man.’
‘He’s leaving tomorrow for Tokyo.’
‘Kawai so,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity.’
And here was Jerome again, full of exaggerated bows, making a big show of leading Sumiko by the hand, taking her to the edge of the stream, helping her over on the conveniently placed rocks like some American Walter Raleigh. But halfway across, one of the stones rocked on its side, and she slipped. Jerome reached out, tried to grab her, but she fell, landing half in and half out of the shallow water.
‘Bakka ne?’ she said, holding her ankle. ‘I am so stupid.’ Her body lay sideways and twisted, the bottom of her kimono soaked, sand in her hair. Edward tried to haul her up, Jerome too, but she winced with pain.
‘Itai,’ she whimpered. ‘It is sore. I cannot stand.’
Edward crouched down, lifted her up like a bride, so light in his arms. She leaned her head into his neck and he felt the warm breath there, the wetness of her lashes on his cheek. It was too far to carry her back to the soba shop, so he eased her down on one foot. With one arm around his neck, the other around Jerome’s, she managed to hop back along the beach to the car. Jerome had to wake up his driver, told him to take them to a local hospital, which he did, swinging the car through the narrow streets like a field ambulance on a mercy mission. A nurse bound up the swollen ankle, lent Sumiko a pair of crutches.
The buoyant mood that had infected the start of the day was gone. Their trio was split, deflated. Jerome had moved up front to sit by the driver, Sumiko sat huddled in a corner in the back, her injured leg stretched across the floor, across Edward’s feet. He stared out at the choppy waves of a murky sea as the car hugged the coastline before peeling off for the hills.
‘Bakka ne?’ she said. ‘I ruin your day.’
‘These things happen,’ Edward said. ‘It’s no one’s fault.’
‘Blame me,’ Jerome said, turning round. ‘I should’ve paid more attention. Everything was going just fine until I had to do my big goofy routine.’
‘You didn’t hear me, Jerome. No one’s fault. Leave it at that.’
‘Yeah, that may be. But she didn’t get to see the house. I feel bad about that. You really wanted to see that house, Sumiko-chan, didn’t you?’
‘We’ll go to Kawabata-sensei’s house next time in Kamakura, Eddie? Next time?’
‘Yes. Next time.’
It started to rain. Mount Fuji should have been visible somewhere ahead, but its presence was obscured by low clouds. There seemed to
be no bright colour anywhere. Only the drab browns and greys of seaside homes out of season, shutters battened down against the weather. No one spoke. All of them hunkered down into their private worlds, the rain lending a kind of legitimacy to the solitude. For that was what people did, didn’t they? Listen to rain. Edward listened to it himself, pelting the bodywork, drumming a natural beat to his thoughts.
On Jerome’s instruction, the car stopped to let Sumiko off at the entrance to the staff annexe rather than in the village. The driver got out, pulled open the passenger door, held out an umbrella for her.
‘Thank you for such a happy day,’ she said, bowing in her crutches to each of them. As Edward watched her hobble inside, an intense sadness took hold of him. He wanted to rush after her, grab her, shake her, tell her something. Tell her what? That he loved her? Too late he noticed she had forgotten one of her shoes in the car.
Back at the main hotel building, he said a tepid farewell to Jerome. He genuinely liked the man although their political differences had prevented any kind of real friendship. Disappointment. That was what he felt now. About Jerome. About Sumiko. About the whole day.
‘Mr Strathairn. Mr Strathairn.’
Ishikawa. Edward feared the hotel manager had found him out for kidnapping and wounding a member of his staff. The incriminating shoe stuffed in his pocket.
‘Ah, Mr Strathairn. I have been looking all over for you. It is so unusual not to find you in the hotel.’
‘I have been to Kamakura. With Mr Fisk. Is there a problem?’
‘Not a problem, I hope. Only a telegram.’ The manager handed over the envelope. Edward tore it open and read.
“I love MS. Publishers interested. Come back immediately. A.”
It took Edward a few moments to realise MS stood for manuscript and not the initials of one of Aldous’ lovers.
He sat in the armchair by the bedroom window, the lights dimmed, a glass of malt whisky in one hand, the telegram in the other. He could hear Sumiko coming down the long hallway, the thud, thud, thud of her crutches on the carpeted floor, not unlike the heavy beat of his own heart. He rose from his seat, walked unsteadily across the room, opened the door just as she arrived on the other side.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘O genki desu ka?’
She swung herself across the threshold. ‘I am fine. Just so sorry to spoil everything.’
‘Don’t be silly. These things can’t be helped. Accidents happen.’ He felt he would be happy to go on like this, just spouting clichés. ‘Did you enjoy Kamakura anyway?’
‘It was such a lovely day. And I laughed so much. Jerome-san is very funny. Thank you for taking me.’
‘You must have some tea,’ he said. ‘I insist.’
‘Please don’t fuss, Eddie-chan. I just want to sit, thank you. My foot is still sore.’
‘Of course, you must sit. Here take my armchair. And I’ll get some pillows to prop up your ankle.’
She sat down and he brought her a footstool, some cushions off the bed. Then he topped up his glass from the decanter on his desk. He tried to keep his hand steady as he poured.
‘What is wrong, Eddie-chan?’
‘Nothing is wrong.’
‘You act very nervous.’
He sighed. ‘There is something I need to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
He looked around for the telegram, he had put it down somewhere while fetching the pillows. There it was on the bedside table. He picked it up, waved it at her.
‘This has come,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ she gasped. ‘Someone is dead?’
