‘Why, of course she is.’
Edward had actually felt his heart quicken to this piece of information. A double beat. A skip of joy. When had he last felt joy? Pure joy.
‘And how is she?’
‘I can tell you she is in very good health.’
‘That’s pleasing to hear.’
‘She left her employment at this hotel many years ago but in recent years she has chosen to live close by.’
‘My goodness. She lives here in Hakone?’
‘Only ten minutes or so from the hotel.’
‘Only ten minutes.’
‘By car.’
‘Ten minutes by car. Is that all?’
‘Yes, very close by.’
‘Do you think it would be possible to see her?’
‘Absolutely.’ Takahashi had leaned forward across the table. ‘I hope you don’t mind. But I took the liberty of calling her earlier. Before I came here for our little chat. She asks if this afternoon at the Hakone Open-Air Museum would be convenient. At three o’clock?’
It was quarter to three now. He shivered on his bench, clasping his scarf tighter at the neck, observing the elderly Japanese gentleman sitting in a wheelchair opposite, mummified in a tartan blanket. This poor soul must have been abandoned by his relatives or carers as they sought to explore the gardens unhampered. So there the old man sat, staring straight ahead through thick lenses, no one to wipe the dribble off his crumpled chin, lined up opposite like some medieval jousting companion. Edward shivered again, dismissing any comparison with his fellow senior citizen. After all, he had been able to fly halfway across the world. He had taken bullet trains to Tokyo. He had wandered these grounds under his own volition. He had even managed a half-mast erection in the bath. Try doing that, old man. Just try doing that.
As if to prove his point, Edward stood up, tapped his cane loudly on the tiles in the direction of the wheelchair, before taking another little tour of the gardens, humming as he went. That same damn tune. He had been sure it was the national anthem. But perhaps it really was the melody for the Tokyo Olympics. Da, da, da-da-da. He had left Japan long before that event had taken place. But he remembered watching it on television. Black and white. Fuzzy. Via satellite. Such a concept in those days. As was this open-air museum in these days. This environmental art. This artistic environment. He would re-visit the Moore sculptures and, if there was time, the ceramics at the Picasso exhibition.
He was aware of his calmness despite the impending meeting. But that was often the case with these dramatic and traumatic moments in his life. It was as though his nerves were so overwhelmed by the thought of meeting Sumiko again, they switched him into some kind of serene state, a higher plane, a second spiritual wind. As a marathon runner must experience after the first ten miles or a climber at high altitude pushing over 14,000 feet. Accelerated heartbeat, a struggle for breath, dizziness, nausea and then… the barrier is crossed. Overdrive. Less revs per minute. Fifth gear. Cruising. That was how he felt now. It was how he had felt when he had taken his driving test, married, knelt before the Queen. An inner calm. His own secret weapon.
The Henry Moore sculpture garden. So appropriate to let these huge bronzes lie back, legs wide apart, and breathe the mountain air, their undulating forms so reflective of the nature around them. So organic. So fluid. He just wanted to reach out and touch, run his palm over the speckled bronze mounds. The knees. The breasts. Crying out to be caressed. What could they do to him for such a sin? Arrest him? He was sure Henry wouldn’t mind. Not that he knew the man personally, although he did recall attending some function with him years ago. In the Seventies. A garden party? He remembered marquees, waiters drifting among the guests on the lawns, noble Henry among them, the miner’s son made good. From hewn coal to sculpted bronze. No, Henry wouldn’t mind. And anyway who would know? There were no cameras. No guards. Just a discreet slide of the hand. Like that. The metal chill to the touch. So smooth.
‘Eddie-chan. Eddie-chan. There you are.’
