The Love of Stones

by Tobias Hill

  I go upstairs to wash. The squat bath is four feet wide and four feet tall, a tub of dark slats that fills the room with the smell of wet logs. It is still too painful to fold myself inside. I sit on the stool and scrub the burial sand off my feet from the faucet by the door.

  Moths bat against the window. It is the beginning of evening, balanced between twilight and dusk. The only time the bats come out this far, keener than the seabirds and after smaller prey, fluttering over the edge of the sea.

  I stand up and let the shower sluice over my head. The stitches ache like bad teeth. The hair runs past my eyes. One of these days I mean to cut it. I reach back, combing its weight away, and see him.

  He is standing outside, under the ginkgo tree. The porch-light is on. I can see his face looking up, lit from below. The expression there. I don’t cover myself. I feel my body under his eyes. Every part of me feeling its use, before he turns away.

  The clatter of the generator wakes me, the wind carrying its put-put from the outhouse. I sit up, feeling the lateness, wondering why I have slept so long.

  There is a persimmon on the bedside table. I reach for it and something keels over behind it, awkwardly balanced. I pick it up between finger and thumb. It is a figure, a woman carved from driftwood, small as a good-luck charm. The work is simple but accurate. An expression of mine has been caught. A certain frown, centred on the middle distance. A tiny, stern Katharine. I lean by the window and eat the persimmon. Waiting to wave the children goodbye.

  ‘Tell me something true,’ I say, and he looks up from the sea as if I have made a joke. We are fishing from the quayside. People have appeared overnight. Groups of them, determinedly enjoying the emptiness of the scenery, crossing by pleasure boat from the fairground. A man with bleached teeth makes a killing from the vending stand.

  ‘I haven’t always lied.’

  ‘I know.’ I smile back at him. ‘But tell me something anyway.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What was your wife like?’ Parrot fish graze around the jetty. The water clear as quartz.

  Hikari sighs inwards. ‘She was young. She came from Takamatsu. She lived here for fifteen years. After that she wanted to go back. It was her dream to start a school. She was trained as a teacher.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t go.’ Somewhere a child screams with laughter.

  ‘She left me just after Iren was born. I could never live the life she wanted.’ A gilthead rises towards his bait. Hikari stares through it. ‘It was my fault. I should never have married her.’

  ‘Do you still love her?’

  ‘Of course.’ Something bites. He pulls the rod back reflexively, almost before the float dips. Reels the fish in gently, a tiny, flickering cargo of silver. ‘Why were you looking for it, Katharine?’

  A couple sit on rope bollards, drinking Coke, eating grilled octopus. A man and dog walk past with matching builders’ bums. I wait until they’re gone. ‘Because I wanted it. I wasn’t lying. I don’t work for anyone.’

  ‘I know.’ He unhooks the fish with spare efficiency. Drops it into the bucket. I don’t ask him how he knows. Whether he has gone through my belongings. It matters so little now that I feel I would be glad if he has. ‘It hasn’t done you much good,’ he says.

  ‘No, I have to admit it.’ I reel in. Cast again. ‘Maybe it was cursed while I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘You couldn’t be there all the time, after all.’ And he looks up at me, frowning in the sun, smiling until I smile back.

  All morning he reads. I can see him from the kitchen window, alone where the dunes begin. I make drinks, whisky and ice, and go out and sit beside him.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘A story.’ He sits against a hummock of sand, nested in grass, the book on his knees. He takes the drink, nods thanks. The whisky is Japanese, cheap and rough. The water brings out its sweetness.

  ‘I never liked stories.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No time for them.’

  ‘Your life is full of stories.’

  I smile, a little tight. ‘I don’t have time for those either.’ Beside me, Hikari closes the book.

  ‘This is the story of Gilgamesh. It comes from the place my grandfather came from. It is very old, five thousand years. It was already old when the Odyssey was written. Ancient before the Bible.’

