by Tobias Hill
‘No, we’d pay six-forty for it. To be honest, though, if you did shop around you could probably get a touch more. Someone will have a buyer waiting for a good ruby, they always do. You probably know places.’
I take what she offers. I have no bank account any more, not in England or anywhere else, and when the jeweller checks it turns out she won’t be able to raise the cash before lunchtime. I go back to the café and sit reading yesterday’s Evening Standard while the traffic hoots and shudders on its way to Holborn and Ludgate Circus. When I’ve digested all the news of Tube strikes I can manage, I get the Istanbul lapidary out of my overnight bag and sit at the Formica table reading notes on the Black Prince’s ruby and Elizabeth’s Mogul bracelet, Henry the Eighth’s lost crown and the origins of the Three Brethren. The tea boy watches me malignantly from behind the Pukka Pies hotplate. I order the Special soup and hope he doesn’t spit in it.
At one o’clock I go back up to Holt’s. The jeweller is eating Black Magic chocolates from the box. The wind has risen outside, and as I count out the money on the counter I can see the sky clouding up. The city looks at home under it, as if the buildings were constructed for this prematurely faded light.
By the time I come out the rain is already beginning. I cross the road to the nearest phone box and ring Directory Enquiries and the number they give me while drizzle taps impatiently at the windows.
‘Japanese Embassy, Piccadilly,’ says a voice made in South London.
‘I’m just ringing to check if you have a library. I’m–’
The line goes dead, makes a rapid clicking noise, then abruptly switches to a muzak medley. The Four Seasons segues into The Girl from Ipanema. I hold it away from my head and wait. Outside two men run past with tabloid papers on their heads. Half a yard behind them is a woman wearing a Budgen’s bag over her hair, the last in the field at a children’s party game. Egg-and-Spoon race, Mad Hat dash. Her heel slips on the wet pavement and she almost falls. An umbrella goes past her wearing itself inside out.
‘Hello?’
The new voice is Japanese, feminine. I turn back towards the scarred metal of the telephone. ‘Is that the library?’
‘Oh yes. Library and archives.’
‘I need to know your opening times.’
‘We are closed from noon until two every day, and all day on all United Kingdom holidays, also all Japanese national holidays. Also for all Embassy functions.’ The woman’s English is almost perfect, each word carefully enunciated. She speaks like the Talking Clock.
‘But you’re open now?’
‘Oh yes. Tomorrow is a function. Big dinner. But today is extra opening day. We are not closed until five o’clock.’
I thank her and hang up. Outside the downpour is raining itself out in the deserted streets. It’s not the reason I’m still in here. I squat down over the bag, take out Anne’s letter, and unfold it against the phone box wall.
She says she will be in China in a month. Already this is a year ago. Time folding back on itself. Bracketed between her words is a fourteen-digit telephone number. I don’t know which city it represents, or whether my last blood relative will still be living there. Relatives: Anne may not be the last any more. I get out all the change I have, pound coins, fifties, twenties. In the cramped booth I can smell their soiled metal. I feed them all into the telephone’s thin mouth, and ring again.
The tone sounds distant, an isolated signal piped along seabeds or through satellites. On the fourth ring the line connects and Anne answers. I open my mouth to speak and then stop myself. It feels as if I’ve been cheated.
‘Sixteen twelve double three one nine. Please leave a message or send a fax after the long beep.’ Her voice repeats itself in Chinese. It sounds competent, although I wouldn’t know if it wasn’t. I wait for the long beep.
‘Hello, Anne. It’s Katharine.’ My voice sounds unfamiliar. It isn’t just the echo of the long-distance line. I’m speaking too slow, too thoughtfully, as if I’m trying to remember what I mean to say. ‘I got your letter. I was just ringing to see–’
‘Katharine?’ Her voice catches me off guard. Cheated again, I think. I picture her in her Chinese apartment, cooking or eating. At home with the answerphone on. ‘Oh my God, is that you?’
‘It’s me.’ I feel myself trying to smile. The Prodigal Daughter returns to the bosom of the family telephone. ‘Happy Christmas, New Year, birthday, all that.’
