by Tobias Hill
‘No children.’
‘Nothing to tie him down.’
‘I need an address for him.’
‘No you don’t. Houses don’t last in Japan, not even in the middle of nowhere, which is just about where Takamatsu is. You won’t find a whole city block that was there in Enzo’s time.’
‘The owner. What was he called?’
Mushanokoji clears his throat. ‘Jesus, Katharine, you need to ease up. The stones business is getting to you. Relax.’ His hands close around my shoulders, kneading the bones. I don’t interrupt myself to stop him.
‘What was his name?’
He releases one shoulder, points, goes back to work. The foreign word is written in syllabic characters, simpler than the Chinese ideograms. ‘There. Mister Lewis. This is good, huh?’ His hands move rhythmically. Over the shoulder bones, down to the flat flesh above my breasts. I shrug him away.
‘No. Listen, I need to find out about the owner.’
‘You listen. You asked about Enzo, I found out about Enzo. Favour done, okay? Done and dusted. Now you do me a favour. Lean back.’ His hands come at me again. They hurt where they grip and I knock them away.
It surprises him, I think, as much as he had surprised me. Neither of us is what the other expected. He mutters, I don’t hear what, and steps back as I stand. He is still ruddy, his face full of blood, and he is breathing too fast. It has nothing to do with the shower.
No one moves. Voices go past in the corridor, a tail-end of laughter. Then the old man grins. ‘Come on. What’s your poison, Katharine Sterne?’
He steps round the desk. Big for his age, all corners, no curves. I think: I am a fool to have ever been here at all. I must be blind, blinded by something. A sofa is behind me before I know it. The old man tries to push me and I step away from the outstretched palm and into his fist.
I see it in his eyes more than I feel it. My head goes clear before my sight fills with stars. I am not aware of falling, only of the carpet under me. Quick as a conjuring trick. Mushanokoji is talking overhead, but I can’t hear what he is saying. My mother’s voice is more interesting. I listen to her instead.
Her hair flickers down around me, white and mineral. Behind her, distant, is the sound of the sea. I would turn to see her if I could.
Katharine, you’ve been touched by the moon!
I smile for her. None of this is her fault. My mother the magician. She is eager and sorry and full of love.
Come here. Come. My little moon face.
A hand turns me. A different voice whispers of want in a language I don’t understand. All I need is to get rid of them, the hand and the voice. I get hold of a forearm, then a wrist. The veins and bones protrude, made half a century before I was born. I come to the old man’s fingers and go through them, looking for a weakness. The thumb and the index, also called the toucher. The middle and ring, down to the smallest.
My little wishbones. When I have a grip on the last two fingers I begin to pull. I have done more difficult things. There is some resistance from the ligaments. I don’t let go until the bones crack.
Mushanokoji shrieks once, twice. It brings me back to myself. I take care of my body first, not bothering with him. My shirt is ripped but I am still dressed, unhurt if not untouched. One cheek aches with a slow rhythm, as if the old man’s hands are still at it.
When I look up he is doubled over, hands between knees. Blood has crazed the skin of his wrist and is now, presumably, staining the plush cream Okura carpet. I go over to him and he peers up, motioning me back with his head. Comical in his agony. I have to laugh.
‘Goddamn foreign bitch, oh you …’ he gropes for words ‘… damn limey pig. Get away from me. Get away!’ He begins to scream again in Japanese, a cacophony of rage and outrage.
I leave him. The sound of his voice follows me away into the city, the light hot on my skin, my belongings heavy and getting heavier. I walk until I am alone in the crowd. Adrenaline aches in the pit of my gut.
His voice is what stays with me. I think of it again, much later. It is night, and in the dark the hotel room could be anywhere, assume any proportions. My arms close around myself like those of a lover. I have been here before, many times. I have never been here before.
Stones, I think. My poison is stones.
* * *
To Edmund Rundell from Edmund Swifte.
Jewel House. The Tower.
October 10, 1837.
My dear Sir,
I hasten to transmit to you, and in order that you may hear before the Lord Chamberlain communicate it himself, the discussion that has been had between the Queen, the Marquis and myself, concerning the Crown. I will not undertake to say that my account is verbally quite accurate: for I was at the time quite painfully occupied with the Mump of the youngest of my children: but I am sure it is intentioned, and with a few variations of the phrase only, quite the same.