  I take it from him. The text is Japanese, the marginalia a babble of scripts. Roman, Arabic. Names I almost know. Nineveh, Ur. I settle down. Distantly, across the bay, I can see the pleasure boat heading back to Tosa. ‘So what happens?’

  ‘King Gilgamesh loses his greatest friend. For the first time he feels the fear of death. He goes looking for immortality.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No.’ He smiles. The wind opens the pages, flits through them. ‘He wrestles with lions, goes down to the underworld, meets the dead. A normal day in the office for a hero-king.’

  I swill the alcohol, down to the hollowness in my stomach. ‘Read me some.’

  ‘If you like.’ I hand the book back. He opens it. His voice is so quiet I have to lean towards him. His English stilted but perfect. ‘“A table of hard-wood was set out, and on it a bowl of carnelian filled with honey, and a bowl of lapis lazuli filled with butter. These he exposed and offered to the sun, and weeping he went away again.”’

  The pages ripple in his hands. Time passing. The ice chimes in my glass. I watch his face while I have the chance. The hamulate strength of the profile.

  “‘He followed the sun’s road to his rising, through the mountain. When he had gone one league the darkness became thick around him, for there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. After two leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. After three leagues the darkness was thick, and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him.”’

  A martin knifes through the blue air. I blink. It feels as if I have been dazed, halfway to sleeping. My head aches. Hikari’s voice settles into its soft rhythm. ‘“After four leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. At the end of five leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him.”’

  ‘All right,’ I say, and my voice is unsteady. I try to shake off the unease. The headache comes back, like a symptom of sunstroke. ‘You can stop now. I don’t like it.’

  ‘“At the end of six leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him.’”

  ‘Hikari.’ His name uncomfortable in my mouth. My skin prickles. The martin passes over us again. Jackknifes.

  ‘“When he had gone seven leagues the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. When he had gone eight leagues Gilgamesh gave a great cry, for the darkness was thick and he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him.’”

  ‘Hikari.’ And suddenly I am on the verge of crying. Something desperate rises up inside me. The man beside me still reading, quiet, head down.

  ‘“After nine leagues he felt the north wind on his face, but the darkness was thick and there was no light, he could see nothing ahead and nothing behind him. After ten leagues the end was near. After eleven leagues the dawn light appeared. At the end of twelve leagues the sun streamed out.”’

  He opens his arms. I fall into them. He is stroking my hair. His hands go down to the ache of my bruised hips, down to the line of my cunt. In the time it takes my body to make up its mind we are already making love.

  He moves inside me. Opening my shirt, spreading it under us. My wetness against his thighs. The sand is dry under my head. The rhythm of him draws me out. I shut my eyes against the pleasure of it.

  He says something in my ear. I can’t understand it. Even the language it is spoken in is incomprehensible. When I come I cry out against his mouth. The sea is quiet ar
ound us.

  ‘Hikari.’

  ‘Yes?’

  It is late. His room is alien in the dark. The walls are bare; there is little furniture. A man’s room. There is a house altar by the door. Gifts to its gods: a rice cake, an aubergine. I turn over onto my side. Wanting him awake again. ‘Did he find it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What he was looking for.’

  I listen to him smile. Hearing it in his breath. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Crickets chirr outside, the last before winter. ‘He wanted something that was never meant for him. Something he couldn’t have.’

  ‘So what, he just goes home and dies? What’s the point? Should he have been looking for something else?’

  He says nothing, thinking. I am almost asleep when he speaks again. ‘There is no point to it. It isn’t that kind of story.’

  *

  For four days it rains. The forest is lush with it. The bush warblers sing all night, disoriented by the acoustics of water. The daytrippers are driven back to Tosa, leaving nothing behind but the grilled-octopus man, who shelters, hopefully, in his cabin. Tom and Iren mope inside, squabbling over the radio, desultory with homework. Hikari fishes long hours, or works the allotment. Digging for lotus root in the downpour.