‘Where are you – wh–’ Before I can answer her voice fades away. At a further distance I can hear her talking to a presence that might be Rolf. Katharine. It’s Katharine. I don’t know – ‘Katharine? God, we didn’t know where you were. It’s been nearly three years. Are you all right?’
‘I’m in London.’
‘London? Well why the hell didn’t you get in touch? Anything could have happened to you.’
I try not to say, and say anyway, ‘You sound like mum.’ For a moment she doesn’t go on. The line hushes us. On the telephone’s liquid crystal display I watch the seconds evaporate. ‘How are you, Anne? Are you a mum? Am I an aunt?’
She laughs. ‘Jesus. Yes you are, yes I am.’
‘Boy or girl?’
‘Girl.’
‘Edith.’
Another pause. ‘Edith? No. Why did you think that?’
‘You always said.’
‘Did I? I forgot. No, she’s called Susannah. Sue. She’s lovely, Katharine, oh, you’d love her, she’s – Do you want to speak to her? Rolf–’ She turns away again. Rolf, bring her here, quick! ‘Here. Sue, this is your aunt. Katharine, this is your niece.’
I listen. At the other end of the line, something listens back. There is no sound, not even breathing. I think of three. It is an uncomfortable number. There is nothing to spare in a family of three. If the unit divides, someone will always be left alone. I whisper back. ‘Hello, Sue.’
Anne comes back on. ‘She heard that. She looks scared rigid. You should come and see her. Do you have time? What are you doing now?’
‘You know what I’m doing. I’m looking for the Three Brethren.’
‘You’re joking. You’re not joking.’
‘No, that’s what I’m ringing about.’ I turn in the box, looking southwards towards the river. The phone’s metal cord winds around my arm. ‘It’s going well. I’m getting somewhere now. Last night I met–’
‘I don’t want to hear about it.’
‘–I met a man whose father sold it. Actually sold it, Anne. And I know who bought it from him. I might have to go to Japan to find–’
‘I don’t want to know. When was this sale?’
‘It doesn’t matter when.’ A foot from my face, rain smat-ters against the phone box glass. ‘The point is that I know where I’m going.’
‘1649, was it? Medieval France? When? You don’t know where you’re going, you never have. How long do you have to do this to yourself?’
I press my eyes shut, stretching the tiredness out of them with my fingertips. ‘The money’s running out, Anne. I just rang to see how you were. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. I worry about you.’ In the background, Rolf’s voice. Anne waits before she speaks again. ‘Some things happened here.’
I open my eyes. ‘What things?’
‘Nothing, just odd phone calls really. Once someone tapped into our files at work. Once we got a call there and someone asked for your new address, except we didn’t have one.’ She hesitates again. ‘Katharine?’
The telephone warbles. I turn round. There are thirty units left on the crystal display, running down fast. I swallow my anger back. It’s not meant for Anne and I don’t want her to hear it. ‘I’m still here. The time’s almost gone, listen, I just rang to see how you were. I’m glad about the baby. Sue. It’s a nice name.’
‘Can I call you? How do I–’
‘I’ll ring you again, I promise. Take care of your family, Anne. I love you.’
Only when I stop speaking do I realise the line is alread
y dead. I put the phone down. I don’t know if she heard me say goodbye and it doesn’t matter anyway.
The rain has eased. I go outside and wait for a taxi. The coldness feels good against my face, clean. I think of the people who are following me. It reminds of me the dream in the stone house of Diyarbak’r. The lizard-dog, shadowing me through the crowds. The sirrusch, which means nothing – which is just a monster. By the time a taxi comes the rain has stopped. I take the ride anyway. I’ve had enough of the Underground for one day. For the time being I want to see where I’m going. It feels as if I’m getting somewhere, and if it isn’t London then so much the better.
The Embassy is opposite Green Park, a double-fronted stone façade between overpriced carpet shops and hotels made seamy by road grime. The queue for the visa desk curves down the marble steps into the lobby. I go through the security barrier and turn right. I don’t need to ask directions to the library. It is separated from the lobby only by a wall of Plexiglass.
Inside, a woman in black skirt and white blouse is rearranging books on the shelves above a low-slung communal reading table. At the table sit two Japanese businessmen in nylon suits. One of them smokes over a rumpled copy of the Yomiuri Shimbun. The other one is surreptitiously looking up the woman’s skirt. None of this is exactly what I was hoping for. I open the glass door and wait by the counter until the librarian is finished.