This morning the Marquis and I met Her Majesty at the Jewel House, the Regalia in its entirety being laid out for the purpose. The Lord Chamberlain having gone over the outlay of previous coronations, the Queen proceeded to say that the Imperial Crown seemed to her a very poor and stuffy affair – these her words. I begged to state that I believed the crown excellently made, by the Crown Goldsmiths. The Queen then noted several particulars that were not to her taste, namely, the blue Strass glass presently occupying the rear socket, and replacing the sapphire hired from your company for the last King George’s coronation: the state of the brilliants: and the monstrous weight of the piece. Indeed, I am sorry to say that when the crown was tried for size, as it were, it was found to be too great a burden for the young Queen’s neck, and I have no doubt that any other eighteen-year-old girl would have felt it the same.
The Queen then wished that, firstly, a glass model of the new crown be made up, showing the position and quality of all new stones: and that secondly, the presentation of this model to Her Majesty occur no later than the end of this next month: this in order that Her Majesty may make such amendments to the design as Her Majesty wishes. The Queen also desired that some of those who are to work on the crown be presented to her at that time.
The upshot is that a deal of work must be done to renew the crown, as you know: this I have no need to write to you. More unexpected, or so I find it, is that on this question of jewels, the Queen has very much her own ideas. In this vein Her Majesty has said things of your company, sir, which I shall not wish to repeat. My great anxiety is that there may be work to be done both in the refurbishment of the crown, and of your own Royal reputation.
I hope and trust that I shall not be considered to have gone out of my duty in this matter.
Believe me, my dear Sir,
Your truly obliged and thankful servant,
Edmund Swifte.
Keeper of the Regalia.
To Edmund Swifte from Edmund Rundell.
Rundell and Bridge. Ludgate Hill.
October 17, 1837.
Sir,
In reply to your numerous missives, herein the costs for the crown and all else. The Lord Chamberlain’s department has already received the same. The glass maquette will be ready by Advent at the latest. A party of salesmen and those involved in the crown’s facture will be present on the first Monday of December, as Her Majesty and the Lord Chamberlain have advocated.
I have talked to the Queen. I thank you for your concern.
Your servant,
Rundell and Bridge.
To J. G. Bridge from Edmund Rundell.
9 The Crescent, Bridge Street. London.
October 29, 1837. By hand.
Mr Bridge,
I trust this finds you less liverish. Health must not be allowed to keep you from your work. Therefore some matters for you to consider abed.
A Monsieur Lambert has been making enquiries as to the company’s future. Where he learned there is something to be had is not known: whether he is worth our while is no more certain. Fox says he has money. He looks well c
ut. The man is French from hair to bone, yet certainly on the look-out for London business. More of this in good time.
The Crown. For the cash they will be good brilliants though, as you say, not of the best. Mr Swifte, who is old and much given to concern, says the Queen is anxious for a sapphire. The Jews’ table-cut is a better gem than that last hired, and Swifte at least knows his gems, and will tell the Queen as much. Her Majesty herself, you will find, has no small appetite for stones.
This leading to a final business. I have looked into the Jews’ Writing Point. Money through and through. A pedigree markedly nicer than that of our young sovereign. I anticipate there may be a small order to be made up, in private, for her Majesty, and for this purpose the Ludgate Hill workshop will suffice. The size of the order may bear no relation to the magnitude of the gain from this last venture. Fox alone will do the work. This particular transaction to be kept confidential from all others. When you are well again, you will see it done.
Yours &c.
Rundell.
To Queen Victoria from Edmund Rundell.
9 The Crescent, Bridge Street. London.
November 7, 1837.
Your Highness,
I had been indeed deep distressed to hear that the Imperial Crown was not entirely to Your Majesty’s liking. Having now met Your Person, and on inspecting the piece first-hand, I must confess to feeling no surprise that Your Highness’s taste in jewels should be so keen. My opinion is at one with Your Majesty’s. As Your Highness knows, it is 17 years since the crown was last worked by Rundell and Bridge. King Edward and his government neglected to award us the contract for his own coronation, and I believe the crown has suffered ever since.