His hand leapt off the sculpture. He twisted around in the direction of the voice. And there she was. Not exactly running towards him. But walking quickly. With those small steps of hers. Both arms outstretched. Not in a kimono but wearing a knee-length plaid skirt and a green blazer. Looking as if she had just won the US Masters. What a strange thought to creep into his mind at a moment like this. He didn’t even like golf. She was closer now. Her figure the same. Not filled out, but trim. Perhaps from playing golf. He believed it had become a very popular sport here. Those two hands out to greet him. Then noticing his cane, only one hand. So awkward. What to do? What to say? And then his fingers plucked into hers, his skin memory tingling to her touch, causing another shiver through him, and the smile spreading weblike around her eyes, and the hair streaked with grey and the mouth exactly the same, kissing him warm on one cold cheek and then the other. She stood back and looked at him as if she were measuring up a cabinet for her living room, and he wondered what she thought about this shrivelled up, pitiful old man with his walking stick and his few strands of hair and his crumpled-up suit trying to look so calm and dignified and unflustered and noble like Henry Moore at a garden party, yet feeling the opposite with his flimsy heart banging around inside of him, and his frail lungs struggling to say this one word:
‘Sumiko.’
‘Oh, Eddie,’ she said, a scolding tone in her voice. Scolding him for what? For never contacting her in more than forty years? For being so decrepit while she remained so vibrant? ‘I am so happy to see you.’
‘As I am happy to see you.’ He held on to her hand, so tiny in his grasp, clinging desperately to this lifeline back to that wonderful part of his past when he had so much energy and passion, when there was so much to do, to be achieved. ‘You look beautiful,’ he added.
‘I look like an old woman.’
‘Nothing of the sort.’ His turn to playfully scold as he tried to make the calculation. She would be sixty-nine, seventy at most. ‘You are a young beauty.’
‘Enough flattering,’ she said, squeezing his hand before she let it go. ‘Let me take you for tea. There is a lovely chaya down by the pond. We can sit outside if it is not too cold.’ He was surprised when she linked her arm in his, perhaps in nostalgic affection, or perhaps just to support him. But he felt a tingle from her closeness. A tingle that went all the way down to his abdomen. He started humming again.
‘Tell me, what is this tune? I cannot get it out of my head.’
‘Oh, Eddie. Is that all you can say to me after all this time?’
‘No, seriously.’ He hummed a bar. She giggled. So he hummed another. ‘It’s not your national anthem, is it?’
‘No, it is not. It sounds like that song for the Tokyo Olympics. Da da da-da-da.’
He smiled and continued humming the tune as they walked.
The chaya was set in such a lovely spot on the edge of the woods, nestling up to a pool, accessible only by a bridge. The water brimming with carp, of course. Despite the cold, it was hard to resist sitting outside at a table, each one shaded by a pale-orange umbrella. He would have preferred to be inside but here by the pond it was so – he had to admit it – so romantic. He had actually put ambience before his own personal comfort. When was the last time he had done that? Sumiko off to freshen up as she put it. Her English so fluent. That was a surprise. After his departure he would have expected her to be sucked back into a Japanese world of waitresses and chambermaids, her English discarded like love-letters on a flame. Here she was now, bringing out their tray of tea-things, just as she used to tend to him as he sat by the waterwheel. And as he watched her graceful approach, he felt something he had not felt for a long time. Gratitude. Towards some universal force, or God, or deities, or Nature, or whatever else made this world spin round. Yes, he felt gratitude for being allowed to live long enough to enjoy these poignant moments.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ she said, laying out the cups and saucers on their little
table. ‘Coming back to Japan after all this time and not contacting me immediately.’
‘I didn’t even know if you were still alive.’
‘You just needed to ask.’
‘I didn’t know who to ask. I was frightened to ask.’
‘Frightened, Eddie? Is that really true? Or were you just ashamed?’
‘Why would I be ashamed?’
‘That such a famous writer should have known such a lowly chambermaid?’
‘You could blame me for many things but not that. I was never ashamed of our relationship. Secretive, maybe. But not ashamed.’
‘Then why frightened to ask?’ She began to pour out the tea, first into his cup and then into her own. Then a glance at him, a smile. A smile that was hard to interpret. ‘Did you think I would want to scold you?’
‘I thought you might be dead. That it would be too late.’