  I walk every day. The weather reminds me of England, and I like it for that. Under the forest pines I sit and think of my own coast, its shut-up shops and shipping news. The sense of loss in its seaside towns. Testing my body a little, seeing how far it can go. Testing myself. I don’t go far. The smells of rain and sex mingle on my skin and become inseparable.

  It is the first of December. I come back along the beach. The children are sitting cross-legged on the porch, run-off dripping beyond them. Their father comes out with a tray of cups. He squats down and sets them out. Dozens of them, neat rows of plastic and china and glass.

  ‘Are you having the neighbours round for tea?’

  He glances up at me, embarrassed, slow with it. ‘I have no neighbours.’

  ‘I know. I didn’t think you were so sociable. What is this?’

  ‘A family game.’

  ‘Tch!’ Tom peers at me. His father fills cups with water from a jug. There is a plastic sieve by his feet. ‘Don’t you know?’

  Hikari nods to me. Taciturn, the smile banked down inside him. ‘Cover their eyes.’ I close one hand over each child’s face. Iren quavers with excitement. Tom shoots out his shoulders like a card-sharp. From his shirt pocket Hikari takes out a shagreen seal-case. Opens it.

  Inside lie three diamonds. I lean forward. They are curiously elongated, like rice grains. Small but fine. Even in the gloom they shudder with light. He drops them, one by one, into separate glasses.

  ‘Iren first,’ he says, his voice rising. ‘Slowly’ And already the children are pulling my hands away, whispering over the assembled vessels. With exaggerated care, the girl touches her breakfast cup: blue plastic, green dolphins. Her father picks it out. He holds the sieve as she pours.

  Nothing collects in its mesh. Iren moans in disappointment. The stones have vanished into their hiding places. They are as invisible now as if they had dissolved, like salt.

  It is a game of lost jewels. I watch the siblings play. Their faces shine with passion for it. The boy wins. He cheers himself, settling back on his haunches with an expression of thorough contentment. I help clear up. We stand over the kitchen counter, putting away glasses. From upstairs come the sounds of the children arguing over shampoo and bath space.

  ‘They liked the game.’

  Hikari grunts an acknowledgement. He is smiling, at ease. The radio is tuned to Japanese pop, music signifying nothing.

  ‘Can I see the diamonds?’

  Without looking up he takes the seal-case out of his shirt pocket and offers it to me. A fisherman with a handful of jewels. I hold them to the window light. In all three the clarity is good. Whoever bought them knew what they were looking for. The faceting is identical, possibly even worked by the same cutter. A prototype brilliant variation, mathematically inaccurate. Old, not much later than eighteenth century. The shape is not European. Indian jewels, I think. Mined before the excavations of Brazil or Africa.

  I drop them into their sharkskin cavity. Hand it back. ‘They’re good stones. Unusual.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They were your grandfather’s.’

  He looks up in surprise. I let myself laugh. ‘Mankin-Mitsubishi. Three Diamonds. He named his company after them. What happened to the ten thousand coins?’

  Hikari’s face clears. He smiles, wry. ‘Spent on drink. You know a great deal about stones.’

  ‘It’s my business. Did he go to India, your grandfather?’

  ‘Before he came here. Yes.’ I watch him watch me. Measuring me, I don’t know against what or whom. He dries his hands and walks over to the bookshelves. ‘Please. I want to show you something else.’

  ‘Don’t tell me there are diamonds in your Bible.’

  ‘No.’ He taps between spines. Leafs through pages. ‘You asked about photographs once. Pictures of my family.’

  He hands me the open book. Behind acetate is a sepia image. An old man sits in a wicker chair. His face is aquiline. A profile to cut winds on. His eyes are unsmiling. There are trees outside the room in which he waits. Tamarisks.

  ‘Handsome. He looks like you.’

  ‘My great-grandfather. His name was Daniel Levy.’

  ‘Jewish.’

  He nods. ‘Michael, my grandfather, changed our name. He travelled in Europe. Lewis was better for business.’

  ‘But he ended up here.’ A bush warbler sings outside. Faint as a wind-chime.