The model of Your Majesty’s new Imperial Crown is now complete, and my colleague Mr Bridge will have the great honour of presenting it to Your Majesty. I have high hopes that Your Majesty will like the adjustments. Notwithstanding its lightness, the crown will bear 425 new jewels: these in the main brilliants and pearls. In addition, a great sapphire shall be placed in the back: and this, as Your Majesty observes, will serve to balance those historic sapphires at the front and mound.
Plain glass will not capture the quality of this sapphire. It was carried to England from Mesopotamia by a pair of Babylonian Jews – so they refer to themselves. These gentlemen now work at Your Person’s Goldsmiths, and I believe Your Majesty might find them curious or of some interest. Therefore, and since they will contribute to the crown, Mr Bridge will bring the nicest of the Babylonians to Your Majesty’s presentation.
If I may also bring to Your Highness’s attention an unrelated matter. A considerable stone has come into our company’s possession. My own researches, in the pages of various lapidaries, lead me to believe it has at one time or another, some centuries in the past, played a bit part in the settings of England’s Crown Jewels. Mr Bridge will be happy to show this jewel to Your Majesty at the earliest opportunity. I would be most interested to have Your Majesty’s opinion, both of its worth, and of what might be done with it.
Believe me, Your Highness, to be
Your most sincere and obedient servant
Edmund Rundell.
A Preliminary Account of Expenses to be incurred in the Lord Chamberlain’s Department on Account of the Coronation of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, November 24, 1837.
6 To Stratton and Wilson, for 60 Damask Napkins – £21/-/-
7 To Osmond, for 264 Yds of Scarlet Cloth – £221/12/-
8 To Cooper, for 80 Yds of Crimson Genoa Velvet – £104/-/-
20 To N. Lewis, for Embroidering the Royal Table Cover – £70/10/-
21 To Sir G. Smart, Payment to all the Performers Vocal and Instrumental, and Disbursements – £275/9/6
22 To Roberts, Payment to all Coachmen of the Procession – £11/3/9
23 To the Apothecary to the Person, for Anointing Oil – £100/-/-
24 To Mr Chipp, for the hire of the Kettle Drums – £2/2/-
72 To Rundell and Co. for a Ring composed of a Violet Coloured Ruby with a Ruby crofs of St George and set with Brilliants – £155/10/-
73 To Rundell and Co. for a Hedge of 22 Carat Standard Gold for the Offering – £50/-/-
74 To Rundell and Co. for a Silver Gilt Inkstand for the Oath, composed of a Greek Triton with an Altar for Ink with a Crown on the Cover and the Royal Arms chased on the sides of the Altar, and a Wainscot Case for the above – £46/-/-
98 To Rundell and Co. for the Resetting of the whole of the Diamonds and precious stones of the old Crown into the New Imperial Crown with the addition of Brilliants, Pearls, and a Fine Sapphire, and for the replacement of 4 Large Pearls, known as Queen Elizabeth’s Earrings, with 4 Good Pearls, and all with a Rich Purple Velvet Cap lined with white Satin and Ermine Border, and a Morocco case for the above – £1,000/-/-
Losses and Reimbursements.
– To E. L. Swifte Esq. keeper of the Regalia at the Tower, for the loss to be sustained in the armed removal of the Regalia to Rundell and Co., on Account of Her Majesty’s Coronation – £150/-/-
– To Mrs Wombwell and Mr Redfearn of Wombwell’s Circus for the loss of audience to arise from the provision of 80 white fantail doves – £14/5/5
– To Her Majesty the Queen and the Jewel Office, for the joint loss to be sustained in a Disbursement – £14,000/-/-
* * *
Tokyo is an easy place to be lost. It has no limits. Instead of ending, it continues on into other cities, a megalopolis twice the size of London. It has no centre, either. There is only the invisible presence of the Imperial Palace, lost inside a hollow green mandala of moats and cryptomeria. And the streets have no names.
