‘No, no,’ she said, looking quite shocked. ‘I want the gardens. Will you take me there?’
It turned out her father had worked at the hotel as a gardener before the war. She had grown up nearby with her mother and her two sisters, often coming by to play in the grounds but never going into the hotel itself. That was strictly off limits for children of the staff. She skipped ahead of me now, running out of sight. I followed her through an avenue of trees, brushing aside the strands of cobwebs left in her wake. I came out into a clearing where she stood by a dried-up pool. As I approached, I realised she was crying.
‘It was once so beautiful,’ she sobbed.
I had to admit the place could have used a good gardener. Weeds overgrew the whole area, branches needed pruning back and the pond area either needed to be refilled or dug over altogether. Half the plants were dead, the rest struggling to survive in whatever light filtered through the overhanging foliage. There was an old waterwheel rotting away on the side of a small mill deeper into the hillside where the stream had clogged up on its fall down into the pool. The wheel would have been an intricate structure of excellent craftsmanship in its time, but many of the struts hung loose, its hoppers were filled with mud, and right at the top a bird’s nest. I let Sumiko cry her heart out into my chest, then led her back to the hotel. I felt her trembling beside me as we spun through the swing doors and up the carpeted stairway. I was mentally going over my excuses to the sergeant at the motor pool as I checked both of us in for the night. We were given the Fuji Suite.
THE WATERWHEEL, CHAPTER 8
My job was coming to an end even if nothing official had been said. The American desire to persecute or prosecute the Japanese for what had happened was beginning to wane. Most of the interrogations had been completed and my superior, Captain Feldman, was now involved in the trial procedures. But even these cases were half-hearted affairs with most of the sentences of the high-ranking military men and politicians being downgraded from death to life imprisonment. Other prisoners on shorter sentences had already been shown the gate to the Tokyo streets. My turn was coming round too, time to pack up the uniform and head off home before the Yanks started getting tough on Korea. I was English–Japanese bilingual with a lieutenant’s pip on my shoulder and I didn’t think work would be hard to find on Civvy Street in the new world order.
My relationship with Sumiko had blossomed. If that was the right word to apply to a liaison between a panpan girl and her customer. She was my onrii lady. I was her onrii man. Or at least I hoped I was.
The hotel in the hills outside Hakone had become our favourite haunt whenever I could wangle a jeep out of the motor pool. We would go there on special occasions, birthdays, anniversaries and the like. The staff had come to know me well and I always chose the Fuji Suite. We cherished that room with its views on to the hillsides. And the walk-in cupboard with the light that went on and off automatically with the opening and shutting of the door. Sumiko just loved that. As if that simple contraption summed up the most decadent luxury. The hotel was also blossoming, restoring its reputation as a haven for foreigners, long experienced as it was in the ways of the Western visitor. Sometimes a famous guest would add a certain magic to our stay. We bumped into Nehru once in the gardens on a stroll out to the waterwheel.
The waterwheel had been restored now. The whole area where it sat cleared up to create a perfect little hideaway. I would sit there often and contemplate the structure, be lulled into pleasant meditation by its constant cycle as I watched the hoppers deliver or extract their loads to and from the pool. A symbol of life. A symbol of reincarnation. I would sometimes bring a small bag of bread-crumbs from the dining room. Sumiko would delight in watching the carp rush and hustle to suck up the tiniest morsel. That was what she was doing now as I sat on the low surrounding wall, smoking a cigarette.
It wasn’t often I felt pleased with myself. For I had done nothing of significance in this mediocre existence I could call my life. But as I watched Sumiko feed the fish, I would like to think I had restored a little goodness into her life. I had brought her back to the place she used to play happily as a child while my financial contributions continued to keep her family alive. And in her own way, Sumiko had given me what she could. A little bit of tenderness to a man so hardened by the atrocities witnessed in the past few years. I might have been fooling myself into thinking there was something more than my money that had bought me this little bit of happiness. Or perhaps I had learned something from my American paymasters after all.
THE WATERWHEEL, CHAPTER 16
About the Author
J. David Simons is the author of two previous novels as well as a number of short stories and essays. His first novel, The Credit Draper, was shortlisted for the McKitterick Prize. He has also been the recipient of a Creative Scotland Writer’s Bursary and a Robert Louis Stevenson Fellowship. A former lawyer, cotton farmer and journalist, he also worked for seven years as a university lecturer in Japan. He now lives in Glasgow, the city of his birth.
ALSO BY J. DAVID SIMONS
The Credit Draper
The Liberation of Celia Kahn
Praise for The Credit Draper
‘An odyssey of cultural confusion and survival. Full of hope, honour and sadness.’ JUDGES OF THE MCKITTERICK PRIZE
A subtle, beautifully written story … a truly fine debut which heralds the arrival of a bold new voice in fiction.’
RODGE GLASS, AUTHOR
Praise for The Liberation of Celia Kahn
‘A modern classic.’ DAVID BELBIN, AUTHOR
‘This is a compelling tale with characters who imprint themselves on the streets of Glasgow.’ SCARLETT MCGWIRE, THE TRIBUNE
‘It is always a joy to find a novel which is such an entertaining and compelling read, is faithful to the history of the times and which also explores so many stimulating political themes.’ ALAN LLOYD, MORNING STAR
Copyright
Published by Saraband
Suite 202, 98 Woodlands Road
Glasgow, G3 6HB, Scotland
www.saraband.net
Copyright © J. David Simons 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without first obtaining the written permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 978–190864327–8
ebook: 978–190864328–5
Printed in the EU on paper from sustainably managed sources.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Page 30