‘Why should you care now? You had more than forty years to find out about my welfare. Oh, look what I’ve done…’ She had spilt some tea on the table. He passed her a paper napkin from his plate. ‘I am sorry,’ she said.
‘An accident.’
‘I mean I am sorry for my comments. They are very harsh. I am not being very polite. I must stop behaving like a stupid schoolgirl. The past is the past.’
He placed his hand on hers. Could almost feel her jump to his touch but she did not withdraw from his grasp. His white-haired, liver-spotted hand covering her smooth, unblemished skin. ‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ he said, taking his hand away.
She sat down, gathered herself into a stiffness. ‘How was your trip to Tokyo?’
‘Takahashi-san told you?’
‘No.’ She looked away from him, then back again. ‘Jerome did.’
‘Jerome? You still know Jerome?’
‘I married him,’ she said flatly. ‘He didn’t tell you?’
A strange laugh erupted in his throat, a sound he did not recognise as part of himself. Jerome and Sumiko. Sumiko and Jerome. He shook his head. ‘He mentioned there had been a marriage to a Japanese girl. He just didn’t tell me it was you.’
He waited for her to say something. But she remained silent, began touching things on the table. A salt cellar, a sachet of sweetener, a small vase with a plastic flower.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Don’t you think that’s strange? I mean we were standing in his office together looking at a photograph of you. You and me in Kamakura.’
She shrugged. ‘Not really. After all, we don’t see each other very much these days. We have a Japanese divorce. For the sake of form, we are still married. But the reality is that he spends all his time in Tokyo. And I live here in the mountains where I am happy. Jerome is very kind to support me in this arrangement.’
‘How long did you stay together?’
‘It doesn’t really matter.’ She picked up her cup, sipped at her tea, all the time looking at him over the rim. ‘What did you expect me to do? After you left me I was devastated and I was… I was soiled goods. Jerome was the only one to pick up the pieces when I realised you would never come back. When there was not even a letter. What right do you have to…?’ She sucked in her breath, held up her palm towards him as if to ward off his evil presence. ‘No, no. I said to myself I will not be angry. I will not be angry.’ She wriggled her shoulders, shivering herself into more of a calmness. ‘Sugar? Do you take sugar in your tea, Eddie? See, I have forgotten, if you take sugar in your tea.’
‘One,’ he said, reproaching himself for feeling a certain satisfaction at the sudden shrill in her voice.
‘Would you like to try a piece of this cherry cake?’ she asked, her tone changing again, more gentle. ‘It looks very delicious, don’t you think? And then you can tell me why you have finally returned to our hotel in the mountains.’
He didn’t want to tell her why he had come back. All she needed to know was that he was happy to be here right now in this tearoom. The reality of the moment. It felt so relaxing just sitting by this pond in the crisp mountain air. The waning sun. Branches lifting and settling in a light breeze. Modernist sculptures beckoning his eye from various niches on the hillside. Tea warming his belly, spreading heat through his veins. No current aches or pain he could speak of. Sumiko seated across from him. On the bridge, a young child, her face drawn into concentration in the realisation of her power to attract the carp simply by throwing crumbs into the water. He picked up his fork, carved out a piece of cake from the slice Sumiko had placed on his plate. The moist sponge mingled in his mouth with the sticky-sweet ripeness of the cherries. She was right. This cake was delicious. He looked up and watched as she dabbed her eyes then her lips with her napkin, leaving stains of red on the dimpled paper.
‘It’s all right, Eddie. There is no need to explain.’ And this time it was she who reached out, touched his arm, her tiny fingers so pale against the dark wool.
‘Did you ever read my book?’ he asked. ‘Did you read The Waterwheel?’