  ‘Many Jews were leaving Iraq at that time. Most of them came east. Asia was more welcoming to them. Without Christianity there is no anti-Semitism. Here, of course, my grandfather was a foreign devil. But then so were the Europeans and Americans. He always said that was preferable to him.’

  The room in the photograph is whitewashed. Still unfinished, the floor earthen. Tools sit by the bedside table. A hammer, a level. ‘Did you ever meet him? Daniel.’

  ‘No. He married late. The granddaughter of a local rabbi. He was old when my grandfather was born. But he was a trader, like all my family. He and his brother worked together. They went to London to seek their fortunes.’

  ‘But this is not England.’

  ‘No.’ He hesitates. ‘In your country they encountered some – some difficulties. It affected both men very badly. The brother, Salman, became ill. They returned home. Salman died in an asylum when he was still young.’

  He begins to take the picture away. I reach out for it. ‘What about Daniel?’

  He takes a breath. Reluctant now, I think, to be talking at all. ‘He lived for a long time. My grandfather said he was never happy. He blamed himself for his brother’s death. It preyed on his mind.’

  ‘Wait, Please.’ I hold on to the picture. Getting it clear. ‘Your grandfather, Michael. He also knew about stones.’

  ‘Yes. There was something his father and uncle had lost. Michael found it for them. It took him most of his life. He found it and took it back to Iraq before his father died.’

  It is a moment before I realise what he is saying. I look up into his face. ‘You’re talking about the Three Brethren.’

  He doesn’t answer me. He is staring down at the picture. As if he is trying to see himself in the eyes of the man. The blades of his face. The hands closed together. There is a bedside table. A watch chain. A glass of tea in a tulip glass.

  ‘What happened to it?’

  Hikari shakes his head clear. He takes the book from me, returns it to the shelf, and walks away across the unlit room.

  ‘Thank you,’ I call after him. ‘For showing me. It must have made Daniel very happy, what Michael did. To have the jewel again.’

  ‘Why?’ His voice is faint. He stops at the door, searching my face. I don’t know what for. ‘It was never something he ca
n have wanted back.’ The smell of the rain blows in. He walks out into it.

  * * *

  1920, a year between wars. It is almost night, the sky balanced between twilight and dusk. Daniel Levy waits in the house his son has built. He sits with his head cocked, listening to the river outside. The Europeans, digging for their past. He turns towards the window where the tamarisks are flowering.

  His face is etiolated, the blood and colour lost with age. His son Michael has helped him from the bed. He can hear the boy next door. The murmur of voices. There are other people waiting there for him. Business partners. Foreigners. They have come here to arrange something. Something is expected to happen.

  His hands rest on the table in front of him. He looks down. They have been disfigured with age, not only reduced but also twisted, until they have come to resemble claws. They remind him of Rachel. A beautiful jewel lies between them. Michael has put it there for him. A gift to an old man from his grown son. The heart of a story told too many times.

  The Three Brethren. Daniel remembers it well enough. His mind is still good, boiled down to the hardness of facts. If he forgets the present sometimes, it is only because there is so much of the past to keep clear. In the evening light the knot blinks up at him. He blinks back. It has the face of an angel, he thinks. An angel with three eyes. Nothing human could be so beautiful.

  He closes his eyes. Salman is still there behind them. Daniel recalls England. Coronation Day. It comes to him effortlessly. His brother still whole, smiling upwards. His voice, the passion in it.

  Look at the sky. Look at it. We have thrown jewels up to God tonight.

  He looks down. His eyes are weeping, as they often do. It is an effort to stand. He walks to the window. There are tools on the floor. A hammer, a level. He picks up the hammer.

  He is one hundred and nine years old. He leans by the window, catching his breath. The trees outside are a tenth of his age. He thinks how easy it is, to underestimate the reach of human lives. There is a strength in that. A power. The air is sweet with the smell of blossom.

  He walks back to the table. When he gets there he smiles, quite suddenly, as if he has done something magnificent.