‘May I help you?’ She smiles brightly. Pinned to her left breast is a badge identifying her as Akiko Kurosaki, Senior Librarian. She is younger than I imagined from her voice on the telephone, and I didn’t expect the Talking Clock to be beautiful. She is sharply monotone – black hair, white skin, black eyes, white blouse – except for her make-up. Her lipstick is a deep, dense red, and her nails are painted to match. I open my bag and take out the ninth notebook, the old notes from Diyarbak’r laid flat inside the paler pages.
‘I’m not sure. These are the details of a business transaction that took place here, in London, in 1909 or 1910. The buyer was Japanese. I was hoping you might have visa records from around then, but this doesn’t look like the kind of place I need. Can you tell me where to go?’
‘Oh yes. Maybe here is fine. This is the Embassy library and archives. In fact we have some records here that go back to the first Japanese Legation to Britain in 1884.’ She cocks her head, trying to read the paper upside down. ‘May I see?’
I slide it over to her. She frowns down at R. F. von Glött’s haphazard writing. I point out words. ‘This was the seller. Pyke. This was the buyer. Three Diamonds. If that was translated into Japanese, could it be a surname?’
She purses her red lips. ‘Mitsubishi? No. Only a company name.’
I lean across the counter. ‘“Three Diamonds” is “Mitsubishi”?’
‘Oh yes.’ She smiles again, drawing with her finger on the mock-lacquer counter. Three strokes and a diamond. ‘Mitsu. Bishi. Was he buying motorbikes?’
The businessman with wandering eyes looks up from the reading table and shushes us. The librarian bows and mouths apologies in Japanese. I take the paper back. Fold it away.
‘Not motorbikes, no. The Mitsubishi Corporation – how long has that been around?’
The librarian shrugs. ‘Maybe a long time.’
‘Do you have records here of Japanese company names?’
‘Oh no.’ Her face falls. ‘We did have them, but recently we sent them to the School of Oriental and African Studies of London University.’
‘Can I go there?’
‘It’s more difficult.’ She brightens again. Leans towards me across the mock-lacquer counter. ‘But I know all the librarians. I can telephone them. You want to know any companies called Mitsubishi in 1909, yes?’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
She winks. ‘Wait here please. May I ask your name?’
‘Katharine.’
‘Wait here please, Katharine. It will take some time.’
As soon as Akiko is unavailable, the library voyeur begins to watch me instead. I’m not what he has in mind; after a few minutes he gets up and leaves. The plastic seat is damp where he was sitting. Another businessman comes in, sits down in the wet patch and falls asleep with his mouth open. Above him dangle three mobiles promoting Respect for the Aged Day. Cut-outs of happy wrinkly faces revolve gently in the conditioned air.
It’s half an hour before the librarian comes back. When she does her arms are full of fax paper and notes in close-written, intricate characters. She lays it all out and turns on her proud red smile. ‘Here. Please. I hope this will help you.’
‘These are all Mitsubishis?’ I turn one sheet towards me. On it is a list of companies: (12) Mitsubishi Electronics. Founded 1921. Founder Ibuse Iwazaki. (13) Mitsubishi Engineering. Founded 1916. Founder Kenzaburo Yamato. Details of current status, profits, ten-year market value.
‘All. Sometimes they are divisions of the big firm, sometimes independent. The big Mitsubishi is founded in 1870 – a shipping firm, you see? And in 1909 there are still not so many. Here, timber. This is coal. This one is also quite old.’
Where her finger stops is a single short entry. (32) Mitsubishi-Mankin Merchant Trading Company. Founded 1894. Founder Enzo Mushanokoji. Dissolved 1910. ‘Wait. “Mankin.” What does that mean?’
‘“Man” is a thousand. “Kin” is gold, money, coins. This is a good name for a company. Lucky.’
Gold and diamonds, I think. I don’t say it. ‘Not so lucky,’ I say. ‘It only lasted sixteen years. This man, Enzo …’
‘Mushanokoji.’ The librarian shakes her head. ‘This is a most unusual name. A rich family. Big in business.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘Soy sauce. Very big in Japan.’ She grins. There is a smudge of lipstick on her big flat teeth. ‘Very delicious.’