Step off the roads here, into the places between buildings, and the city changes. The glass walls of high-rises – mirrored, smoked, polarised – give way to anonymous foot-streets of small shops, ink brushmakers, tunafish dryers, old traders. A place less assured, or so it seems to me, less certain of where it is going. The rural Japanese leave the night trains at Tokyo Station and stand bewildered under the glitterboards and advertising Zeppelins, scraps of paper held tight in their hands. On the paper, instructions to reach the neighbourhoods of their city relatives.
I take comfort in all this. It suits me. It means I’m not alone.
It reminds me of a letter Anne once wrote. Nine double pages. I didn’t keep them, but they’ve stayed with me all the same. She wrote things I tried not to think about at the time. In Japan I’ve had time to think about all kinds of things.
‘I watch you looking for this jewel, the Brethren, (blue paper, the colour of litmus without acid. Her handwriting is clear and hard-pressed, like mine.) and I wonder why. In the picture you sent, it looks like pure blue-rinse kitsch. One of those breast ornaments Tory Ladies wear to divert attention from their facelifts. So what am I missing? What is it you see that I don’t? Then I wonder if it’s you, not me, who is missing something.
Sometimes I think you must be making it all up. That ‘Three Brethren’ is just your little Freudian Slip. Iz zere something you are hiding, my little one? An eternal triangle of lurve? Worse: bigamy? Conversion to a Mormon brotherhood? I know the jewel means a lot to you, I don’t want to belittle it. But you are more important to me than it will ever be to you. Promise. You’re more important than the jewel.
You send me these copies of old pictures, your notes I can’t even read anymore. You joke about your ‘Obsession’. But obsession is a clean word, Katharine: admirable, under certain circumstances. This jewel is an addiction. Addiction is a disease. But call it obsession; well, even that’s a sour way to live. All the good things in you, the drive and love and the cleverness, they turn back on themselves.
I see nothing to admire in what you are doing. You say you’ve hurt people. I can’t imagine what would make you do that. You were always the gentlest of us. This search isn’t a life, it’s more like a way of losing life. You’re just digging yourself into a hole. I’m afraid that one day you’ll go so deep, you’ll n
ever come back.
It is evening on the last day of September. I eat supper in a Korean grill on the port’s eastern waterfront. Outside, a boy with orange-bleached hair pushes a flyer into my hands. Rain has smudged the words together.
HEY, ARE YOU FOREIGN?
Then Why Not Come To
The Pleasant Palace.
We are enthusiastic lodging house for unique people.
Close to Urawa transport and amenities.
It is always Pleasant here.
¥1000/Night (Bed in Shared Room).
Kitchen. TV. Comfortable. Don’t be a Peasant, be
Pleasant.
I take a local train north, out towards the grey subcity of Urawa. The Pleasant Palace is a rusting hulk by the bullet train overpass. The name suits it to the same degree that Greenland suits Greenland. It is all I can afford and all that I need. The room has two cohabitants, New Zealand girls with bottle-blonde hair and Karrimor rucksacks. Mel Twentyman models in car showrooms, Nicola Wu sells street jewellery. They met only a day before I arrived but they talk as if they have been friends for years. They are communal people, easy in themselves, capable. I watch them go about their lives.
‘You know what I really love?’ says Nicola. ‘Background music’ She is repairing her jewellery, nephrite earrings bought cheap on the mainland. She bends the wire with her teeth. ‘Life would be so much easier with the right background music. Don’t you reckon?’
‘God, yeah.’ Mel is unpacking a Sony Walkman. It is a present from her employer, a Korean who has already fallen a little in love or lust with her. He isn’t married. She doesn’t mind him. ‘What would yours be?
‘Depends.’
‘On a good day.’
‘On a good day? Counting Crows. Isn’t that sad?’ Nicola hums her tunes. Mel joins in. They look at me and I smile for them. They are two or three years younger than me. It feels like more. And again, I find myself remembering what I meant to forget. Eva, drunk in the stone room, trying to give me something. You are remarkably old. I wonder if it is true, and if it is something I can change.
I sleep long hours. My room looks out onto the stanchions of the railway. At night I lie awake and listen to the wires. They whisper minutes before the bullet trains pass.