‘I started it,’ she said. ‘But once I saw you named that stupid panpan girl after me, I put it down. How could you do that to me?’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
London • 1957
For the first time in his life, Edward flew. From Tokyo to Anchorage to Copenhagen to London on a Scandinavian Airlines DC7C. Whatever that was. As long as the shiny, noisy metal tube was robust enough to sustain him these many, many hours aloft, he didn’t care what kind of aircraft he was in. This was the newly inaugurated Polar Route and he had decided to take it, needing to move quickly, not languish for weeks on the deck of an ocean liner playing quoits. Publishers were interested. Editing had to be done. He was willing to cough up the cash for the ticket, pack up his fear for a day or so, knock back a few whiskies and let the shining-blonde Scandinavian crew with their perfect teeth and their DC7C perform their shuddering, juddering airborne tasks. He had slept for large segments of the journey, but woke for the excitement of passing over the Arctic, of witnessing the white cowl of the world. The floes shone blue in the holy hum of the eerie night and he half-expected to see Amundsen’s frozen Norwegian flag down there somewhere marking the spot. After this first rush to the window, he ordered another drink, tried to relax into the majestic monotony. The empty landscape would take hours to cross, blank pages needing to be filled.
It was hard to believe that only a short time earlier he had been standing in the hotel forecourt having his photograph taken with the staff. Ishikawa-san had made a speech, presented him with a signed and bound history of the hotel. Sumiko lingered in the background. Then her co-workers came forward to offer small gifts and kind words. Sumiko eventually approached in the wake of her colleagues, head bowed as she gave him a copy of Kawabata’s Snow Country. Before he had time to thank her, she had turned and was already hurrying back to the servants’ quarters. It was the last he saw of her. There was no inscription either. He opened the book, translated the first two lines in his head.
“The train came out of the long tunnel into the snow country.
The earth lay white under the night sky.”
He quietly mouthed the words again, remembering how Sumiko would do the same as she lay on his bed with the novel propped up against the pillow. As if by somehow reading the words aloud, the story became more alive in her imagination. He slipped back the curtain, looked down at the icy expanse. At this, his own snow country. The earth really did lie white under the night sky. This frozen tundra. Tundra. Such a cold and lonely word. To accompany such a cold and lonely journey. He would sleep restless from now on to Copenhagen. For if this DC7C were to crash, it would smash harsh and brutal on the tundra. A wreck of tangled metal lying isolated on the permafrost. And there was still the add-on leg from Copenhagen to London to come.
His feet might have stepped on to the tarmac but his soul was still airborne, in that rushing, droning, pressurised cabin, hurtling along at however many hundreds of miles an hour a DC7C was capable of generating. Body-grounded, soul-flying, he was glidin
g through a new vocabulary of travel – gates and ramps and passport control and luggage collection and conveyor belts and customs. Whoosh through the swing doors. And there was Aldous, standing at the end of the walkway, wearing the same long raincoat he had worn to see him off at Southampton, leaning against a concrete pillar, smoking a cigarette like some spy come to pick up his contact, striding over towards him, arms ridiculously extended. “Hello, my dear boy, so wonderful to see you. How was the trip over the Pole? Come, I have a car.” Then the two of them walking across the newly tiled lounge and out of another set of swing doors into the brisk air. “The car is just over here, yes, I learned to drive since you have been away, what is so strange about that? I am not a total incompetent when it comes to machinery you know, I’ll take your suitcase, I’ll just open the door for you.” And there was a backseat passenger, just a silhouette, but Edward recognised her immediately.
‘Hello, Eddie,’ she said, her voice coming to him out of the past, down some windblown tunnel.
First one ear popped, then the other, and Edward suddenly could hear the noise of the airport all around him, like a brass band struck up just for this occasion.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Macy patted the leather upholstery and he noticed his treasonous body slipping in beside her even as his heart and mind tried to cope with the turmoil. Perhaps this was what the more experienced flyers called ‘jet lag’. This disembodiment. This detachment. His spirit still soaring above, observing this little play. That was it. He was in a kitchen sink drama. Aldous, the audience, moving in to his seat up front with a suitcase as a passenger, engine starting up, eyes on the road, ears pricked, waiting for the first lines to be said.
‘I don’t have to have a reason for everything I do, Eddie.’
An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Page 18