‘This one – Enzo – if he ever came to England, would you have a visa record?’
At the end of the counter is a computer. She walks over to it as she talks. ‘Sometimes the older archives are very good. Sometimes not. I can see.’
The screen winks on. She types quickly, never looking at her hands. The script unfurls across the blue screen like something growing, alive in the simplest sense. Movement in a vivarium.
‘Oh look!’ Akiko cries out. The businessmen frown and mutter in their plastic seats. I turn the screen towards myself. It tells me that Enzo Mushanokoji ran a company named after diamonds and gold. It records that the company traded War Office supplies and minerals. It lists the visas Enzo applied for, in France, Germany and England. Three for the last: 1893, 1904, 1909.
‘This is him.’ I say it only to myself. It is no one’s business but mine. Akiko the librarian turns the screen on its axis again. Her anxious face bathed in blue light.
‘Which was he buying, Katharine?’
‘Which what?’
‘War supplies or minerals?’
I put the fax papers in my bag, zip it up and hoist it onto my shoulder. ‘Minerals.’
‘Oh! Good.’ She stands back. ‘Well, it was very nice to meet you, Katharine. If you need any more assistance, please come back soon.’
I tell her I will. I know it is a lie. I leave her with her mobiles and voyeurs and stop the first taxi that tries to pass me outside. The driver has skin black as the heartwood of ebony. I direct him towards Heathrow and sit back. Anne tells me I don’t know where I am going, that I have never known. She is wrong about that. I don’t think of her any more. My coat creaks against the seats, leather on leather. Outside the streets still glitter with old rain and I close my eyes and picture diamonds.
* * *
They took quarters in Shoreditch. For four shillings and threepence a week they had a single room to themselves above the egg-dealing business of a Sephardi called Solomon Abendola. The smell of rot and fowl impregnated the unpainted walls and stayed with Daniel wherever he went.
He went to the peelers. He had written down everything on cheap shop paper. He had taken care with the
English, allowing no flourishes, no cursive echoes of Hebrew or Arabic. He sat in a Whitehall waiting room with the papers in his hands while the officers in their blue coats walked in and out, big men, functional, minding their business. A desk clerk took down his name as ‘Ben Levi’. His eyes were blue as gas flames. Daniel didn’t correct him. There were only two other chairs in the room. In one of them sat a woman with a child in her arms. For two hours she swore at the peelers in a language Daniel didn’t understand. No one answered her. No one came for his paper.
The child’s feet were wrapped in black lint. The woman had casts in her eyes. The other chair stayed empty. After two hours the woman got up and went out. Daniel didn’t see her again. From the yard he could hear the whicker of horses and the shee of sabres on a whetstone. Two officers came in with a third man hung between them. The third man had no face left. It dripped blood into the sawdust. Daniel left after three hours. He didn’t go back again.
‘We sell two and keep one.’ It was evening, and the sky still light. Salman talked as he ate. On the shared plate, four potatoes stewed in mutton fat and a cut of the boiled meat. Treyf, the corrupt food of the Gentiles.
‘We sell what we can, surely’
‘We shall keep the clear jewel.’
‘It’s worth nothing. Hüseyin the Imam said so. If we are to hold back a stone, perhaps it should be a good one.’
‘If it’s worthless then no one will want it. We need to sell what we can, you said it yourself. I say we keep it.’
Daniel watched his brother. His shoulders were still bandaged. The wounds had not healed well in the heat. In the weeks since they had left Hardwick Place Salman had found the money for medicine, Daniel didn’t know where. A Soho apothecary had prescribed him tincture of opium. To allay pain, relax spasms, and procure sleep, Daniel had read on the blue glass bottle. He watched Salman take the dose each night. Ten drops in a tin spoon. Jane’s name hung unspoken between them.
They talked softly in the leather booth. Around them, the evening crowd had left tracks in the inn’s wet sawdust. Salman stared at the markings as he ate. It was a meaningless script, ugly as English. He chewed and swallowed, watching the floor. His mind full of stones.