‘No, no, it is nothing like that. It is good news for a change. No, I didn’t mean it like that either. It is good news for me. No, not that. I have to go. To go back to London.’
‘You will be away for a long time?’
‘I am leaving Japan for good, Sumiko. This is a telegram from my agent.’ Again he waved the document at her, as if it were a divine calling rather than Aldous’ probably over-optimistic words of command. ‘Publishers are interested in my book. I have to go back. I need to think about my career. I am not coming back.’
‘But you told me you are happy here.’
‘Yes, that is true.’
‘Why are you leaving then?’
‘Because happiness is not enough.’
She let out a horrible wailing sound, dropped her head. Her shoulders began to shake. He found himself on the verge of crying himself. That leaden ball of emotion in his stomach all wrapped up inside of him waiting for release.
‘Take me with you,’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘Please take me with you.’
‘That’s not possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’ He gave her a whole list of reasons. Logistical reasons. Cultural reasons. Consular issues. Everything except the truth. That she was of this time and place in his life. She was of Japan. It was not a relationship he could transfer, just like that, exchanged like currency from one country to the other. How could he tell her that?
‘You see,’ she said. ‘I am just your panpan girl.’
‘I’ve told you before. That’s not true.’
‘You are just like the Americans,’ she hissed. Then she began to struggle out of the armchair, pulling herself up on her crutches.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘To have a bath.’
‘A bath? Now?
‘Yes, now. I feel dirty. Or do you want me to get out of this room too?’
‘Let me help you then.’
‘Leave me.’
He let her be, poured another drink, went to sit by his desk at the window, the burn of the whisky starting to soothe him. He heard her turn on the giant taps, the hollow clunks resounding somewhere deep in the pipework as the water came gushing in. He cursed himself for hurting her. But it was true what he had said – happiness was not enough for him right now. It was meaning he craved. If he wanted happiness, he could just stay here, existing only in the present, in this village, at this hotel, in this room, with Sumiko, without a care for what had been in his life or what would be. But if he wanted his life to have meaning, to have some kind of narrative arc, he needed to think about his future as well.
Somewhere out in the darkness, he heard an owl call. He leaned forward, pulled aside one of the curtains. It was a clear night, a half moon in the sky. He could just make out the hotel boilerhouse with its giant chimney, the tennis courts, the path that led through the trees to the waterwheel. He thought of how he used to write there in the late summer, how beautiful the light was as it filtered through the trees, spread out over the pond, illuminating the orange-gold backs of the carp languidly swimming to and fro. Sumiko would bring him out tea and biscuits on a lacquer tray, sit with him for a few minutes, just the two of them, silently, listening to the waterwheel filling and emptying its troughs in a gentle flow.
It was the warm ooze around his stockinged feet that alerted him. At first, he thought he’d spilt a cup of tea on the carpet, the tea on the lacquer tray that had formed part of his reverie. Then through the pleasant numbness of his alcoholic haze, he realised what was happening. He rushed to the door. But it was locked. He banged his fist hard on the wooden panelling. ‘Sumiko,’ he cried. ‘Sumiko. Open up.’ Silence. Except for the gush of the taps.
He tried the door again, shook the handle. It was only a snib on the other side. He took a few steps backwards then hastened forward, shoulder first. The lock gave away easily and he was through.
He stood in a slush of water, mist filled the room. He could just see the upper half of Sumiko’s naked body slumped in the bath, one arm draped over the side, her bandaged ankle propped between the taps.
‘Sumiko!’ he screamed. He rushed over to her, knelt down in the puddles of water, grabbed her shoulders, shook her gently. ‘My God. What have you done?’
No response.
He slapped her lightly across her che
eks. Her head jerked and she breathed out a moan.
‘Thank God,’ he said. He dipped both his hands into the warm water and under her body, scooped her up and out of the bath. Somehow he managed to stand her upright, balance her limp body against his own so he could reach out, grab a towel, wrap it around her. Then, careful not to slip on the wet floor, he carried her into the bedroom, laid her gently down on the bed.
‘What have you done?’ he asked again.
Her eyes flickered open. ‘Nan desu-ka?’ she whispered.
‘Did you take something? Some medicine?’
‘Hai,’ she said drowsily. ‘Before I came. The hospital gave me. Because of the pain. It makes me sleepy. Sleepy in the warm bath. So sleepy.’
‘You fell asleep?’ he said.
‘Hai,’ she said. ‘The taps, Eddie-chan. The taps are still running.’
He went back into the bathroom, turned off the water, let the bath drain. When he returned to the bedroom, she was fast asleep again. He found her yukata, spread it across her towel-wrapped body, lay down on his back beside her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hakone, Japan • 2003
He had arrived early at the Hakone Open-Air Museum with its twenty-six works by Henry Moore and the exuberant paintings, ceramics, sculptures and tapestries displayed at the Picasso Pavilion. He wanted to locate the meeting place at the Shikanai Plaza, stroll around the sculpture exhibits and installations on the lawns, visit the works of Miro, Calder, Bourdelle and Dubuffet in the main gallery, then return to the plaza in plenty of time to cool down and relax from his exertions. To sit waiting as a calm and unflustered gentleman, resting on his cane, enjoying the fresh air, at one with nature on this dull afternoon. Only a few hours previously, Takahashi had supplied the answers to the questions he had wanted to ask ever since he had arrived back in Japan: ‘Do you know what happened to Sumiko? Is she still alive?’
An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Page 17
